Atlas
MY KNEES ACHE AGAINST the thin carpet, my palms sweaty where I’ve had them pressed together for the past thirty minutes.
Usually, when I’m here, I know exactly what to say. It’s been rehearsed in a way to soothe my guilt and fulfill the prophecy for so long now that I barely have to think to force the words forward.
But today… Today I’m not so sure.
The Chastains are inherently religious, though not the kind of religious that meets every Sunday for hour-long church services or takes part in baptisms outside of the one my siblings and I partook in on our sixth birthdays.
Yet I find myself here more often than most, praying for the sin that was thrust upon me on my eighteenth birthday.
Normally, it exhausts and depresses me. But today, I’m not quite here for that, and I kind of wish I were.
The incubus has visited me twice in the past four days since Julian and I slept together. The first time, it bent me over in a similar manner to how Julian did and slammed into me for what felt like hours, edging my orgasm until I thought I’d pass out.
The second time, it kept me how I was—on my back—and left marks on my body as it took me more roughly than it ever had before. And both times, it rasped out more of that broken language, just a sentence or two, before running its tongue over my skin.
I can feel a shift in its behavior, in its aggressiveness, and not for my own sake am I worried. Instead, this change in personality the incubus is showing makes me scared for Julian and for when it might approach him, if it chooses to attack once more.
See, I find it hard to believe it would physically hurt me. It needs my body, my soul, for substance. But Julian? The man interfering, the one helping to aid me in escape?
I fear the demon would not hesitate to harm him further.
So, here I am, on my knees in the chapel.
Am I praying for Julian’s safety? For us to hurry up and find the cure? For the incubus to stay unaware of our efforts? I do not know. Perhaps I’m praying for all three.
I know I should be asking for forgiveness—I didn’t come the last two times I was taken by the demon—but the other matters feel more pressing, more serious.
I want to feel guilty for this, but I can’t seem to find the emotion inside myself.
Something creaks from behind me, and with my eyes closed and head bowed, I am frightened for a moment to think it’s Atticus.
I ran into my older brother yesterday as I was attempting to sneak down to the altar room beneath the chapel, and he read me like an open book.
In fact, the first thing Atticus said to me was that I looked startled and asked where I was going and what I was doing.
I managed to convince him I was going to the kitchen for a glass of warm milk, but I could read it in his eyes: he didn’t quite believe me.
So, I played the whole thing out and brought my glass of milk back up to the top of the west tower and waited about an hour before sneaking back downstairs again.
Julian was confused as to why I was so late—we’ve been meeting around 8 p.m. every day—but I didn’t have it in me to explain.
So now I’m borderline shaking with nerves, terrified Atticus has caught on to something he shouldn’t have.
The fear doesn’t last long, as once the presence is standing at my side, I am assured it’s not him.
Oscar says, “Young Master Atlas, may I ask what you’re praying for?”
Lifting my head, I take in the older man next to me—his dark eyes and salt-and-pepper hair that is always slicked back perfectly. The time-worn lines of his face are drawn tight with his expression of concern.
“Help,” I respond shortly.
“Help,” he echoes. Then, after a moment, Oscar sighs. “Is everything alright? Is Julian still… convinced?”
I hate to lie, especially in the chapel. So instead, I search for another response that hides my current situation.
“I have everything handled.”
Oscar does not look convinced. In fact, he looks more concerned now.
“Young Master Atlas,” he says, a hint of impatience in his tone. “Please come to me if things begin to change. Anything at all. It’s unsafe to navigate the ways of evil alone.”
But I’m not alone. Julian is helping—in more ways than one.
My face flushes.
“Sure,” I mutter. “If I need your help, I’ll come find you.”
Oscar studies me for a moment longer, his mouth opening and closing as if he has something more to say, but he can’t force the words out.
Just like Atticus so many hours ago, I don’t believe he is fully convinced that I’m fine or that everything is normal, but he doesn’t push. With a nod and a small, tense smile, Oscar turns and leaves the chapel.
Closing my eyes, I bow my head.
Dear Lord, please protect us from the evil attached to me. Guard Julian and help us unravel this curse. Amen.
And then, for good measure:
Dear Lord, please forgive me for my weak disposition. Grant me mercy in the face of my misfortune and allow me to repent for my own sick desires. I’m sorry, amen.
