Cameron
ATTICUS’S EYES ROLL BACK, quickly covered by his eyelids as they slide closed. For a brief second, he’s completely still.
“It has taken control,” the priest says lowly, reaching into his case to pull out a vial of clear liquid.
And as Atticus opens his eyes again, they’re black. The thing that has frequented my bedroom for weeks is now lying on Atticus’s bed, its eyes narrowing on the priest.
“Ego te interficiam,” it says, distorted and deep. A threat, I’m sure of it.
“Nothing can harm me in the presence of the Lord,” Reverend Clark replies. And then he unscrews the vial.
Atticus’s body jerks on the bed, thrashing wildly as the chains jingle around him.
“I exorcise you, demon of hell,” the priest yells, yanking his hand down to throw a thin line of the clear liquid over Atticus’s body.
It wails, a devastating and terrifying sound, as the exposed skin that was touched by the liquid bubbles and burns.
“Abraham!” Mrs. Chastain shouts, and her husband covers her ears, watching the scene before him with saddened, panicked eyes.
“I will tear flesh and drink blood!” the demon howls, tearing the blankets under his hands to shreds.
“Our Father in heaven,” the priest continues. “I call to you to save this boy and banish this vile thing to the depths of hell!”
Atticus’s skin has grown red, his sharp teeth bared, and his black eyes angry and vicious. He contorts, ripping a hand from one of the handcuffs. The metal gives way, slicing his wrist open in the process.
“Oh, god!” Atlas cries, pressing himself to Julian, and by proximity, me as well.
The Chastian Castle cook who came into that room under the chapel earlier, and another man I vaguely recognize, stand next to Julian’s father, frowning.
“You!” that distorted voice shrieks, pointing a bloodied finger toward the priest. “I will destroy you!”
Reverend Clark throws more of what I’m assuming is holy water at Atticus’s body, the smell of singed skin filling the air. He grabs his Bible, reciting verses as he coats the demon with more holy water.
It seethes, attempting to claw at the chains holding his waist.
“Is it working? “Atticus’s mom asks, her face still buried in her husband’s shoulder.
No one responds to her because no one knows. All I can see is the man I love, writhing in pain and angrier than I’ve ever seen.
And then, a thin trail of blood begins to leave his mouth, his body seizing.
“Reverend?” the man I vaguely recognize questions, his eyes growing wide.
“You who perverts the will of God, who uses the nature of sin to trap and to harm, I revoke your power! No more shall you use desire and manipulation to control the body you possess! In the name of the Son, the Father, and the Holy Spirit, I banish thee!”
Atticus’s eyes roll back, his spine arching from the bed as he sputters blood. The wooden cross on the edge of the bed ignites, a violent roaring blaze that causes Atlas to scream.
The priest knocks it to the floor, and almost immediately, the carpet is set ablaze as well. It spreads, causing us to scramble out of the way.
“Reverend!” Mr. Chastain shouts, shoving his wife toward the door.
“We cannot stop!” the priest insists. “We must not be swayed; the Lord will protect us!”
But the fire has caught the curtains too, and as Julian drags Atlas toward the door, I rip from his grasp and fall to my knees next to the bed.
“Atticus,” I plead, my tears falling onto his arm and hopefully cooling his seared skin. “Fight this. I know you can do it; I know you can hear me. Fight it!”
Atticus’s body convulses harder, his frame vibrating with it as he makes a choked, gargled sound.
Black eyes lock onto mine, dazed and droopy.
“Help… me…” And it sounds so much like Atticus, his real voice, that I want to throw up. I want to sob and scream and push the priest away.
But I know deception. I’ve faced it my entire life: from my mother, who claims her abuse is love. From myself, as I’ve hidden who I am under the guise that I would be less than if I just admitted it.
And from this thing, as it convinced me that being with it was better than being alone. It’s not—not if it costs Atticus his life, his health.
“Push through,” I whisper, daring to brush my lips over his heated cheek even as his sharp teeth are bared. “Survive this, and I will love you until the day I die. Come out of this alive, and I will give you all of me. Complete surrender.”
Atticus convulses once more, so hard that his right handcuff snaps, and then his body quiets. His eyes fall shut, his breathing evening out; all of the fight leaves him.
“Did it work?” I ask, looking up at the priest.
He’s smiling softly, watching the two of us. “Love can conquer anything.”
