Atticus
MY FINGERS TREMBLE FROM where they are wrapped around the leather binding of the Nigrum Librum. I have pored over almost every spell in this book, translating the old Latin piece by piece.
To think that Julian, our hired attendant, has been doing this himself is outrageous; I wasn’t aware he had the intelligence for it.
There is an energy in it—this book of dark magic—that makes me nauseous. We Chastains have always been God-fearing and honest; playing with this crap isn’t in our nature. But now, for the sake of my baby brother, I will do anything.
And that anything includes making a bargain of my own.
Julian had said that this book led him to clues, to answers to Atlas’s cure. And if this is true, I intend to find those clues and save my brother and myself.
Even if it means taking on a demon of my own—even if it means sacrificing my own life.
Atlas is a helpless, darling little thing. It is my job as his big brother to stop that thing from feeding off his energy. To release him from this hell.
Even if he hates me for it.
With the Nigrum Librum—or the Black Book, when translated—in hand, I make my way to the top of the west tower. Atlas should be sleeping, which gives me the perfect opportunity to use the spell I found towards the back of the book.
I saw the bookmarked page Julian obviously originally found, the one that features the original spell used that somehow cursed my family, but Atlas is not dying. It has no use to me.
So instead, I found something better. And it will save him.
At the door of Atlas’s quarters, I slide the silver chain free from its lock and push the door open, spotting him peacefully asleep under his duvet.
If the demon were here, my plans would be ruined. But I could tell by the temperature of the air alone that it was not. That it had either come and left or never appeared at all. Atlas’s clothed body tells me tonight was one in which the demon did not bother to feed.
I stand at the side of my brother’s bed, taking a moment to watch his chest rise and fall steadily.
I would do anything for you, darling. Anything at all.
The words circle my brain, spurring me on, motivating me to crack open the book in my hands.
I know God will never forgive me. I know that by doing this, by saving him, I will be damning myself. But I cannot seem to find the will to stop, to reconsider.
Many years ago, I saw the incubus myself. I have not been able to look Atlas in the eyes and feel anything other than suffocating guilt ever since. I’ve let him down; I’ve failed him.
Not anymore.
I have nothing left for me here, anyway.
The ribbon I have stuffed between the correct pages flutters to the duvet, so I grab hold of it and shove it into my pocket, looking down at the spell presented to me.
It was originally in Latin, but I’ve translated it and written the words on a small scrap of paper, which I’ve kept etched into the crease of the book.
My knees feel weak; I’m scared. Terrified, even. I have no idea what the demon will want: my energy? My life? This might be the last peaceful moment I ever experience.
I cannot dwell. If I stall any further, I will freeze, never to take another step.
For Atlas.
With a deep breath, my eyes settle on the page once more, and I begin to speak in a quiet whisper.
“Demon of night, you who dwells in the shadows
meet me here in the valley of the living.
I call your name, with these words my soul I expose;
grant my wish for a price befitting.
Prince of darkness, extend your hand
and I will be your humble servant.”
With each word that leaves my mouth, I can feel the temperature of the room rise. My palms begin to sweat, and my heartbeat becomes erratic and borderline frantic.
But is it working? The pages before my eyes begin to blur, but as I stare, I am certain it is just tears from the length of time I haven’t blinked.
As the book stays stagnant and my own body lies unaffected, I sigh.
Failure. Was I truly stupid enough to believe this would work, all because Julian Walsh said this book was the key? Idiot.
But as I lift my head and find that the entire room is coated in a darkness so thick I cannot see an inch in front of myself, I nearly swallow my own tongue.
Oh.
Did it actually work? Was he right?
My sleep shirt sticks to my back with sweat, my hands trembling horribly. I can feel the hair on my forehead matte and stick to my skin.
“Sweet child, what do you call for?”
The words are broken, said in a language far removed from my own, yet I understand them, as if a translator has been strapped to my head and it’s doing all the heavy lifting.
As I stand here, shaking and terrified, I realize it’s Latin. The language of demons.
“I… I need help,” I say, louder than a whisper this time, as I am uncertain where this being is. I can’t even see the book that is still resting in my hands.
“How can I serve you?” it purrs, voice caressing the nape of my neck.
It’s a deep sound, almost sensual with each syllable, and it makes me shiver in terror.
“H-how can I understand you?” The question leaves me before I can stop it. It’s truly not important; I know this, but I can’t help but ask.
A husky, deep chuckle fills the room around me. It’s garbled and sharp, as if there is glass in its throat, and the sound is shoving through the shards.
“You called for me. You opened this well of communication. You did this.”
“O-oh.” I stare into the pitch-black, my eyes unable to focus on one singular thing.
“How can I serve you?” it repeats. It seems to have endless patience.
“Are you a demon? An incubus?” I ask. It feels foolish to make a deal with a creature I do not understand.
“I am what you called upon, child. I am what you desired.” There seems to be a hint of amusement in its tone.
I have a feeling it won’t directly answer a single question I ask. There is no point in trying to understand the unknown; evil does not cooperate with light.
“It’s my brother,” I start, my eyes darting around the void surrounding me. “He’s been cursed. I need to free him, to stop the incubus who visits him.”
