Atticus looks away, over my shoulder, and his brow furrows. “What the hell?” he mutters.
I follow his line of sight, spotting a figure on the small, rundown beach a couple of yards away and to the right of the cliffside.
The figure approaches the water and dives in, swimming against the current, right to where Julian had jumped.
“W-who is that?” I ask, frantic.
“I don’t know,” Atticus responds. He begins draping his coat over my arms, but I’m already standing.
“Take me to that beach,” I demand.
“Atlas—”
“Now! Take me to that beach right now!”
Atticus startles at my outburst, but nods slowly, taking my hand in his as he guides me back the way I came.
As we reach the tree line, he takes a left, and I spot a small, barely visible path that leads down a steep hillside.
“That person is probably…” Atticus takes a deep breath. “Those waves are incredibly strong, Atlas. That other person probably died, too.”
“Alright,” is all I say.
“I don’t want you to get your hopes up. The probability of Julian being saved is not high, and dragging a grown man from those waters is nearly impossible. Are you understanding?”
“Jesus! I hear you!” I shout.
Again, Atticus says nothing about my outburst. I think he feels guilty for locking me up, and now for my witnessing the death of the only man I ever loved.
I know I’m taking out my anxiety and fear on him, but I don’t know what else to do.
I felt it when the curse broke. Which means Julian had to have died. But… but miracles happen all the time, right?
“Promise you won’t go into the water,” Atticus says as we reach the bottom of the hill.
“Alright.” I’m definitely lying, but he doesn’t need to know that.
As we round the large bushes that are settled at the base of the path, it appears Atticus is fortunate today. On the beach are two figures.
I will not need to enter the water after all.
Letting go of Atticus, I sprint toward the figures.
“Atlas!” he shouts.
But I keep running. The closer I get, the better I can see, and as I come up on them, I recognize Barfred as he gives Julian’s unresponsive body CPR.
“Barfred?!” Atticus calls from where he’s hot on my heels.
Barfred does not respond. He’s alternating between mouth-to-mouth and chest compressions, his brows furrowed in concentration as he counts quietly to himself.
I fell to my knees on the other side of Julian.
He looks… well, he looks dead. Pale, unmoving, turning purple in certain places. It appears he doesn’t have any obvious, serious injuries, which is shocking—but that doesn’t mean he’s unharmed. Or that he’ll survive.
“Is there a pulse?” Atticus asks.
I take Julian’s wrist and close my eyes, zeroing in on the feel of his cold skin. It’s like ice, and for a long moment, I feel nothing. A broken sob makes its way free, and I squeeze tighter.
