Atticus
I RUN FASTER THAN I ever have before. My lungs burn, my calves strain, yet nothing compares to the ache in my chest. The raw, unfiltered anguish that courses through my veins.
The memory of Cameron on his knees, his cries blending in with the sound of the current, is on repeat in my mind.
He told me he loved me again, and this time I believed him. I truly, completely did. Only it doesn’t matter. Not with this deal hanging over my head, not with how it’ll hurt him.
The day he turned up at Chastain Castle with Cassie and Julian, I was so angry that remembering it now almost feels silly. I couldn’t believe he’d go to such lengths just to see me, to rub in my face what he’d done.
And now? Now his dedication sings sweetly to something inside of me. From the very beginning, Cameron has been so dedicated to what we had that he was willing to break laws, make a fool of himself, and risk my wrath just to try and recover it. Recover us.
All for naught. The moment I touched that cursed book, I doomed us both; I just didn’t know it yet. And now, it sits so heavily against my heart that I can barely breathe.
So I run faster, just so I can feel a different kind of pain.
Last night I couldn’t fall asleep. All I could think about was his going home, most likely to cry into his pillows. And when I did manage to slip away, I dreamt of him once more, sobbing into my arms as I touched him so softly.
My dreams have gotten more and more vivid, and they’re always of Cameron, as if even subconsciously I can’t live without him. How will either of us move on?
When a love is this epic, do you ever heal from the cataclysmic fallout of it?
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I rip it out in a flash, convinced of the sender.
But it’s not a message or a call but a notification from the app that connects to the new camera in my room. I stop running, Chastain Castle in sight, as I open it.
My old sneakers were muddy again this morning, and I’m determined to find out who’s doing it.
It’s a nice distraction from how I’m falling apart.
The feed appears. It tracks movement, so two five-minute videos are all it gives me. At first, I’m just sleeping. I don’t toss or turn, so it must grab a bit of time before the movement, too.
But as I fast forward a minute or two, I spot the motion, and I let it play at normal speed.
I watch myself as I toss once, then pull my earplugs out, laying them gently on the mattress beside me. My eyes are open, that much I can see, and I get out of bed carefully and head to my closet, which is just off camera.
A minute later, I reappear as if I never left, but this time… in my old sneakers.
And then I walk out the door.
I stand amongst the trees, frozen on the spot as I stare down at the screen. Have I started sleepwalking?!
Flipping to the next video, it’s similar in setup. My empty room appears on the recording, and I fast-forward until I see movement.
I walk back into the frame, slipping off my sneakers and setting them gently in the corner. Then, I crawl back into bed and drift back to sleep.
The time between the two videos is about six hours. Where was I for six hours?
Panic claws at my throat, ripping into my flesh and turning me into something flighty and uncertain. I want to tell somebody; I want to feed this fear to someone close and coddling so that I don’t have to bear it alone.
But I’ve always taken everything on all alone. I’m the big brother, the eldest son. Every hard thing I’ve ever experienced, every one of Atlas’s skinned knees or Abigail’s nightmares, has fallen onto my shoulders. To fix, to take care of.
Not due to neglect, but a genuine sense of responsibility and the way my siblings naturally tend to lean on me. Maybe this is why I’m having such a hard time accepting Julian and how Atlas seems to lean on him rather than me lately.
And maybe this is why, as I stare at the videos on my surveillance app, I can’t think of a single person to tell. To share my problems with.
My walk back to Chastin is slow and measured, a sharp contrast to what is happening behind my skull. My anguish surrounding Cameron and the loss of control over my own nights is battling, demanding dominance in my psyche.
“Atticus?” a small voice calls out, and as I stop halfway up the main staircase, I spot Atlas standing on the second-floor landing.
“Hello, darling,” I push out, trying my best to cover my fear and longing with a gentle smile.
“What’s happening?” he asks, big blue eyes wide and hands trembling.
“Huh?”
He takes a step back, away from me, and I immediately make up the space, taking the rest of the stairs two at a time.
“Wait!” Atlas screeches, extending a hand to stop me from coming any closer.
“What’s wrong?” I push it out like a demand, but in reality, it sounds more pleading and frightened than anything else.
Atlas shivers, his eyes briefly darting toward Hall E3.
“Julie!” he suddenly calls out, loud and panicked. “Julian!”
The door to the drawing room swings open, and in a rush, Julian barrels out. His eyes land on my brother, wide and concerned, as he takes long strides to place himself at Atlas’s side.
