Chapter 45
Ezra
Iawaken to unfamiliar settings swaddled in soft, white sheets, that permeate a pleasant scent.
Warm light drifts through the window wall, the lights of Las Vegas beaconing even when the afternoon sun is in full effect.
I blink away the grogginess in my eyes, pushing myself up.
The pillows propped against the headboard are heaven on the ache crawling up my spine.
I inhale, hold my breath, and exhale, reminding myself I’m alive.
The penthouse suite’s bedroom is large and spacious, with richly cream-colored walls and a window that spreads the length of the left-hand side.
Furniture is modest and features all the necessities: nightstands, a desk to my right, two upholstered lounge chairs with a spiraling white motif separated in the center by a coffee table.
The art on the wall is basic even as it attempts at modernity and pretentiousness.
It unsettles me. This whole room does, as the sun beats down and life ensues outside as if we weren’t nearly beaten to within an inch of our lives.
Shudders crawl through my skin. I rub my forearms, then pause to study the faded burn.
The scar blends in with the others—a perfect, tattered tapestry.
It’s difficult not to wince. My bare feet land on the dull, gray carpet with its rigidness and subtle abrasions, a total juxtaposition from the alluring cloud of the bed.
Before returning, I force my legs to carry me out of the bedroom.
This morning was a doleful blur—I hadn’t noticed much before passing out into a dreadful sleep.
The window wall spreads further, expanding the entire penthouse.
The parallel wall is closed off and safe, reassuring me we’re not entirely exposed.
There’s a bathroom leading to an elevated tub, a minibar stocked with liquor, the kitchen, a billiards table, and Conin spread out on the sofa bed, which can’t be comfortable.
He slumbers on the couch in the clothes he wore in Eureka.
His arm hangs off the ledge, fingers brushed against the floor.
He’s coated in dirt and the occasional streak of crusted blood smeared in mottled browns.
If we hadn’t been led to a private entrance, I can only imagine the stares we’d be getting.
Conin snores, cuing a smile. My cheeks relish in the pain over how ridiculously happy he makes me.
Then the guilt comes rushing back. Making him feel like he couldn’t sleep at my side was not my intention.
I should have expressed this before scouring for the bed.
It was hopelessly optimistic to believe he’d join me without prompt.
We parted with a sea of questions and answers between us.
Creeping over to join him, I gently rest his feet on my lap, turning on the television and lowering the volume.
Some sitcom plays. I don’t care about it, but it’s a distraction.
Time passes, and I’m both oblivious and very aware of its ebb and flow.
Somewhere, my thoughts take hold of me. And the pain, that culpability, grips again.
I wish I could have done more in Eureka, but I was useless.
Neither Atlas nor Conin were injured in our scrimmage with the Barclay Network, but it hurt knowing there wasn’t much I could do to protect them when it boiled down to it.
Even with an injured foot, Conin led me along as if he hadn’t been wincing with each stride.
He took me to safety and protected me despite his injuries.
I did nothing but fire the gun, missing when it counted most.
Levi Finch takes a threatening shape, transforming my feelings of inadequacy into a mold of fear.
He gauges my reaction after the flames had licked my arm, the malicious, hedonistic eyes of a killer.
Finding out he’s Callum’s brother weakens my resolve.
The connection was easy to make—their similar green eyes and dimpled chins, the shared last name.
The realization that not only one recidivist would turn on their kind, but two, is appalling.
What went so wrong in their lives that they felt the need to slave for a network hell-bent on killing people like them?
And Mara Barclay of all people . . . daughter of the network’s leader. It’s despicable.
The thought of anyone stooping so low as to become a jingoist makes me sick.
Then there’s a jarring knock on the suite’s door.
Conin, to my surprise, doesn’t wake. He stirs slightly as I wait to see if it will pass.
I feel an inkling of relief when I gently remove his feet off my lap and make way for the door.
I’m hesitant to approach, but grateful for the peephole and the familiar face beyond the threshold.
“I took a nap and I’m still not entirely sober, but damn does my fucking head hurt, and I need some food,” the boy says as he nurses his temples.
A small chuckle parts my lips. It’s surprising, almost, the emotions he evokes out of me.
I’ve opened myself to Atlas in ways I never thought possible.
Whether it was due to our strange tether or his charismatic personality, my pragmatism is kaput.
I like Atlas and the idea of that eviscerates me.
It’s not romantic or an attraction, but my willingness to be open with him far outweighs any hostility felt when we had first met.
“Would you like to come with me? Alcohol was a mistake,” Atlas inquires.
“Sure,” I say.
A new mold shifts underneath my clothing. There’s some restraint, but the husk is comfortable overall. Atlas’s face is stricken with horror when he gets a good look at me.
“What?” I ask.
“You—” Atlas gulps. “You shifted into Tommy.”
“Fuck—” It had been instinctive, though why I chose Tommy probably stems from my immense guilt over his fate.
Familiar faces are easy to manipulate, so I settled on an appearance that would take little energy.
In doing so, I unwillingly traumatized the boy who’s been kind to me since our arrival in Eureka.
“I can try for someone else,” I say to rectify what I’ve done.
“No, it’s okay. It caught me off guard, that’s all,” he whispers.
