Dear Lord, please forgive me for my weak disposition. Grant me mercy in the face of my misfortune and allow me to repent for my own sick desires. I’m sorry, amen.
After the prayers have been said a few times over, I do the only other thing I know how to do—I slip on my coat and walk to the cliff’s edge, watching the waves crashing below.
The wind is chilly, yet not as cold as they were last December. Not that I’d be able to feel the full effects of the low temperature; with the heat constantly simmering beneath my skin, I can’t remember the last time I was genuinely freezing.
But it’s nice in this moment, the feeling of cooling down, even if it’s temporary.
As the wind ruffles my hair and my eyes water from the salty air, my mind returns to the altar room.
Almost every book on those shelves was written in another language. It appears to be mostly Latin, and I’m starting to wonder if there is any point in picking through each one.
But we don’t have any other leads—I only thought of that room specifically the other night, when I remembered my father disappearing down there with the priest and the psychic.
The answer to what the cure will be, and when it will arrive, will surely be in one, right? If they found the prophecy in there, and I have a feeling they did, then ithasto have other clues.
What I’ve been doing hasn’t been enough. Being good, praying, and waiting diligently doesn’t seem to be the only answer. There must be a missing piece that they overlooked. And that missing piece must lead me to receiving the cure.
It has to.
I’m so lost in thought that I don’t register the approaching footsteps, not until a warm hand is grazing mine.
It’s a fleeting touch, as if sharing a secret between the two of us.
Looking to the side, I find Julian standing next to me, staring out at the Pacific. His dark hair is wind-blown and beautifully messy, his large frame swallowed by a dark hoodie. His lips look slightly chapped, and his brown eyes are wide and thoughtful as he sighs gently.
“Hi,” I greet, still feeling the tingling of warmth on the back of my hand, the one he shared with me moments ago.
“Hey,” he responds, his gaze sliding to meet mine; it feels as if he can seeallof me, as if he can read every little thought that passes through my mind.
“W-what are you doing?”
“Just enjoying the view,” he says casually, and my face flushes for the millionth time today.
I suppose if it’s not the memory of his body pressed to mine, it’s his filthy mouth that will make me feel all hot and bothered.
What a monster.
“Oh,” I breathe, turning my attention back to the water.
“You waiting again? For the cure?”
“Mhm.”
A tense silence falls over us. Neither of us moves a muscle as we watch the water crest and fall over and over again. I’m not sure what to say—how to carry on a conversation with him after telling him he was my first kiss and seeing how he immediately pulled away.
As if it upset him. As if he were turned off.
Our interactions these past few days have been very awkward.
“It hasn’t come to my room again,” Julian suddenly adds, his voice steady and low in the rushing wind.
“The incubus?” I turn my gaze back to him, watching his profile as he nods once.
“Yeah. Not since that night it warned me. I wonder if it can only see what is happening in the castle while you’re asleep—if it has no idea I’m helping you.”
“Maybe,” I agree. “I’m happy you haven’t had to deal with it again.”
“How areyoufeeling? You look a little pink.” Our eyes meet as he says it, as if he wants me to know that he notices every little minuscule change in my appearance, in my attitude.
