Chapter 12
Conin
Cars line the curb of the street as far as the eye can see.
I promptly forget where I’ve parked mine, which jolts me into a panic.
High school students dot Emery’s yard and send amused looks our way for our sudden outburst. I twist my head back and forth excessively, but I can’t seem to recall where I’ve parked, nor do I see the Chrysler in the endless lineup.
“Conin, over here!” Ezra says.
Tommy takes his wrist and pulls him forward.
He gesticulates his hand in rapid movements to follow.
Neither Thax nor the stranger he arrived with have come to pursue us.
I’m going to hope they’re trapped in the unceasing pool of partygoers.
If I hadn’t pushed everyone aside, we might have been goners.
Who knows what the hell that recidivist was capable of?
Granted, I watched Tommy bend water to his will and drown that man in an airborne sphere. Which means Tommy is also a recidivist.
Do Ezra and Thax possess special abilities, too? Is that what Thax was on about?
I fumble for my keys and unlock the car through the driver’s door.
The other two pile in—Ezra in the passenger seat and Tommy centered in the back row.
He leans forward and curves his fingers over the backrest as the vehicle roars to life.
I swerve the car out and press on the accelerator.
Minutes later, we’re cruising out of Emery’s neighborhood.
Streetlights swim past us the longer I drive aimlessly ahead. Everyone’s quiet, but I can’t take it anymore.
“Tell me what’s going on,” I say with fake composure.
Tommy shoots Ezra an incredulous glance.
“Does he not know?” Tommy asks.
“No,” says Ezra.
He’s paper-white—jaw locked, fingers clenched tightly. He just continuously shakes his head like he can’t believe his answer, either. Ezra’s ruminating, lost somewhere deep in his mind.
“Good god,” Tommy sighs. He sits back and raises shuddering hands to the nape of his neck. “Ezra, tell him. He needs to know.”
Ezra huffs, consuming air through the thin gap in his mouth.
He’s transfixed on the road ahead. Shadows watch connivingly from the sidelines.
I half expect Thax and the stranger to manifest from one of the pitch-black pools.
The steering wheel slickens under my touch.
Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails.
“I’m a recidivist,” Ezra mumbles. It’s faint, barely audible over the roar of rolling tires.
I heard what he said, but I’m having a difficult time processing this world-shattering confession.
A part of Ezra I never knew—a secret he kept from me our entire lives.
And I know I shouldn’t, I know it’s not my right, but I feel incredibly betrayed.
How could I not see through his deception?
How was he able to hide his powers all these years?
No. This isn’t about me. Ezra’s life is in potential danger and I’m being selfish. If he didn’t say anything, there must be a reason.
“Okay.”
Ezra’s dubious expression swivels to me. He’s right in believing it wasn’t that easy. I need to know more.
“So,” I say, “you have powers?”
He nods. Although I’m driving, he’s aware my attention is focused on him. His adam’s apple bobs. In a hoarse voice, I hear my best friend of fourteen years admit what he is.
“I’m a faux . . . which means I can shapeshift and take on the form of anyone.”
“Right.”
Ezra’s crestfallen. What the hell do I say?
I refuse to believe Ezra embodies what recidivism means. Our government has fed us lies so we can turn on our most loved ones, to snuff out the people they’re so afraid of. It infuriates me.
“I don’t know who the man was that came to the party with Thax.
But he . . . I found him in the mirror. No one was in the bathroom when I walked in.
I turned around and he was gone. When I looked back, he was still standing in the mirror,” he says.
“He said Thax turned me in. I don’t know to whom, but whoever it is is willing to pay a large amount for my powers. I’m not sure who he means. Or why.”
“The man at Emery’s is Callum Finch. It was quick, but I knew by the scar on his cheek. If you said he can transport through mirrors, it can only be him,” says Tommy. I honest-to-god forgot he was in the car with us.
Putting a name to the perpetrator unsettles me further, somehow solidifying our predicament into something more real. I shiver in the cold of the air conditioning.
“Callum belongs to the Barclay Network; they’re a trafficking network that discreetly hunts recidivists for deadbeat politicians and rich assholes who want the powers for themselves.
The death and capture rate are proportionally higher than that of any legal penalty or hate crime targeted at a recidivist.”
