Nathaniel
I HAVEN’T HEARD FROM Landon for two days now. I guess he was just as freaked out by our connection as I was. Well, am.
Shifting from hating him to maybe hating him, and then now, knowing damn well that all I feel is protective rage and minor affection, has my mind reeling.
I guess it shouldn’t be that big of a surprise. Normally, when you sleep with someone so frequently, feelings are bound to appear in some way. But the way I react to his gift, as if he’s stroking me from the inside out? How I’m suddenly much more paranoid about having to repress him?
I guess I didn’t expect this, at least not this soon. Because now I’m trying to figure out how to protect him, how to uncover more of those sad, terrified little secrets he’s holding onto.
You would think that a guy like Landon, someone so vicious and bratty, wouldn’t hold so much sorrow. But he does, and I’m the only one who can stop the onslaught of pain.
And fuck, if that doesn’t make me feel ten feet tall, nothing else ever will. Landon needs me. He craves me. And I…I want to give him that. Me.
I can’t very well do that, though. Not if he’s ignoring the call I made yesterday or the text I sent him this morning. But it’s fine. I’ll show up this weekend and demand his attention either way.
All I can do in the meantime is convince the council that Landon and his uncle aren’t a threat. That I’ve observed the Presley family—well, one of them—and I’ve made my decision.
Then, if the council can’t respect it, I’ll load Landon onto a plane and bring him here, where I can protect him.
We may not be in love, not the way Julian and Atlas are, but we are something. And knowing I can keep pushing him around, fighting and struggling with him, even as I get the softer side on occasion? Well, that’s just perfect.
I’ll take his nasty personality and hold it close to my chest where no one else can judge it again—no one but me.
My phone begins to ring, and for a moment I startle, thinking it’s my work phone. But no, it’s my personal. And as I see Abraham Chastain’s name on the screen, I startle once more.
Why is he calling me at night? I left the castle several hours ago.
“Hello?” I answer, concern clear in my tone.
And as Abraham speaks, he sounds so exhausted and terrified that I sit straight up in my bed. “Nathaniel, don’t come in in the morning.”
“What?” I sound just as terrified as he is now. He called me Nathaniel.
“You’ll still be paid—just don’t come, okay? Things are… Well, just stay away. Thanks.” And then the line goes dead.
I’m on my bike a minute later, speeding quickly through the dark, foggy back roads of Port Orford. I didn’t even change out of my sweats and my sweater; I just ran.
Something is not right. Whatever trouble they’re in, I have to help. Could it be Atlas? He should be home now, and he just recently broke that curse a few months ago—
Atticus. I knew something was wrong with him at the sporting goods store, and I let Landon distract me from it. I should have said something; I should have done something.
If my intuition is right and it is him in trouble, I think I’ll die from guilt.
I park my bike next to the fountain in front of Chastain Castle a few minutes later, rushing in through the front door and taking a moment to catch my breath as I look around.
I hear nothing. No movement sounds through the estate, and that only makes me more paranoid.
But then, voices from Hall E4 drift toward me, causing my feet to walk in that direction. I keep myself calm, my pace subtle. I have no idea what I’ll be walking in on.
The chapel is empty, but after peering around for a moment, I spot the red banner that’s shoved to the side, revealing a door-shaped hole in the stone that presents a staircase.
What the fuck?
As I head toward it, the voices become clearer.
“I call your name, with these words my soul I expose; grant my wish for a price befitting.”
I think I recognize the voice speaking, but I can’t place the name or face that belongs to it.
But then—
“Julie, make him stop! Oh, god, make him stop!” Atlas screeches, and all the hesitance I had before disappears.
I descend the steps, just in time to hear that familiar voice speak again. “Prince of darkness, extend your hand, and I will be your humble—”
I approach Theodora and Abraham’s backs just as Julian shoves Atlas toward his father, taking a step toward whatever danger it is that I can’t see.
“Everyone, stop,” I command, terrified of whatever consequences await Julian if he rushes into the room.
Shoving past him and the Chastains, I have to fight to keep my expression neutral. The space is some kind of altar room, complete with a stone slab, a few bookcases, and a podium.
A podium by which a very familiar boy stands, with Atticus at his side. I’m pretty sure that boy is the one Landon and I ran into once.
