Chapter 24
Ezra
Atlas is haloed in the overhead light. The way his eyes flick away from me makes me wonder if he feels this tether, too.
The closer he is, the more I pay attention to it, the more it pulses.
My breath hitches and I’m suddenly hyperaware of Conin.
He tries not to act it, but he’s been closed off since I mentioned the sensation earlier.
Now, it’s as if I’m dancing over pins and needles, carefully skirting around the issue.
Knowing Conin, he’ll suppress it. And knowing me, I’ll continue to believe it’s my fault.
“Did Tommy send you?” Atlas whispers. Conin peers back at me.
Visible relief floods his face. We’ve been stewing over it the entire day, waiting and wondering if we should be the ones to initiate the conversation—if this boy in front of us is the true Atlas.
I mean, how many “Atlases” could there be in such a small, remote town?
“You’re Ezra and . . . Conin, right?”
“That’s right,” Conin says reluctantly.
Atlas hesitates a moment and lets himself in when Conin shifts to make space. A blanket of tension weighs heavy on my shoulders.
“I’m Atlas MacPherson, an Angelic stationed here in Eureka,” he says. “What happened to Tommy?” Straight to the point.
“We don’t know. We were hoping to meet him here but were delayed in our arrival after an excursion on the highway,” Conin answers. He shifts on his feet, leaning away from his injured ankle.
“Is he not here?” I interrupt.
Atlas trains that distinct, calculating stare on me, almost as if he’s sizing me up. An itch crawls over my cheeks, searing my forehead. I’m not sure if I like it.
“No.”
“He lost then . . . in that fight against the mercenary,” Conin murmurs.
“What are you talking about?” Atlas questions.
“There was another mercenary,” I say. “They beat Callum to us on our way to Wendover. Whoever it was possessed lightning abilities and wore a skull mask.”
“You’re kidding me,” Atlas whispers.
“Who is it?” says Conin.
“Mara Barclay. Angela’s adopted daughter, the leader of the Barclay Network.” I could feel the power those names carried—their insidious weight.
“And Callum. I recognize that name. What did they look like?”
“He had a prominent scar across his cheek, green eyes, ashy hair,” I say. The image of the man in the mirror is ingrained in my mind. It haunts me. He haunts me because my old life ended the moment he came into it.
Just how I know Conin is haunted by Mara’s fall—whether or not they’re dead, it must be a frightening thought.
“Jingoist scum,” Atlas says. “I’ve only heard of him. He’s infamous in our world. When Tommy mentioned the Barclay Network, I hoped it wouldn’t be him. Or Mara, for that matter.”
“That klutz?” Conin guffaws. “He could hardly stand upright on his own two feet.”
“Don’t underestimate him. The stories I’ve heard . . . Callum’s done some pretty fucked-up shit. And Mara’s worse.”
I don’t know if the mercenaries had just been having a bad night or if we’d bested them with sheer dumb luck, but we’re both thinking it. We must be. There’s absolutely no reason we should be alive.
“Anyways,” Atlas says and directs his attention to me, “what can you do?”
“What?” The subject change leaves me with whiplash.
“Your abilities.”
The clothes are still tight over my frame and my hair isn’t veiling my face. Nothing prominent or distinguishing about me is up for display and it’s been hours since we left the check-in office. This disguise was Atlas’s first impression of me. Great.
It’s easier to shapeshift into someone after I’ve done it once or twice. I kill the disguise and transform back. Atlas’s eyes widen with excitement.
“You’re a faux! No wonder they’re hellbent on capturing you.”
Oh, that makes me feel better.
“Angela must be desperate for your power, Ezra. Faux are rare, very rare, and you’re one of the few who didn’t drop off the face of the earth. Her daughter isn’t expendable. If Angela sent Mara after you, we’re in trouble.”
This news makes me sick to my stomach.
“What do we do? Is Ezra safe here?” asks Conin.
Conin’s safety is just as important. If he held his life in higher regard than he did mine, then maybe he wouldn’t be here.
Words cannot even begin to express how happy I am that he is.
I wouldn’t have made it this far without him.
I’ll need to do everything in my power to ensure nothing happens to him.
“Tommy said you might have a lot of questions. And I can answer them, just not here. Ezra will be safe if I take you to the bunker. It’s a safe house here for passing recid—I mean, Angelics. I can explain everything there.”
I want to believe him, I really do, but that instinctive urge to close myself off settles in the cavity of my chest. Turning to Conin, I find he’s caged off and unreadable.
His smile is wry, perked at the edges, though it doesn’t reach his eyes.
Nothing displaying on his face is incriminating enough to distinguish how he feels about this.
Does he see my body shaking? Does he see how this feeling .
. . this tether that somehow binds my existence to Atlas is tearing me apart at the seams?
Is this what Tommy meant when he said he could feel the presence of other recidivists?
Is it always this overstimulating? Whatever it is, this isn’t normal.
I thought I was inept at sensing recidivists’ presence, but maybe I wasn’t.
Maybe Atlas is the exception. It’s the why that jostles me from the inside.
Conin reveals the Glock he stole from Callum. Atlas gapes at it—there’s a momentary flash of surprise in his eyes, but he tries to mask his shock with indifference.
“I want to trust you, Atlas,” he says, “but I need to be on the safe side here. In case . . . in case you’re lying about the bunker.” He’s determined, his face plastered with the same expression he’s worn in football games. I remember it well—have it ingrained in my memory.
“I understand,” mutters Atlas. “I’ll let you two get situated and then we can go.”
Conin nods and moves to collect what we’ve brought.
Minutes later, we’re stashing what we can in the mercenary’s vehicle.
Atlas hops in the back to give us directions.
The night is upon us and there’s very limited lighting throughout the town.
It’s quiet and eerie. The solace the dark would often bring me is enshrouded by preying eyes watching our every movement, the ghosts of mercenaries haunting our hope for safety.
I ignite the car’s engine, let it roar, and Atlas tells me where to go.