We learned about this in school. Recidivists slated for prison often face a cruel, brutal death at the hands of other prison mates—even that of other recidivists.
A plethora of hate crimes broke out—so much so that most aren’t even worth any news station’s consideration anymore.
I flick Ezra a look, feeling guilty for using the term even if it was only in my head.
That’s not what Ezra is. A criminal isn’t what most super-powered individuals are.
But if our world profits from recidivist labor or widespread fear, then it doesn’t matter what becomes of the innocent. I feel like I’m going to be sick.
“Callum’s a mercenary for the network. How he knows your brother is a mystery to me.
But if he’s after Ezra . . . let’s just say Ezra’s in big fucking danger.
I will need to get in contact with the Angelics—tell Atlas to arrange a meeting with them,” Tommy says.
He has a flip phone in hand. I hear the clacks of his typing.
And I have so many questions.
First things first.
“Why would a trafficking network hire individuals with powers? And why the hell would one work for them?” I ask. I’m not sure where in town we are now. I’ve wandered so far, but I don’t stop driving. I cast the occasional peek through the rearview mirror.
Tommy looks up from the phone.
“The Angelics call them jingoists. Essentially, our own people turned against us. I can’t testify for other trafficking networks, but the Barclays hire jingoists for more high-profile cases.
It makes them more imposing. And the powered individual will work for the Barclays because it grants immunity.
Protection. They pay handsomely, too . . . or so I heard.”
Ezra’s a high-profile case? He says nothing, nor does he question Tommy’s words. Ezra is a blank slate, stone-faced and dead to the world.
“Who are the Angelics?”
“Shit. Hold on, Conin. Sorry. I got a reply,” Tommy says, and the vehicle falls silent.
I have no idea what to do. I don’t have the slightest clue what position this puts me in.
Ezra is in danger. He can’t return home; Thax also lives with the Grays, and this Barclay Network will know where to find Ezra if he returns.
The only viable option I can come up with is to get Ezra far, far away from here.
Somewhere out of the state, potentially even out of the country, though I’m not positive how doable that will be without illegally crossing the border.
He can’t leave by himself. Who will take care of him?
I don’t know Tommy well enough to trust Ezra with him—I’m not aware of their history or how far back it dates.
What I do know is that I can’t abandon Ezra.
I don’t want to abandon him. When I thought about my life and future, Ezra was always a key factor in it.
He was always a part of it, no matter where I was or what I was doing.
He’s a staple—an irrevocable, static part of every imagined scenario.
I can’t live my life without him in it. Not to be dramatic, but I’d rather fucking die.
My future flashes before my eyes. Every created scenario.
Every goal I made for myself. I will be tearing down what I worked hard to accomplish.
All those hours clocked for coursework, the constant state of studying.
Leaving football, a scholarship, to work tirelessly to create a new life from the ground up.
All of it will be gone if I decide to stick with Ezra.
I was working to become a writer for my sake, but it was he who stayed in the forefront of my mind. Could I really go on without him? Could I live with myself if I stayed behind?
The truth of the matter simply boils down to this: Ezra can’t stay.
He’s dead otherwise. I’m not foolish enough to trick myself into believing they’ll let him live after he’s been siphoned of his abilities.
Besides, the process might just kill him.
If I leave the world I knew behind, I can take on a new one with the boy I love.
If I stay, any shot at normalcy is tainted by the image of Ezra dead and forgotten. I won’t let that happen.
Oh my god. Mom.
Leaving her will tear me to shreds.
Leaving will kill her.
But I don’t see any other option. And Mom can’t join us for whatever perilous obstacles stand in our way.
The existential guilt holds me at gunpoint.
Fear says hello and tells me it’s going to stay for a little while.
It’s choosing family over a boy, but Ezra is family.
He needs my help. I can’t in good conscience let him go.
“No, Conin. You won’t,” says Ezra.
He took my silence and determined it for what it was. My decision.
“It’s my choice, Ezra,” I whisper.
I feel utterly defeated.
“Find a motel at a good distance from here. We’ll ditch the car a couple blocks away,” Tommy says.
“Isn’t that dangerous?” I question.
“We don’t have much of a choice. I’m going to need to make a call and solidify our plan.”
I don’t like this.
Tommy pockets the burner. For now.