77. Chapter 77
Conin
Deer Haven Drive is long and winding. The farther we run into the forest, the more the asphalt cracks, and large chunks of road jut out.
Weeds and wildlife reclaim the land. The trees grow taller, towering far above us and obstructing any view of Proctus.
We sprint even as every inch of our bodies protests in sheer agony.
We sprint because our lives depend on it—Ezra’s life depends on it.
The thought we’ve left him behind stabs me repeatedly in the chest. What if instead of running toward him, we’re running away?
Each breath I take in is more difficult than the last. My esophagus is raw with inflammation, my body protesting against every stride taken.
Adrenaline has me moving with a vendetta, but it’s a slap to the face realizing how out of shape I’ve become, now that I’ve no longer had the responsibility for football drills and workouts—I’ve been confined to HQ, so I haven’t actively been working like the others.
When the road ends, Ambrosia leads me and Atlas through the thicket, along a winding boreen.
Once the uneven path gives way, we rely solely on Ambrosia’s memory.
It feels like an eternity, but she pulls through.
Behind shrubbery and a dense entanglement of branches is a wall of stone.
The stone climbs, creating an overhang, and about twenty more feet above is a cliff.
She pulls a tarp away. It’s tufted with fake grass and bushes, rocks and miscellaneous twigs.
Underneath is a metal hatch. There’s a lockbox to the side where she punches in a code.
The lock clicks open. Ambrosia tugs at the flap, letting Atlas in first. I allow her to follow him, then proceed after.
I drag the tarp back, repositioning it as best as I can before shutting the hatch.
LED lights mounted on the wall flash to life.
We descend into the cold. After climbing down the last several rungs, I steady myself on the solid foundation underneath and look ahead.
A concrete hallway stretches into the mountain. Overhead lights snap on.
Ambrosia hurries toward an additional steeled-off entrance.
They’re an extremely thick and durable set of doors which shelter off the rest of the labrynthine tunnels.
She types in another code and the sliding doors glide effortlessly into their slots.
Ambrosia stands back. Behind the steel is an image that shakes me to my core.
The surviving Angelics dot the wide expanse of space in clumps.
I soak in the injured, which from a faraway glance, seem to far outnumber the uninjured.
I search frantically for Ezra, but I can’t see him.
At least, not at first. Atlas detracts his armor, jumping on the balls of his feet.
After a press of the emblem on my chest, I sidle in next to him and draw him close.
“I don’t see him,” he mutters.
Atlas rushes through the cots and crates, toward each Angelic, calling for Ezra, a plea in his voice.
When he inquires for Ezra’s whereabouts, people either shake their heads or suggest checking somewhere else.
I catch up to him once he’s moved on to the stragglers in the back.
Atlas approaches someone with their head slouched over and elbows rested on their knees.
She perks up, unshed tears welling in her eyelids.
Ashen and soot-stained, the woman is a little worse for wear.
“Penelope . . . right?” he asks.
“Y-yes?”
“Is this everyone? Is there anyone further in the tunnels?”
She sniffles. “No one that I know of . . . apart from the remaining council members,” Penelope chokes out.
“I’m sorry to bother you, but . . .” Atlas kneels on a leg. “We’re looking for someone. His name’s Ezra Gray. He has really long brown hair that’s probably tied up in a bun, with one blue and one green eye—”
Penelope smiles weakly. The tension once abundant on her face has eased, if only a little.
“The one who sang at the concert? Your boyfriend?” she says, looking from Atlas to me.
“Yes!” There’s a glimmer of hope. I grasp on before it can fade away.
“I haven’t seen him. Not yet. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t here.
I’ll keep an eye out for him, okay? I’m sorry.
” She sounds sincere. I deflate because Ezra would have surely approached us if every remaining Angelic was indeed in this room.
But I refuse to believe he’s dead until I see him with my own eyes.
“Thank you,” Atlas whispers, and stands.
When he turns and takes me in, his facade shatters. Tears spill over his cheeks. He presses a hand to his chest and lets out a strangled sob. I move in to embrace him.
“This is agony,” he cries. “I can still feel him . . . but not knowing where he is . . . or what he’s going through . . . is killing me.”
“He’ll come back to us,” I say, because I can’t handle the alternative.
