Chapter 11
Ezra
Silence.
I will myself not to speak. It’s easy. When Lukeman Gray verbally abused me in the past, I quickly learned to keep my mouth glued shut.
Maybe I should scream, but I can’t. This trait has coded itself into my very existence.
Even when Thax carved lines into my skin, I kept silent.
Now, I wish that I wouldn’t. I wish I could scream and scream and scream.
The defining scar across the man’s cheek haunts me.
I dare a glimpse over my shoulder and see that the stranger isn’t there.
I whip my gaze back to the mirror and notice that he remains within, still watching and carefully calculating.
He’s a recidivist. There’s no doubt. He laughs again, a mirthless, pathetic thing.
“Admittedly, we have our methods of snuffing out people like you, but your brother was very willing to offer you up,” the stranger says. “Don’t worry. Thax and I go way back. He’ll be safe with us. You, on the other hand . . . not so much. Though I’ll admit, he’s kind of a dick for turning you in.”
And with those words, my compassion for Thomas Gray diminishes. I take an involuntary step back. The stranger, wherever he is inside that mirror, looms closer.
“Someone’s willing to pay a pretty sum for your powers, Ezra Gray.” Then he pauses and the world stands still. “Faux.”
He knows what I am.
I shouldn’t be surprised. He and Thax are apparently well acquainted with each other.
It’s been so long since I’ve heard that term—the appellation given to those with shape-shifting abilities.
I can mold myself into anyone I want. Yesterday, when Lukeman destroyed my violin, I shifted into my mom.
Her body was unfamiliar, untouched. The sensation was new.
But I’d done it as if it had been the easiest thing in the world—instantaneous as the snap of my fingers.
Faux.
The coined name for those with shapeshifting powers.
Me. And this man, the man in the mirror, who speaks, but whose words don’t make sense, says that my abilities are desired by someone.
That they’re willing to do whatever it takes to have them.
It’s true, though, what they say. A faux’s ability is rare.
Faux possess the power to undergo separate aliases, which makes them a rarity for trafficking networks.
They could become anyone—leave the life they were born in for a new one.
But not me. I never had the guts to leave and start a new life.
There were always tethers reeling me back.
My love for orchestra, my unhealthy attachment to Mom, lack of funds .
. . Conin. I could never leave him. Even now, when it’s clear my life is in danger and staying will only guarantee my death or capture, Conin holds me back.
I can’t leave him. I won’t leave him. And then the cold, cruel image of his pale, lifeless body flashes in my eyes.
If I stay, I risk his life too. Because whatever this means . . . it’s not good. It won’t end well.
I edge toward the door. And to my horror, the stranger phases through the firm mirror—a solidified, corporeal body.
He lunges and pins me against the wall. I struggle against his considerable strength, waiting for the inevitable to happen.
But it doesn’t. Just when I am convinced I’ll die in this bathroom, Tommy Donahue barges in.
The handle splinters, the knob clattering to the tile.
Everything that transpires afterward is a blur.
A large amount of water splashes against the man’s head and bubbles around it, drowning him while the rest of his body remains untouched.
Tommy grabs hold of my hand. We dart out of the bathroom.
Conin pushes against my shoulder, teaming up with Tommy to usher me out of the house as he trails close behind. We burst out into the night.