That’s all he says before the cook is shouting, “We have to go! If it’s over, we need to leave!”
I can hear sirens in the distance. I’m not sure how long they’ve been audible—I was very distracted—but it definitely sounds like a firetruck.
Behind me, the glass pane of the window shatters, and flames lick the ceiling.
Suddenly I’m being pushed away and toward the door as the cook and the man with him start unlocking and unwinding the chain around Atticus. The priest runs from the room, his case in hand, as he heads for the front door.
Mr. Chastain is still standing in the hallway, and as they unchain Atticus, he rushes forward and scoops up his son’s limp body, chasing after the priest.
As I turn to run, to follow suit, the bed is engulfed in flames.
The front door is already open as we descend the grand staircase, with two firefighters rushing inside with a long, thick hose.
Everything that follows happens in a blur: the firefighters put out the fire as a doctor appears, tending to Atticus’s various burns and cuts.
Atlas spends a lot of time fussing over his brother’s body, leaving no space for me to get close, but that’s fine. As soon as Reverend Clark mutters the words, “The demon is gone,” I don’t really care about proximity.
Atticus is safe.
The damage to his bedroom is pretty bad, so they’ll be moving him into the guest room until the renovations start and finish, and Barfred—the name of the cook here at Chastain, I’ve learned—brings us hot tea as we wait for the doctor to finish up.
“Thanks,” I mutter, taking the small China cup from the tray.
“How you feeling?” Julian asks, taking a cup for himself.
“Fine. Atticus is the one you should be asking.” It’s a joke, but also the truth.
Not that Julian can ask him; he’s still unconscious.
“I know this is all pretty weird for you. Last year, when we snuck in, it was because something similar was bothering Atlas,” he explains.
“What happened? You guys exorcised it?” I ask.
“No,” he chuckles. “It wasn’t possessing him the way this demon did with Atticus. It was… well, it was using him. Those things, they feed off of sex. It’s their life source.”
Oh. That’s why it was coming to my room, touching me as it did. I stare at the brown liquid before me, suddenly a bit sad. It was never me it wanted—it was my body.
“Hey, don’t feel bad,” Julian cuts in, bumping my shoulder with his. “You love him. You were willing to do anything to keep him. If I’m honest, if the same thing had happened to me and Atlas, I would have done it too.”
That… that is actually very comforting to hear. To know that I’m not the only one so blinded by love and desire that I was willing to keep a demon chained to me.
“Uh.” I clear my throat, wanting to stray from this sappy emotion. “How did you cure him then? Atlas, I mean.”
“Oh, I jumped from the cliff out back and killed myself.” He says it so simply, so casually as he stares at Atlas, who’s still across the yard, fussing over a sleeping Atticus.
“You what?” I gasp, and Julian just chuckles again.
“Don’t worry—clearly I came back to life. The moral here is that I understand you. I would do anything for him—even if anything meant death.”
“You really love him,” I say, and it’s not a question but more of an observation.
But Julian nods anyway, smiling softly. “Yeah. I do.” Then, with more humor as he turns back to me, “Something about these Chastain men, am I right?”
I stare back at him, taking in his bright eyes and wide smile. The scar marking him a savior—as I’m pretty sure the demon that messed with Atlas gave it to him if his reaction to this new demon is any indication—and his gentle nature.
Guilt comes crashing in again.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt out.
“Sorry? For what?”
“For using you. When we first met and you said you worked here, Cassie and I capitalized on that. We used your friendship to get inside, to see Atticus.” Confessing the truth feels simultaneously gratifying and terrifying.
Julian’s brow furrows, and for a moment he seems to debate it. Then, his bright smile returns, and he punches me in the arm. A little too hard.
“Oh! Now it all makes sense!” He laughs. “You assholes, I thought I messed up.”
“You never did anything wrong,” I mumble. “It was all our fault.”
Julian sighs, clasping my shoulder in his palm. “I’m not angry. Thanks for apologizing though, it means a lot.”
I never realized how touchy Julian is until now. He’s all friendly demeanor and relaxed smiles—until Atlas is put in danger, that is.
“Thank you. Really.” I give him my best smile in return.
“Julie! Come here, please!” Atlas yells from across the yard, waving him over.
“That’s my cue. Talk later?” And then Julian is rushing off, putting his teacup on the stone fountain on the way.