But the man next to him? Let me rephrase: that is not Atticus.
His fingers are long, pointed, and purple; his eyes are pitch-black, and his teeth are sharp fangs. Atticus has turned into something vicious and disgusting.
“Continue,” he commands the other boy, his voice distorted and cruel as he sneers.
I’m not exactly sure what they’re doing— maybe some kind of ritual or spell—but I know it’s not good. I can tell from Atlas’s reaction and the heat of the room alone that whatever is controlling our sweet Atticus is most likely a demon.
The boy next to him is staring at me like I’m his last hope, trembling where he stands. Despite his muscles and his strong jaw, he looks fragile and terrified.
I find my way into the center of the room, hoping to gain Atticus’s attention as I call out, “Atticus.”
“Leave, maga,” the demon spits out.
I’m not exactly sure what maga means, but I bet this demon can sense my power in some ways. And if not, then just my confidence alone is startling it.
I take a deep breath, conjuring as much of Landon’s persuasion as I can, even if I can’t use coercion. “Wake up. Or I will force you.”
“You will die tonight,” the demon tells me. “I will rip you apart.”
It’s disorienting coming from Atticus’s mouth, but I’m not necessarily scared. I was given this gift of mine for moments just like this: to protect and to guide.
So I call on my illusion and show Atticus exactly what will happen if he doesn’t listen. If he doesn’t wake up and take control of his body.
I leave everyone else suspended, watching the reality around us as I shift Atticus’s point of view.
In his mind, he’s across the room, snatching his baby brother up by the throat and dangling him there. The demon itself is glaring, vicious, and evil, but behind it? I can see the subtle downturn of its lips, the way its eyes become glassy.
And that? That’s all Atticus.
I move each person in the room around like a game of chess, watching as Julian rushes in, only to be tossed aside. Abraham moves, only to get his heart ripped out.
In my mind’s eye, there is so much blood and carnage that I kind of want to vomit. I know it’s not real, all a figment of my own imagination, but that doesn’t make it easier to bear.
Atticus will definitely have some trauma after this if the plan works.
Fog curls around our feet, an indication that my power is activated and still running. But Atticus doesn’t know this—he’s still unable to reconcile actual reality and the vision I’m giving him.
As Atlas falls to the ground, dead, the demon turns back to the boy by the podium. “Say it. Now.”
“You’ll have to kill me,” the boy whispers. “I won’t do it. Kill me.”
If the way the boy was looking at him earlier is any indication, or the way Atticus is now fighting even harder against the demon controlling him, they must be involved.
I can use that.
The demon approaches the podium, its fingers gripping the boy’s chin.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his eyes sliding closed so that he can avoid looking at the demon. “I love you; I will die loving you.”
Oh, that works well. Atticus twitches, the demon inside of him rebelling angrily. I can see how he sweats, how his body locks up, and how his eyes focus and then unfocus.
“It’s alright; I know you don’t want to do it. I know you’re in there, suffering.” The boy’s hand slides up to cup the demon’s cheek, staring right into its eyes.
Almost there. Just… a bit more.
“I forgive you for whatever you’ll do to me. And if things were different, if we could have had more time, I would have loved you forever,” he continues.
But this demon is stronger than I anticipated, as it stands there, staring back at him. He’s struggling so badly inside; I can see it. Atticus is raging against this monster holding him hostage.
I need something. The words that will push him over the edge and make him stronger than that thing.
I focus on the boy where he’s standing outside of my illusion, stock still as he watches the reality where Atticus is still standing next to him, unmoving. He’s trembling, watching with wide, big eyes as he tries to understand what’s happening around him.
Then, I make a decision. Purely based on what I’ve perceived of him and hoping I’m not totally off the mark, I focus back on what Atticus is seeing, and make the boy say—
“I surrender, Atticus. You have all of me; do what you need to.”
I know how obsessed with control Atticus is. If he likes this boy, it’s because he lets him do just that: control, guide, dictate. He’d want the boy’s surrender. He’d crave it.
And I’m right. Atticus surges forward, taking the boy’s lips in a bruising kiss as his fingers wrap around the boy’s throat.