“What is it, little bunny? Are you okay?” The desperate concern in his voice takes away a bit of the dislike I have for him, but it doesn’t feel nearly as good as I’d like it to. Not with Atlas staring at me like this.
Like I scare him. Like I’m a monster.
“There’s something wrong with Atticus,” he whispers, his eyes flicking from me to Julian over and over again.
Julian turns his attention to me, and for a moment, he just stares. And then, as if something flips inside of him, his eyes widen once again.
“Atticus,” he begins, placating and gentle and definitely not with the proper formality. “What have you done?”
“Done?” I repeat, narrowing my gaze on him. “What does that mean?”
“I felt it before, just a little,” Atlas tells him, speaking as if I’m not right in front of them. “But now it’s worse. Now, he feels like it.”
Surely he’s not… no. There is no way Atlas is comparing me to the demon that used to assault him.
The surveillance videos from last night feel as if they’re burning a hole in my pocket, straight through my phone and the fabric of my joggers.
Not so subtly, Julian grabs Atlas’s arm and moves him, using his own body to shield my baby brother from me.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I sneer. “Get out of the way. Don’t hide him from me—I’m his brother.”
“Atticus,” Julian repeats, notching my anger just a bit higher. “We’re going to figure this out, but I think something has happened.”
“What?” I’m growing desperate and confused.
“Atlas told me about that night,” the attendee says, his voice daunting. “About you… you holding the Black Book over him as he slept.”
“I wasn’t hurting him!” I shout, staring at his hand where he holds Atlas behind him firmly. “Why are you acting as if I’m out to get my own family?”
“That’s not what I’m implying.” Julian stares at me with a steady gaze. “Tell us what happened when you left the room. Where is the book? What did you do with it?”
“The book?” I question. We’re bouncing around to different memories, different topics, and it’s messing with my head. I’m angry, and I’m hurting. “It’s in my room. Why?”
“We need to get rid of it,” Julian says confidently. “Did you read it? Did you use a spell?”
I freeze. I can feel my skin flush as I stand before them, guilty.
“Oh, god,” Atlas whimpers, burying his face in Julian’s back.
Julian’s grip on his arm tightens as they take a step backward.
“What is happening?” I’m pleading now, desperate for answers. “Yes, I used a spell. I was trying to save him. I would have done anything!”
“I know,” Julian says gently. “I know, Atticus. I would have too. I did. But I think… I think you may have touched on something you shouldn’t have.”
“Like what?” I demand.
But I know what. I made a deal that sold a decade of my life to a demon, and…
Now I’m sleepwalking, disappearing for several hours at a time.
My knees give out, and as they hit the floor, I can’t breathe.
“We need to see Reverend Clark or Madam Lu,” Julian insists, staring down at me with a heavy mixture of pity and fear.
And I hate it.
“Who?” I ask, my voice barely resonating around us.
“People who can help. Who can tell us what you did,” Atlas chimes in, looking around his boyfriend’s body to see me.
His expression, his agony, is so clear on his face that even though my first reaction is to say no—no way in hell—I don’t fight it.
Not if there is a chance that one of the most precious people in my life will stop staring at me like I repulse him.
“Okay,” I whisper, my gaze dropping to stare at my hands as they shake.
It’s only midday on a Tuesday, so I’m unsure where Julian intends to take me, but I don’t deny him as I stand, following the two of them to my BMW.
Julian takes the keys from my trembling hands, and I get into the backseat of my car for the very first time.
Trees pass, and storm clouds gather overhead, but luckily, in the springtime, there is no fog at midday.
The closer we get, as we enter town, my heart thunders wildly. I’m not used to asking for help; I’m not used to being dependent on others.
I am the one who fixes things. I make the decisions, guide the lot, dictate each and every moment that I’m a part of. The discomfort of this situation is strangling me.
I’m in control. Deciding to go is my taking charge; asking for help is my decision, I repeat in my mind like a mantra. It does not make me feel better.
Because the truth is, I’m not.
I didn’t want to touch that book; it was a desperate move forced upon me by concern and fear.
I don’t want Cameron to move on, to leave; I had no choice but to send him away.
I’m no longer in control. I haven’t been for a long, long time.
If I look in the mirror, will I recognize who stares back at me? If I shed this mortal skin and study the bones that keep me solid and the blood that fills my veins, will it truly be mine?