Chastain Castle seems to hold a lot of secrets. Like, what the fuck was an altar doing in their basement? And multiple demon events? Sketchy.
But as I stare at Atticus from several feet away, watching his family surround him, I can’t help but feel a little envious. If my mom loved me as much as any of these people love Atticus, would I have been stronger in this situation? Would I be a better man?
If anyone loved me that way—
Atticus does. Atticus said he loves me. But he also said it on the verge of being possessed, as he tried to convince everyone around him to set him free. What if that is why he said it?
What if Atticus doesn’t really love me as deeply as I love him?
I watch his sleeping face as Atticus lies on the bed in the guestroom. His chest rises and falls, the hand that features a bandage wrapped wrist twitching every few minutes.
He doesn’t snore; he doesn’t move. Just… exists.
He has another bandage on his hip, where some of the holy water got him, as well as a matching twin on his right bicep. His clothes saved him from burning the rest, though his entire body is kind of red and irritated.
I’ve been sitting here for about an hour, waiting for him to wake up. The doctor said all of his vitals were good and that it’ll just take time. No one knows how much time.
But I would wait forever. I will sit on the edge of this bed until I grow old and gray if that’s what it takes.
Lightning flashes outside, lighting up the dark sky.
I haven’t slept in almost twenty-four hours.
Everyone else is in bed, tired and worn down from the day we’ve had, but I’m here—waiting.
I want to be here when he wakes. I need to ask him if he loves me.
I move until I’m lying at his side, staring at his profile greedily. If he really loved me, he wouldn’t have sent me away, right?
But… did he ever say he didn’t, or was it just that he shouldn’t?
With this thought in mind, as I debate the probability, I drift off to sleep.
And as I wake again some hours later, it’s to soft rubbing on my back. I’m warm, wrapped up, safe.
A gentle, pleasant hum leaves me.
Until I remember exactly what the fuck happened before I fell asleep, and I sit up quickly, only to be yanked back down.
“Whoa, there, sweetheart,” Atticus says, laughing. “Don’t move too much; I’m still a little sore.”
I wince, laying my head back on the pillow next to him. “Sorry.”
He shrugs. “No need.”
We stare at each other, and I relish the hazel of his eyes. The proof that he’s him again, and I’m the one who gets to lie with him. His full lips are a bit chapped, but I want to kiss them anyway. I want to collapse into him.
But instead of saying that, I ask, “How did you become possessed?”
Atticus sighs, his eyes slipping shut as he faces the ceiling again. “I was trying to save my brother. I made a deal that backfired on me.”
Nodding, I lift a hand to rub softly against his chest, where I know he has no wounds.
“I’m sorry you got caught up in it. The demon probably figured you were an easy mark because I… I…”
“You love me?” I ask, breathless. “Or was that the demon talking?”
Atticus opens his eyes, turning his head to face me once more.
“That was me,” he whispers. “That was all me.”
His gaze is so heavy, so intense that I shiver beneath it.
“Say it, then,” I command softly.
“I love you, Cameron,” he murmurs, eyes falling to stare at my lips. “A lot.”
Hot joy envelops my body, making me tingly and giddy with joy. He loves me! I can keep him!
But then the joy fades, and reality sets in.
“I’m sorry, too,” I whisper. “For almost doing it—giving your body to that thing.”
“Shh,” Atticus coos, pulling me tighter against him with a wince. “I don’t care to hear it. Do you still love me?”
“What? Yes. Of course, yes,” I rush out, my eyes blowing wide as I stare at him.
He grins. “Then okay. We’re all good. Promise.”
“Does this mean I get to keep you now? Actually?”
Atticus sits up with a grunt, pulling me to follow suit. As I try to insist he shouldn’t be doing this, he shushes me and holds out a pinky.
“Here. Link it with mine,” he instructs, so I do. I wrap my pinky around his. “I pinky promise, sweetheart, that I’m all yours now. Forever.”
Forever. You’d think the word would trigger me, but instead, as I stare into those beautiful hazel eyes, all I can think is a relieved finally.
So I kiss him. Gentle and sweet, because he is still injured, but there all the same.
Atticus sighs into my mouth, cupping my face with the hand not intertwined with mine.
“Missed this,” he murmurs. “Missed you so much. Never leave my side again.”
“I promise,” I tell him, tightening my pinky around his. “I swear it.”