Chapter 41
Ezra
Ireel from that kiss and the promise of more.
I’m on cloud nine, despite the situation we find ourselves in.
It’s also pain, but a comfortable pain—tolerable and wanted.
I invite it in. Because I never thought this would happen.
I’ve dreamed of it, conjured up scenarios where Conin and I would be together, living our best lives.
Deep down, there was always that unequivocal denial.
And to let it happen today of all days. What is this life? Certainly, it’s not mine. It’s something good to quell the bad that exists. I just hadn’t realized it was always there. Always Conin.
My dreams aren’t dreams anymore. For the first time in a long time, living doesn’t sound as painful. Living doesn’t sound quite that bad.
In some morbid way, I’m grateful for this.
Maybe I’m selfish for thinking so, but right here, right now I don’t fucking care that our lives aren’t the same, that we had to leave what we knew behind.
Maybe I was meant to be found by the Barclay Network.
Perhaps it was the driving force redirecting me to happiness. Or maybe I’m just fucking delirious.
Am I not allowed mercy?
I’m cooped up in the back with Conin’s attentive arm slung over my shoulders while Atlas stares down Levi as if he’ll wake at any moment. I saw how hard Conin hit him. It shouldn’t be any time soon.
While the Angelics handle the fallen mercenary, Ambrosia pulls Atlas aside, whispering silently to him.
Tears brim his brown eyes, obscured by his glasses.
His forehead creases in three horizontal lines, something resembling dread.
His mouth dips down, parted slightly at the lips.
Atlas looks trapped in time. If I look away, I’m afraid he’ll crumble or never move again.
He’s alive and it’s only by the slight twitch of his fingers that I can tell.
Fingernails rake up his palm and clench at his sides.
That’s when I realize I’ve been ignoring Matt. Conin nudges me, helping me stand.
“May I?” Matt inquires. I nod, then he observes the burn.
He beckons an Angelic over who also asks for consent—I’m not used to it—not by strangers or people who pretend to be family.
Conin was always the exception.
“It’s a nasty burn,” the Angelic says, matter-of-fact. She observes it a while longer before ungloving her hand. “I’m a healer. It will take some work and won’t immediately go away, but I can subdue the pain and lessen some of the scarring.”
Right. The scar. My exposed arms reveal the aftermath of Thax’s brutal tirades with the burn as a nice touch.
“Sure,” I say.
Conin tenses beside me, observing the ethereal glow emitting from the healer’s hand.
She runs it along the length of my forearm, deliberately.
Slowly. It isn’t painful, but it’s not comfortable, either.
It’s air on an exposed wound, a soothing wind.
Trickling water on parched, dirtied skin.
I sigh a breath of relief when she finishes.
The scar is still there, evident by the burn’s streak, but it’s duller now.
The pain’s gone. I smile weakly and mutter a “thank you.” She grins, asking Conin if he has any injuries. They discuss his ankle, finally.
Atlas catches my attention. An onslaught of tears streaks his face. He says something, Ambrosia nods, and then Atlas is escorted out with an Angelic in tow. My heart pangs for him—I feel a sudden jolt in my mood: grief, loss, and fear, though I’ve lost no one.
Our tether ebbs and flows, coalesces and disperses, but lingers stronger than before. I wonder why he’s upset and what the Barclay Network coming here will mean for him and continuing his grandfather’s work. Is that even a possibility now?
“Alright, let’s get moving. Angela must be sending in reinforcements as we speak. It won’t be long before law enforcement gets involved, if they aren’t on their way here already,” says Ambrosia.
Some Angelics load Levi Finch onto a stretcher and follow Ambrosia out.
Matt leads Conin and me to the white vans aligned on the main street.
An Angelic converses with an official-looking woman near Eureka’s tiny town hall.
She nods, unperturbed that recidivists have overtaken her city.
I know not everyone’s prejudiced. Maybe she’s one of the good guys.
She could be grateful we apprehended the mercenaries.