I can see Atticus’s body shaking, his eyes wide and glassy as he trembles.
“Wake up, Atticus,” I push, wishing so badly that Landon were here to coerce him. “Save him.”
Right as I’m beginning to think that my illusion won’t work after all, Atticus pulls back, stumbling away from the boy’s collapsing body until he’s on his knees near me in the center of the room.
And he looks like himself again, if not a bit fucked up and tired.
I approach where he sits, looming over him as I say, “Good boy. You’ve done well.”
But the praise doesn’t calm him, and he turns and vomits all over the floor before passing out.
The illusion fades away now that he’s out cold, and as everyone else stands around—having only seen him standing in place just to walk away and vomit before blacking out—they look at me questioningly.
“What… what just happened?” Abraham stutters out. “Is he alright?”
Theodora is already rushing forward, picking Atticus’s body up and laying it in her lap.
“Barfred?” Atlas squeaks.
“I think he was fighting his subconscious,” I lie, smoothing over the event as best as I can. “He must have forced the demon out, but only for now. Have you called for help?”
Abraham steps forward, towering over his wife and son as he nods. “Yes. The priest will be here first thing in the morning.”
“Good,” I reply. “Then get him to bed. Restrain him.”
“How did you… Why did you come?” my boss asks, his eyes wide and wet as he stares at me.
“I figured something bad was happening,” I answer blandly, shrugging.
“Always around to save someone when they need it, aren’t you?” Julian snickers, but it’s only half the normal amount of joking he carries, as he stares fearfully at Atticus’s body.
“I didn’t do anything this time,” I say. “I just… tried to guide him.”
And it’s not a lie. I guided him with what could have happened if he hadn’t fought back—Atticus did all the heavy lifting.
I bring out a tray of tea for everyone who has gathered outside. Behind me, firefighters are rushing around, putting out the fire in Atticus’s bedroom.
The priest came first thing this morning, and everyone watched as he performed an exorcism on Atticus. Cameron—who I’m assuming is Atticus’s boyfriend and the one who was forced to read from that weird book of spells—stands off to the side with Julian as I give them their cups.
Everyone looks incredibly startled, fussing over Atticus’s limp body as the priest declares him fixed.
I can’t believe Atticus had been possessed, and I had no idea. Sure, I knew something was off, but I wasn’t aware it was this bad.
Maybe spending all of my time in California was a bad idea after all. I let Landon distract me from what’s important: my newfound family. Not that I would ever admit this affection to anyone. Not that they feel the same.
Abraham won’t stop trying to pull me aside, thanking me for coming. And yet he doesn’t even know what I truly did. How, if I hadn’t shown up, that thing would have achieved whatever it was set out to do. Taking over Atticus’s body permanently is my guess.
I slip back into the kitchen, ready to prepare some snacks, as my personal phone starts to ring. It’s Calum.
“Hey, man. Not a good time,” I tell him, visions of that altar room and the fire blazing around us still spinning in my mind.
I’ve had one fucked up night.
“You’ll want to hear this,” he insists, and I can hear the panic in his voice.
“What?” I ask, impatient.
“Listen, I know you have some kind of connection with Landon—”
“I do not have a connection with him,” I straight-up lie. But I can’t have anyone know I’ve grown some kind of affection for him. I’m still trying to figure out how to get the organization to back off.
“Whatever,” he scoffs. “Point is, they’ve got him.”
My entire body freezes, my blood running cold.
“Who has him?” I demand. And Calum hesitates, most likely at the anger in my voice. “Who, Calum?”
“Ah, fuck, man. The council. They snatched your boy up the other day, and they’re holding him at a warehouse in Cali.”
I move faster than I ever have in my life. One second I’m standing in the kitchen, readying a veggie tray, and the next I’m outside, hopping on my bike.
“Send me the address. Now,” I command.
“I will, but Nate, you have to be careful. They’ve had him for days, trying to get information—”
I hang up the phone as soon as my phone dings with the location, unable to hear any more.
It’s a ten-hour drive, and I have to get moving. I’m running on zero sleep, anxiety, and overwhelming rage.
I let this happen. I introduced him to this kind of misery.
Therefore, it’s my job to save him. I… I have to protect what’s mine.