“I tend to shift into people I know well because it’s easier. It takes a lot of concentration to craft a new facade, especially if I don’t have a mirror to see what I’ve managed to do. Shape-shifting takes a lot of energy. Too much, sometimes . . .”
Atlas nods as if he understands.
“Teleportation is draining, too. I was afraid my body would give out on me during our encounter with the Barclay Network. I hadn’t teleported that much in rapid succession like that before.”
We’re still perched underneath the suite’s door. With it wide open, you can see the perfect view of a resting Conin. Atlas notices and silences himself, then motions for me to follow.
“So,” he says, and I know exactly where this is leading. “I thought you two weren’t a thing.”
“I’m not sure what we are,” I confess. “I didn’t even know he liked me in that way.”
Atlas smirks, his plump lips widening into a smug sense of victory.
His eyes, however, don’t display the same radiating light.
Is he . . . upset? Is this about Conin and me or is it leaving his parents behind?
I don’t ask when we enter the elevator, keeping any thoughts and opinions from exiting my mouth. Better that way.
But I need to know. “You knew, didn’t you?”
“I may have gotten him to confess a thing or two,” Atlas says.
We start our descent when a sudden thickness lodges itself in my stomach. Bile rises in my esophagus—my larynx constricts. I try not to let my panic show, suppress it like Conin would—paint on a stoic facade with this faux face. Atlas is none the wiser.
The elevator halts. The steel doors push aside and reveal two of our Angelic comrades.
Ambrosia has a slim purse to her mouth, with creased eyebrows.
Matt’s indifferent, but his expression isn’t unfriendly.
They slip in to occupy the space next to Atlas and me.
The gates shut and we continue descending.
“Where are you two going?” questions Ambrosia, giving me a once-over.
Does this form unsettle her too? How well did she know Tommy, if she knew him at all?
“We were going to get something to eat,” Atlas says.
“We’d rather you not. How about you return to your rooms, and we’ll get you what you need. Whether or not you’re recognized is irrelevant. It’s safer to stay in your rooms until Leeanne can extract us.”
“Sure,” he replies, and that smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes again.
He and I exit at the next stop. Ambrosia nods, satisfied, before she and Matt slide out of sight.
Though my anxiety ebbs at first, a sudden, irrevocable spike catches me off guard.
The walls on each side start to cave in.
Atlas blurs while the ground below me sways.
An image of Lukeman Gray raising a hand to strike me finds its way to the surface.
Shards of ebony. Fragments littering the floor.
I try to find Atlas, but he’s nowhere to be seen, and the walls only grow tighter against me.
I sense the first retch, my body instinctively fighting against it, because this sucks, this sucks, this fucking sucks.
Crippling apprehension rattles my every limb until I wander aimlessly in search of a restroom.
There’s one nearby, thank god, just a turn down the adjacent hallway.
“Ezra?”
“Ezra?” he repeats. The voice is too far away.
I’m not sure what triggered my relapse. Maybe the past week’s events have finally settled and my body decided to reject them the best way it knows how. I hate this body, this skin, these scars, this face, these eyes, my very fucking, cruel existence.
I’m so sorry, Tommy.
Barriers surround me, a stall climbing up.
My throat thickens, fingers raking down the tissue.
I don’t want to see it. I don’t. The fear in me pulsates, pushing harder, and I gag, vomiting into the porcelain what little contents remain in my stomach.
It’s not much. Saliva droops, pools on the rim of the toilet seat.
I divert my eyes. Two gentle hands cup my shoulders.
They surprise me at first, which rockets me closer to the toilet, but I acquiesce, lean into the touch, and relish it.
They’re not Conin’s.
Atlas’s soft, gentle hands never leave my side.
He mutters reassurances, loud enough for only me to hear.
Atlas waits and never probes. He’s patient until the wracking shakes subside, helping me to my feet while stroking soothing fingers down my spine.
Even as they grace the knobs, warmth blooms with each caress from the hands of someone I met a week ago.
A fluttering sensation in my stomach crawls upwards and quickens the beat of my heart.
What the hell?
He assists me back to my and Conin’s suite, lets me know I’ve shifted into myself.
These clothes feel normal against my body, something I can at least live with.
Atlas helps me inside, where Conin is still fast asleep on the sofa bed.
He must’ve slept very little on our ride to Vegas, though that’s no surprise.
What we went through in Eureka is not something so easily forgotten.
Atlas lowers me onto a plush chair, then occupies the one opposite the coffee table.
He seems amused by Conin’s slumbering form. Brown irises find mine.
“Want to see if any Star Wars reruns are on while we wait?” Atlas says in his low baritone.
“Sure.” My heart catches.
He and I discuss favorite movies from the saga, where I again disclose my unfettered love with the second film.
Our conversation veers into the series, the independent films, the ones slated for release in the distant future.
Atlas’s knowledge, which far outweighs Conin’s, and is almost on par with mine, comes as a pleasant surprise.
We talk for a long while. My cheeks won’t relax, stretching painfully wide.
We avoid the previous day’s events, the millions of questions unasked, our thoughts, feelings, and emotions in favor of this shared interest. I hope one day we’ll talk about what we keep silent about for now, but for the time being, I am perfectly content at wasting away in a fictional universe.
And there, still present in my stomach, is the unnerving sensation of butterflies taking flight.