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, hisrealvoice, 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 thisthing, 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 Juliancanask him; he’s still unconscious.
