Then, he looks around quickly, takes a step closer, and questions quietly, “Have you talked with Cassie or Cameron lately?”
My knee-jerk reaction is to say yes, but briefly. Maybe mention my texting Cassie. When she was mentioned on Christmas, Atticus seemed to know her in some way, with the way his eyes shot to me. But before I can speak, another thought pops into my mind.
“You know Cameron?” I sound surprised, but I don’t feel the need to hide it.
When I mentioned working for the Chastains, no one let on to knowing them personally. And it has never occurred to me that Atticus might know not only Cassie, but Cameron, too.
Atticus stumbles. Actually, literallystumblesa step backward as his eyes widen.
“Uh, yes. I… I do. Not well, of course,” he rushes out. Then, he seems to get his bearings, and his back straightens once more, his glare deepening. “Answer the question.”
“Oh, sorry. Yes, I spoke to Cassie recently, but it’s been a while since I spoke to Cameron.” As the words leave me, Atticus nods once.
I can’t help but wonder how they all know each other. I know for a fact that the Chastain kids were all homeschooled, and they’ve barely left the house since Atlas was… diagnosed.
Maybe Atticus had friends before the incubus appeared. But why didn’t Cassie or Cameron, or any of the others, mention their friendship?
“Alright.” And with that, Atticus turns and enters Hall E1, disappearing from view.
“Asshole,” I mutter softly, returning to my own trek back to my bedroom.
Atticus is too much of a mystery to figure out, especially right now, when I’m already trying to sort through a prophecy to find this cure.
I’ll worry about his connection to the people in town another day.
The stack of ten or so books in front of me leaves smudges on my fingertips and makes my skin feel dry and cracked as I flip through their pages.
Atlas is standing at the podium again, flipping through his own stack of books as he hums quietly to himself. I want to say something, anything at all, that will lead to learning more about the man. Or maybe that will lead to his bedroom.
But we have a job to do, and Atlas looks a little flushed today. Whether that means he was visited last night or it’s been too long since hehasbeen visited, I’m unsure.
If he needs help, he’ll ask, is what I tell myself as I turn back to the book I grab next.
I’m so stuck on his big blue eyes and soft, sheer blouse that it takes about three passes over the title before I remember that I have totranslateit. I cannot read this language.
The title readsNigrum Librum,and as I type it into my Google Translate app, the hair on my arms stands on end.
The results stare back at me, ominous and concerning:Black Book. There is no author, no subtext on the cover. Just the wordsBlack Book.
I flip through the pages, finding a lot of text in this same language, Latin, as my phone says, and terrifying drawings. Drawings such as human body parts, creatureseatinghuman body parts, and various plants and animals.
Each page is different in what it represents, but I get the same feeling from it all the same—this book is not some kind of holy text. It feels like the exact opposite.
“Hey, Atlas. Take a look at this.” I stand, walking to where he’s still perched at the podium as I set the book in front of him. “It’s called theBlack Book.”
Atlas freezes, his fingers half outstretched, before he draws them back to his side.
“W-what’s in it?” he asks.
“I’m not sure,” I tell him honestly. “It looks like a bunch of spells, maybe? Or prayers? But it has a bunch of dark pictures.”
I flip through the pages, showing him different ones. Atlas makes a small, startled noise in the back of his throat.
“Julian, that looks evil. That looks like a satanic book. We should probably put that one up.” He sounds genuinely scared; he won’t even touch it.
“But if itissatanic, don’t you think it’d have information on the incubus?” I press, tilting my head to look down at him.
His wide eyes are still fixed on theBlack Book, his hands shaking. “No, it’s not worth it. Really. Nothing good can come from messing with this.”