“Hm,” the demon—I am certain it’s a demon—hums. “You wish to save him; to end a bargain that was solidified long before your birth.”
“What do you know about it?” I rush out. “How do you know this information? Are you the incubus who is messing with Atlas?”
“Enough,” it says, harsh and quick. I guess its patience is not endless. “I am not feeding from the boy you speak of. But I also will not act for free.”
“What do you want?” I whisper, feeling my heart rate quicken once more.
“You wish for me to take from another, to save a soul that was sent to balance the nature between good and evil. That is no small price.”
“What do you want?” I repeat through gritted teeth.
“I want your life. Ten mortal years.”
Everything around me seems to freeze. It wants… ten years of my life? That price seems too large to pay. If I’m only destined to live the average male life expectancy of eighty years, then that puts me in an uncomfortably early grave.
But is that unreasonable when faced with Atlas’s eternity?
Can I spare him the last ten years of my life so that he can live his life fully?
I take a deep, choked breath. “Ten years of my life? That’s all?”
“Yes, child. Give me ten years of your time, and I will bring Atlas Chastain peace.”
Peace. Atlas will finally feel peace.
I can give this demon ten years; thinking about it now, ten years seems so trivial.
“Fine,” I speak. “You can have ten years.”
The room becomes warmer, so warm that I feel as if I can’t breathe.
“Give me your name,” it demands.
“Atticus Chastain.” But I have a feeling it already knew that. It already knew Atlas’s last name, and I never spoke it aloud.
Suddenly, in the void of darkness before my eyes, a hand extends. It’s pale, translucent almost, with fingers long and fading into a deep shade of purple at the tips. Its fingernails are pointed to resemble claws.
I can see nothing else.
“The bargain is struck upon the clasping of our hands, child.”
I don’t want to touch it. I desperately do not wish to. But Atlas has put up with being touched for nearly three years now, and I refuse to back down now.
Extending my own hand, I blindly fumble in the dark until our palms connect.
In a flash, one of the demon’s sharp fingernails pierces my skin—though I cannot see it—and I feel it as my blood smears over its hand.
Something inside of me shifts. It’s uncomfortable and obvious, but not quite painful.
“It is done.”
Slowly, the darkness around me begins to fade, and the furniture of Atlas’s room comes into focus. My eyes immediately flicker to his bed.
Unfortunately, he is now awake. I’m unsure how long he has been, but he’s staring up at me with those big blue eyes, concerned and slightly terrified.
“Hey,” he calls out. “What’s happening?”
The air around us continues to cool, and I close the Black Book, keeping my face passive and expressionless.
I watch him for any signs of discomfort. For anything different at all, but I see nothing.
I blink. My eyes feel dry.
Then, I say, “It’s done. You’ll be okay now.”
I turn on my heel, refusing to give him any indication of what I have just done. There is no point; he’d only be angry anyway.
As the door shuts, I slide the chain lock back into place. Just in case.
The walk back to my bedroom is quick, but I spend the entire journey staring at the cover of the Black Book. My heart rate is still erratic, and I can still feel that uncomfortable shift in my chest. Will it ever go away?
I’ve signed away ten years of my life, all for Atlas. And I intend to die with this secret.
As I slip into my room, I stash the black magic book in the top drawer of my dresser, sighing. I keep trying to expel this uncomfortable shift inside of me through air alone, but it is not working.
The drawer shuts softly, and I’m turning toward my own bed to settle for the night when I feel it.
It starts in my chest, expanding and spreading through my arms and down into the pit of my stomach. It’s an unexplainable, unimaginable pain.
At first, I can’t even breathe, let alone speak. My knees wobble, and I hit the floor, my legs trapped beneath me. My hands shake, agony coursing through my fingertips and down my legs, all the way to my toes.
Every inch of my skin, in every individual nerve, I can feel this unadulterated, violent pain.
A full gust of air enters my lungs before I finally manage to release the loudest, most agonized scream I’ve ever heard.
“It is done, sweet child,” the voice says, returning to me here, in the moonlight of my bedroom.
My eyes shoot around to each corner, each shadow, but I see nothing. I can say nothing—I can only cry.
“I have blessed the boy you wished to save, and he will be at peace and will not be touched for ten days.”
I choke on my tears, falling forward onto my hands and knees.
Ten days?! That wasn’t the deal. That wasn’t the fucking deal!
“N-no,” I manage, shaking my head through the sharp, hot pain coursing through me.
“Yes,” it says. “The bargain has been made in blood. You have given me ten mortal years in exchange for ten mortal days of peace.”
There is a heavier sense of amusement in its voice now, as if it finds this whole situation funny. As if it knew from the very beginning just how to work this deal in its favor.
As I sit on the floor on my hands and knees, and battle the intense agony pulsing beneath my skin, I feel a heavy hand on the back of my neck.
“You will serve me well, sweet child. I can feel it—your desire. Your loneliness. Such beautiful sorrow.”
If I could, I would shove its hand off. But I cannot move; I can’t do anything but shake and cry and mourn the ten years I’ve lost for nothing.
I have fallen out of favor with God, doomed myself for all of eternity, for ten days of peace.
I’m only conscious for fifteen more seconds before darkness surrounds me once more, and my consciousness fades.