What if he did escape? Is he trying to get here?
The Barclay Network didn’t travel all the way here for the sake of one person, but Angela won’t give him up. Faux are rare, and she wants his power.
“If they . . . if they succeeded in stripping Ezra of his abilities . . .”
“It would kill him,” Atlas says.
Ambrosia makes eye contact with me after materializing from an adjacent hallway.
The look she gives me sends my heart racing.
Is this what Ezra’s anxiety feels like? It’s bullshit.
My palms are clammy, I sweat along my hairline, the small of my back, and feel the world around me muddle into nothingness.
I can’t take it anymore. Ambrosia plods over, dropping her voice an octave so only Atlas and I can hear.
“The council is discussing our plan to get out of here. From what I understand, Esther’s mobilizing what forces she has left to come rescue us. We’re stretched thin as it is, so who knows when that will be.”
“Have they any idea how the Barclay Network knew where to find Proctus?” I ask.
“Benji was murdered, and by Callum, no less. It’s safe to say he watched over us for months. We thought he was incapacitated—”
A child sobs somewhere nearby. The sound of their distress chips away a little more of my remaining composure. Ambrosia stares blankly into space. Her cheeks are wet and there’s a small quiver in her bottom lip.
“Are you okay?”
It’s such a horrible, stupid question that I instantly regret saying it. I wish I could take it back. She blinks, squints, and comes to. Teardrops begin to slide down again, staining the concrete below.
“I will be,” she answers, then, “but right now, it hurts. It hurts so fucking bad.”
I glance at Atlas. We break away and I go in to embrace Ambrosia. I wait, gauging if this is okay with her, and she nods. Her arms remain limp at her sides.
“I’m so sorry. I wish I could’ve saved him. Matt was . . . he was an amazing guy,” I say.
She doesn’t speak. Not at first. Her tears fall—I try to absorb her shivers, hold her still, make it right. But there isn’t anything that can make this right.
“They’re going to have to pay . . . for what they did to him,” she mumbles.
I don’t entertain her thoughts, but I agree. The Barclay Network will pay.
“Earlier,” I say, treading carefully, “you said you couldn’t . . . feel him.”
We detach. Her gaze is fixated somewhere on the floor.
“Atlas and Ezra probably told you . . . Powered individuals can, more often than not, feel the presence of someone like themselves . . . someone who also possesses abilities. When . . . when you bond with another, like Matt and I did, it amplifies. You feel them . . . all the time. It’s intoxicating, at moments. ”
“Ezra said he couldn’t feel others, not until Atlas. Do you know why?”
“Some people just can’t. There’s no apt explanation for any of it,” Ambrosia says. Atlas joins us now that our discussion has veered elsewhere. He gives her unarmored shoulder a gentle squeeze.
“His presence was so strong in Eureka. I’ve felt others’ before, but nothing like his. It was like Ambrosia said. Now that I think back on it, it always felt like an innate bond. I still feel it. It’s not as strong, but it’s there. Ezra’s alive,” he says.
He leans in for a kiss, his lips slick with sweat and perspiration. They linger until he pulls away gently to study me. Tears freckle his soft flesh and I run a finger over them, cupping his cheek. I wipe one away with my dirtied thumb.
“I love you. So much,” Atlas tells me. “I admire your resilience, Co, but it’s okay.”
“I can’t. I can’t.”
If I break, there will be no coming back. Instead, I press my lips to his forehead. They’re salty and taste a smidge of ash, but Atlas is here. He’s alive, in the flesh—in front of me.
Six rapid pops tear behind the steel entrance.
Angelics swivel their heads to see what’s happening.
Others gasp or scream, while that lone child wails and wails.
Another muffled bang follows and then complete, utter silence.
Ambrosia armors up. Two Angelics geared with their suits follow her carefully to the doors.
She types in the code. I raise the HK, training it where the door splits through the center, each side returning to its designated spot. I hold my breath.
A skull-masked mercenary stands on the other side, hands raised in the air for surrender. Soldiers surround Mara, their guns and bodies in heaps on the floor. Blood cascades from the freshly deceased. It’s a harrowing sight.
“Hold it,” someone says.
Mara’s figure starts to warp and bump, shrink and grow taller. Out emerges Ezra Gray, alive and well.