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 hurtme.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 Ishouldbe 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 looksmoreconcerned 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:
