Just what is this? If it isn’t a punishment sent directly from God to me, if it’s something capable of affecting anyone, then what could she possibly be?
Then again, the Devil can attack multiple places at once.
Maybe in some sick, twisted way we all have it coming.
Athaliah gets to the steps leading to her front door.
My relief at seeing no one waiting for her is too profound. Almost enough to make me forget about all my physical ailments and the dark path my life is on.
She takes the steps in those sinful, beige heels, hips swaying in that matching coat. Her keys jingle as she brings them out of her purse. Sliding the key into the lock, she turns it, unlocking the door, but pauses without going inside.
I’m across the street, hands in the pockets of my hoodie, hunched over from the strain of controlling my shaking.
And that’s how she finds me when she spins around.
The lack of shock on her face is a blatant sign of recognition. My heart jackhammers in my chest. I’m like a criminal caught red-handed and sweat trickles down the side of my face from the fear.
Not just that—I’m fucking hungry. Lightheaded. Hard enough to come at the sight of those pretty eyes on me.
It’s not normal. It’s not normal. It’s not . . .
Athaliah walks backward into the darkness of her home. It’s a path she’s walked many times and she’s able to clear the last step inside without looking back. Every one of her movements is taunting, meant to lure me into following her.
And I almost do. God help me, but I take that first step toward her.
Until I see her eyes flash that unholy light hazel shade, like the night she first entered my church.
And the night in the confessional.
Both instances were quick, too fast for me to believe it had been real.
Not now. Her home is dark as night. I don’t see her, I don’t see her face, but I see those glowing eyes.
I start shaking for an entire different reason.
“Come.”
Her voice is a reverberation around me, as if she’s somehow projecting it across the street.
Inside my pockets, my fists tighten, nails digging into my skin. “N-no.”
“Then why are you here?”
I’m quaking, an earthquake erupting in my abdomen and spreading to my limbs. “You—you did something to me.” Even to my own ears, I sound just like the first John I saw her with. The sick guy.
Her eyes glow brighter in the shadows. “You’ve done something to me, too.”
But how? I didn’t do anything. I was immersed in my life of prayer and purpose. My holy relationship with the Lord and all the duties that came with them.
She came into my church and ruined my life. “Make it stop. Please.” I’m speaking at a regular level, as if she’s standing next to me and not across the street.
And she can hear me clear as day.
Just like I can hear her.
“I can’t. It’s beyond my control. But I can ease it for a while. Please . . . just give in.”
Fury chokes me in a ravenous grip. “You’ve ruined my life!”
Those nearly-yellow eyes flash. “Fine. Have it your way. You’ve ruined mine, too.” She slams the door shut, taking away my choice.
Leaving me out here, slowly dying in the dark.
Chapter Six
I’m in the confessional tonight.
Another week’s passed. Father Raul, Father George, and the nuns have all realized that I’m very, very ill.
Yet I’ve managed to get the blood sweat under control without anyone realizing. After days of fervent prayer, it finally stopped, and I gained enough strength to leave my room.
I’m pale to the point of resembling a severe anemic.
The bags under my eyes are near purple.
The shivers hit me out of nowhere, multiple times a day, and they’re almost impossible to hide.
It’s a losing battle with this disease. Or whatever the hell it is. I’m beginning to run a fever, too, and it’s already inside my mind.
Making me delirious again.
The Christ on the cross in front of the stained glass window was crying tears of blood when I walked past.
So was the statue of Saint Mary by the candle rack to the right of the nave.
These manifestations of my delirium are too common, too much like the movies for me to take seriously. It’s clear that my mind is coming up with whatever bullshit it wants as it falls apart against my will.
And there I go, fucking cursing inside the church once more.
Just did it again.
It’s scary how easily my brain realigns itself with the thought patterns of the past. Not just the cursing.
The twisted sexual fantasies.
Like the one where I have Athaliah face down in front of the altar and I fuck her ass hard.
Oh God. Please forgive me. I can’t stop thinking like that inside the church.
And my dick is beyond swollen. How I’ve managed to withhold an orgasm all this time is beyond me.
I’m lying about that.
Another sin.
I’ve awoken every morning this week with my covers soaked from another wild dream featuring that woman.
I’m coming in my dreams thanks to her.
I shift on the seat of the confessional, sweating, and hoping feverishly that there isn’t blood mixed with it. My heart hammers in my chest. My vision blurs.
The black walls of the confessional seem to close in.
Just a stroke. That’s all it’d take. A single stroke, with her image in my mind, and I can finally have a moment of relief.
My hands slam into the walls on either side of me. “No!” I shout to myself, forgetting that the confessional isn’t soundproof and there’s probably people outside—
The curtain on the penitent’s side of the confessional is pushed aside. Someone rushes in and the shock of golden blonde hair I see out of the corner of my eye makes me want to give up on everything.
This miserable test.
My life.
The conviction that’s ruled me since my brother’s death.
“Logan,” Athaliah murmurs, her face near the grate. “This cannot continue.”
Tell me about it.
I shouldn’t look, Lord knows I
