Chapter 57
Ezra
The words sound wrong in my ears. I don’t know what to make of them. I don’t know what they mean. We’re supposed to be safe. Proctus is supposed to be a safe place—a haven where we can’t be touched by the outside world, where the Barclay mercenaries can’t find us.
They lied.
The Angelics fucking lied.
I don’t fucking care Conin’s one of the Angelic guards.
I don’t care that this was his job.
He was injured,
he’s in a coma,
I need to see him,
I need to fucking see him,
I need to see him right the fuck now.
Atlas is blurred at the edges. My mind tries to process him, my vision, the boy ahead.
A ringing crescendo sounds like the aftermath of a gunshot to my ears.
It builds, it builds, it builds while I suffocate, search for air, but it’s been sucked out of this room.
It’s been sucked out of me. I claw for it as I spiral. Down, down, down.
This is my fault
This is my fault
This is my fault
Atlas speaks to me, but the noise goes in one end and out the other. Useless. Utterly fucking useless.
He raises attentive hands, places gentle palms on my shoulders, and then his fingers pierce in.
I snap. My hand flicks him away and I’m stumbling off the couch, kicking my legs to get away, get away, get away as a scream tears through my lungs, scalds my throat, rips it apart at the seams. Each sinewy thread snaps and breaks and opens me up.
Atlas isn’t there anymore. All I see is Lukeman Gray . . .
Lukeman Gray thrashing.
Lukeman Gray threatening.
Lukeman Gray, red-faced, broken bottle in hand, bellowing his heart’s content while spittle rains down on my face.
I see Thax.
Thax—Thomas with a switchblade.
Thomas with a malicious grin.
Thomas in a belligerent rage.
Thomas carving out chunks of skin, watching the blood well, then fall and stream down tattered skin, creating a constellation of scars.
I’m eleven years old again.
I’m an untouched canvas.
“What’s wrong?” someone asks.
“Is he okay?”
“Mr. Gray, it’s alright—”
It’s not!
Atlas is near. His presence hits like a shockwave, our tether pulsating in fear, horror, and rage. Mourning. I see all my inflictions and imagine the worst, imagine them on Conin, bloody and battered—bruises and lacerations beyond comprehension—beyond saving.
“I need to see him,” I croak. “Please—”
“You can’t, love,” says Atlas, his voice so, so far away. “He’s in critical condition, Ezra. They need to operate on him quickly.”
None of his words make sense.
I need to see his injuries.
I need to see how bad they are.
If Conin’s repairable.
If Conin can come back to me.
I need . . .
I need . . .
I need to get away.
My feet carry me far, far away from there. I sprint and break into a full-on run. Atlas cries for me, but his voice diminishes as I vanish into the night, to the inner depths of Proctus. I run and run and run.
And I don’t look back.