After the prayers have been said a few times over, I do the only other thing I know how to do—I slip on my coat and walk to the cliff’s edge, watching the waves crashing below.
The wind is chilly, yet not as cold as they were last December. Not that I’d be able to feel the full effects of the low temperature; with the heat constantly simmering beneath my skin, I can’t remember the last time I was genuinely freezing.
But it’s nice in this moment, the feeling of cooling down, even if it’s temporary.
As the wind ruffles my hair and my eyes water from the salty air, my mind returns to the altar room.
Almost every book on those shelves was written in another language. It appears to be mostly Latin, and I’m starting to wonder if there is any point in picking through each one.
But we don’t have any other leads—I only thought of that room specifically the other night, when I remembered my father disappearing down there with the priest and the psychic.
The answer to what the cure will be, and when it will arrive, will surely be in one, right? If they found the prophecy in there, and I have a feeling they did, then it has to have other clues.
What I’ve been doing hasn’t been enough. Being good, praying, and waiting diligently doesn’t seem to be the only answer. There must be a missing piece that they overlooked. And that missing piece must lead me to receiving the cure.
It has to.
I’m so lost in thought that I don’t register the approaching footsteps, not until a warm hand is grazing mine.
It’s a fleeting touch, as if sharing a secret between the two of us.
Looking to the side, I find Julian standing next to me, staring out at the Pacific. His dark hair is wind-blown and beautifully messy, his large frame swallowed by a dark hoodie. His lips look slightly chapped, and his brown eyes are wide and thoughtful as he sighs gently.
“Hi,” I greet, still feeling the tingling of warmth on the back of my hand, the one he shared with me moments ago.
“Hey,” he responds, his gaze sliding to meet mine; it feels as if he can see all of me, as if he can read every little thought that passes through my mind.
“W-what are you doing?”
“Just enjoying the view,” he says casually, and my face flushes for the millionth time today.
I suppose if it’s not the memory of his body pressed to mine, it’s his filthy mouth that will make me feel all hot and bothered.
What a monster.
“Oh,” I breathe, turning my attention back to the water.
“You waiting again? For the cure?”
“Mhm.”
A tense silence falls over us. Neither of us moves a muscle as we watch the water crest and fall over and over again. I’m not sure what to say—how to carry on a conversation with him after telling him he was my first kiss and seeing how he immediately pulled away.
As if it upset him. As if he were turned off.
Our interactions these past few days have been very awkward.
“It hasn’t come to my room again,” Julian suddenly adds, his voice steady and low in the rushing wind.
“The incubus?” I turn my gaze back to him, watching his profile as he nods once.
“Yeah. Not since that night it warned me. I wonder if it can only see what is happening in the castle while you’re asleep—if it has no idea I’m helping you.”
“Maybe,” I agree. “I’m happy you haven’t had to deal with it again.”
“How are you feeling? You look a little pink.” Our eyes meet as he says it, as if he wants me to know that he notices every little minuscule change in my appearance, in my attitude.
I swallow thickly, taking a deep breath as I say, “A little warm. But it’s not a big deal; I’m used to overheating.
Actually—” A small chuckle leaves me. “I haven’t had a reprieve from this heat since my eighteenth birthday.
Other than that brief period of time where I thought I was cured, but it was actually you who cleaned me up and forced the demon away. ”
Julian watches me with slightly furrowed brows, his head cocked slightly. “You… you thought you were cured?”
“Yeah.” I shrug. “When I woke up, I was clean. That never happens. And for some reason, I was finally cool, and physical touch wasn’t as intense for me anymore. So, I just thought…”
I don’t finish. Remembering that small moment of joy hurts my heart, and I’d rather not relive the disappointment.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
“Don’t be. How could you have known?”
Julian makes a sound of agreement before he angles his body toward me. “Do you think I helped in some way? That I genuinely forced the incubus to leave you alone that night, and in doing so, it offered you some relief?”
“Ah, I don’t know. I mean, it could have just been startled and vanished,” I supply. “And it didn’t get to, uh, finish. So that might be why I was so physically relieved the next day.
“Hm,” Julian hums. “Well, we’ll figure it out.”
He hasn’t touched me again, and as he angles his body back toward the cliffside, something hot and achy burns inside of my chest.
Was he really that turned off by learning he was my first kiss? Does he regret sleeping with me, and now he’s helping out of pity and twisted obligation?
I might vomit.