CHAPTER THIRTY
A week passed without a response from the God’s Soldiers Church.
Nathaniel assured me that the email had been sent, but I grew anxious. What if my plan to find my mother unravelled before it even began? What if I never found her? What if I never uncovered the truth?
That would be for the best, little monster.
Our assignment was near completion. The essay had gone through several drafts, and all that remained was a summary to be presented in PowerPoint slides.
I had no other upcoming deadlines—aside from one online exam that I wasn't really worried about—so the stress that had plagued me weeks prior had gradually evaporated. It found Nathaniel, though.
Approaching deadlines had him picking at his lips obsessively and peeling off the skin around his nails until they bled. He didn't raise his hand to answer questions, nor did he follow Professor Haywood after a lecture in order to bombard her with psychological manipulation theories.
I'd asked him if he was okay, and he'd given me a dashing smile that should have lit up his eyes.
But it didn't. He was overwhelmed with three upcoming medical exams and two research papers due on the same day.
In order to ease some of his stress, I took the responsibility of finishing our presentation.
We'd argued about it until I convinced him that I could easily put the slides together in between customers at work.
If it meant Nathaniel would have one less thing to worry about, I was happy to do it.
And here I thought he was our rival…
The morning of the presentation, Auden and I walked to the bus stop together.
Although we caught different buses with different routes, we stood side-by-side amongst a small crowd of school students and workers downing their morning coffee.
I had flash cards in my hands, mouthing my speech under my breath as I shifted from one leg to the other.
“Are you nervous about your presentation?” Auden asked.
“Yes."
"Why?"
"I am not entirely fond of public speaking," I answered, "and since Nathaniel is, well, Nathaniel…my poor public speaking abilities will be even more noticeable."
"I don't like public speaking either," Auden sighed, reaching for my hand. He squeezed my fingers gently before adding, "But I am sure you will do well. You're just as good as Nathaniel. Don't overthink it."
I glanced down at our hands and squeezed back, lips spreading into a small smile. "Thanks, Audie."
You never thank me like that.
By the time I reached Dawnridge, the lecture hall was already crowded with students.
I scanned the room for Nathaniel's floppy black hair and dimpled smile, shoulders relaxing when I found him near the platformed stage, head tipped back as he laughed at something one of his friends said.
The sound brought a smile to my face, but an unexpected pang of jealousy followed.
What did I have to do to make him laugh like that?
I shook the thought away and forced my legs forward.
Nathaniel’s eyes found mine within seconds, and he paused mid-sentence, words vanishing in his throat.
For a moment, I was confused by the way his lips parted, gaze darting in between my gelled hair and my freshly ironed clothes.
And then I remembered the effort I had put into my appearance that morning.
I'd trimmed my curls, coating them in just enough gel to keep them in place, whilst the small stubble I had been growing was cleanly shaven, my bare face moisturised with aloe vera to avoid an acne breakout.
My usual black attire was replaced with a pair of white trousers, a brown belt, and a slim-fitting forest green sweater, knitted and thrown atop a white collared shirt.
Knowing I was to present in front of the entire class, I intended to appear welcoming and trustworthy as opposed to moody and unapproachable.
Nathaniel's own fashion and sense of style may have been an inspiration, but I'd never admit that out loud.
“Hey,” he greeted me, hands casually sliding into his brown trousers, "you cut your hair."
"Only a little," I shrugged.
"I like it," he said, "and your outfit too."
Heat flamed my cheeks, the compliment catching me off guard. "Thank you."
"I am running on caffeine and caffeine alone, could not get a wink of sleep last night. How are you?"
"Wait, you're nervous?" I gaped at him.
"It appears so. I am not thrilled about having to present in front of all these people…but I'll be fine."
"What do you mean? You…present all the time! You're always raising your hand and bragging about how much you know!"
"I don't brag—"
"You're always so confident! You debate, you answer questions, you volunteer and—"
"That's different."
"How?!"
Nathaniel opened his mouth to answer but Professor Haywood's voice cut him off, announcing the start of the presentations.
We moved to our seats silently, flash cards trembling in my hands as I glanced toward the projector which listed the order we would present in. Nathaniel and I were the sixth.