Or, perhaps, she’s humoring us until law enforcement arrives to whisk the responsibility of the predicament away from her.
Either way, it’s not my problem. Not anymore.
There weren’t any casualties. That comes as a relief. Some injuries, sure, but no lives were lost. In my periphery, Mara is loaded into the same van the Angelics took Levi’s stretcher in, her wrists inside power-suppressing handcuffs.
Apprehension hits me full-force. Where the fuck is Callum?
“Conin!” His name comes out as a hiss.
“Yes?” he asks. He seems confused by the tone of my voice.
“You didn’t see Callum anywhere, did you?”
Conin looks around as if Callum will take shape from out of nowhere. I suppose he could, having the ability to navigate through mirrors.
“I don’t remember seeing him at all. Should we ask?”
I’m about to object because I detest confrontations, but—
“Excuse me. The man on the stretcher? His brother is—” Conin says before he’s interrupted.
“Callum Finch. What about him?”
“Is he here? Did you capture him?”
The Angelic straightens. He detracts his mask with a simple press of a button, then peers around. Mara laughs. It’s sinister and discomforting.
“That pathetic, incompetent loser will be out of commission for a while,” she snarls before the doors of the van are shut, cutting off her voice.
The motel we fled to with Tommy was the last time we saw Callum.
Callum had been rendered unconscious by Conin’s brute force, but something must’ve gone down in the aftermath.
Mara would have stumbled upon a comatose Callum Finch, vulnerably frail.
Realistically, his injuries should’ve prevented him from pursuing us any further.
It makes the most viable sense. But that fear, strong and curdling in my chest, hollows itself deep inside, rests against my bones until they ache.
I’m nudged on the arm. We’re in a van, the Angelic we’d been speaking with only moments ago is gone, and we’re idling alongside the curb.
“Are you okay?” asks Conin. His expression is neutral, but I catch him making indirect glances as if the police or more of Barclay’s men will spill out and attack us at any given moment. The longer we wait here, the more we’re put at risk. Why haven’t we left yet?
“I zoned out there. Sorry,” I say.
“We were told they’d investigate it, but I have a feeling nothing will come from it. They’re clueing in to what Mara said, and given everything, I think it’s the least of their priorities.”
“Do you believe that?”
“I’m not sure,” he says, thoughtful. “But I trust that we’re safe now. The Angelics will protect us from here on out.”
That’s not how he felt before. His opinions were in flux. Seeing the Angelics in action probably changed his mind.
Safety was our end goal. Putting our trust in these people feels too far a stretch now that it’s happening, contradictory to my earlier beliefs.
I have to remind myself the Angelics are like me.
They’ve undergone similar situations, some much worse than my own.
This is only paranoia—the Angelics aren’t against me and they sure as hell aren’t the family I left behind.
I trusted Atlas quickly. And maybe it is the strange, innominate binds that tie us, but if Atlas trusts the Angelics, I should, too.
Guilt, sharp and quick, sinks its teeth in. Leaving without Tommy feels wrong. There is nothing we can do, but that doesn’t relieve the guilt’s piercing hold. For a second I forget to breathe. It might be better if I forgot about him.
What’s wrong with me?
The set of twin doors at the back of the van abruptly open.
Atlas: golden-skinned, disheveled hair, and tired, wild brown eyes fill my tunnel vision.
His cheeks are puffy from tears and a dark shade of maroon sets in.
He bends at the hip, sidling by so he can sit on a seat opposite us.
Staring at him, heart aflame with self-inflicted culpability, all I can feel is relief. It washes over and masks the guilt.
The tether pulses.
“You’re coming?” Conin asks. I sense relief in his voice.
“It’s not safe for me anymore,” Atlas says brusquely.
An unspoken question blankets the air. What will become of his parents? Why won’t they flee with us if their lives are potentially in danger, too?
It will remain unanswered, unmoored for now.
In a procession, the Angelics’ vans file out of Eureka, then disperse at a crossroads. Sirens wail from a distance.