My legs bounced up and down as the first pair made their way on stage.
They introduced their topic—the psychological manipulation of serial killers—and proceeded to summarise the main points of their essay.
I could barely concentrate, my stomach cramping to the point I feared I would bring up last night's dinner.
Nathaniel's hand rested on my thigh, momentarily distracting me from the anxious beast coursing through my veins. My knees ceased bouncing. Heart rate slowed. Heat crawled up my neck, ears no doubt reddening.
“You were right,” he confessed in a whisper, “everyone chose criminals.”
The second and third pair, like the first, focused on the psychological manipulation of criminals whilst the fourth pair focused on psychological manipulation in relationships.
As our turn neared, Nathaniel began picking at his bottom lip, his grip on my thigh tightening.
Wanting to ease his nerves as he had eased mine, I placed my hand on top of his, interlocking our fingers without uttering a word.
The art of comfort was a stranger to me, but I remembered the way Auden had squeezed my hand at the bus stop—the way it chased away some of my fear.
I hoped it would do the same for Nathaniel.
But I didn't dare look at him, even as I felt his piercing gaze.
The fifth pair explored the psychological manipulation employed by detectives to catch criminals, a unique approach that Nathaniel insisted Dr. Haywood would reward with a high mark.
Envy crawled beneath my skin, burying itself amongst all my anxiety and self-doubt.
What if they outranked us? What if we hadn't done enough to secure a High Distinction?
It will be your fault. This topic was your idea.
Nathaniel will hate you. He'll never talk to you again.
You won't get a scholarship. You'll be in debt for years.
You'll ruin everything. Just like you always do.
You're a failure. You're a monster. You're—
"We're up," Nathaniel whispered, snatching me from my spiralling thoughts.
I followed him toward the stage, head down and eyes glued to the flashcards clenched tight in my hands. I inhaled sharply. The world tilted. Stomach cramps threatened to send me to my knees. I swayed involuntarily, the nausea overwhelming.
Once Nathaniel plugged in his laptop, and our PowerPoint slides lit the screen, I cleared my throat and recited the words I'd been practicing all morning.
I want to tell you it all went smoothly, but my voice cracked.
Trembled. Words poured from my mouth in a stutter.
Swallowing hard, my eyes briefly flickered toward our classmates only for my gaze to lock with the Devil's, his smile revealing sharp fangs glinting in the dimming light.
He didn't need a mirror to find me here.
Professor Haywood vanished. My classmates too. It was just me and the Devil, alone in a room cloaked in shadow.
I opened my mouth to speak, to question his presence, but something crawled up my oesophagus—a sharp, insectile movement tickling my throat, choking me. I coughed violently, folding in on myself.
On the topic of cults, the Devil said, leaning forward in his seat, I think this is the perfect opportunity to remind you what happened the last time you were subjected to the God's Soldiers Church.
Smoke thickened the air. Flames devoured every exit.
I dropped to my hands and knees, body convulsing in a desperate attempt to expel the foreign object trapping my airways.
Tears blurred my vision. Blood filled my mouth.
A sharp edge tore through my throat, a silver crucifix landing on the stage coated in blood and saliva.
Don't go looking for them, little monster. You won't like what you find.
“Augustus?”
Nathaniel’s voice banished the Devil, students returning to their seats. They exchanged glances with one another, an uncomfortable silence filling the room.
I straightened up, massaged my throat, and resumed the presentation as though nothing had happened. There was no Devil. No smoke. No blood-slicked crucifix on the stage. None of it was real.
The atmosphere shifted when it was Nathaniel's turn to speak.
His voice was calm, confident. No one would have guessed how nervous he'd been by the way he moved across the stage with ease, cracking unscripted jokes in between significant talking points.
He had the entire hall in a trance. A captivating, commanding presence. Even I struggled to look away.
"Therefore," he finished, pausing in place to address the crowd of students leaning forward in their seats, "it is evidently clear that cults employ various manipulation techniques, such as isolation, fear and guilt, trauma bonding and information control to facilitate psychosis, often religious in nature. "