Chapter 78
Conin
Ifall to my knees.
“Stand down!” Ambrosia yells.
It’s alright, Ezra’s here, all is okay.
I can’t feel my legs; my knees tingle and a numbness inside spreads.
Atlas, however, doesn’t waste a second. He darts for Ezra and jumps in his arms. They stumble sideways, but they’re sobbing, kissing, hugging.
I see one of the men I love most in this world, a man I tried desperately to find and return unharmed, but the Mara he was before replaces all the relief I felt.
What if . . . what if this isn’t Ezra? What if this is Mara wearing Ezra’s face?
Angela didn’t desire the power for herself.
She wished her daughter to possess it, instead.
Suddenly, I’m on my feet. I burst through the surrounding Angelics to get to Atlas.
“Get away from him!” I bellow.
Ezra . . . no, Mara finds me, her irises glassy, though the same blue and green Ezra’s have always been.
But I don’t buy it—not for a second. Not after everything.
If Ezra’s dead and this son of a bitch killed him, I’m going to make them suffer until they beg for the sweet release of death.
I have my HK trained at the imposter’s skull.
“Conin, what the fuck are you doing!” Atlas screams.
The imposter whimpers. The audacity sends an infuriating jolt up my spine.
I can’t help but grip the gun tighter, move the barrel closer to Mara’s forehead.
Ezra . . . I mean, the imposter stumbles to the concrete and backs to the wall.
They’re crying. Tears fall in rivulets down their sunken, exhausted cheeks.
I think I . . . I think I made a big fucking mistake.
“Conin? What are you doing?” they say.
I’m brutally shoved away. Atlas hovers over me, face contorted with fury.
My gun smacks on the ground and pain jolts up my tailbone.
He teleports, takes the weapon from my reluctant hands, sends it clattering into the abyss.
He then rematerializes in front of me and slaps my face with enough force for me to regain some sense.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he hisses.
“I . . . I thought . . .”
“Mara Barclay is dead,” Ambrosia exclaims.
The bold declaration is enough to drive us from our heated altercation.
I don’t even bother to turn and look. My eyes stay locked on Ezra—the real Ezra.
I’m wrought with extreme guilt. I’ve betrayed him.
I . . . I don’t know what to do. Hopelessness burns through me.
The glistening tears on Ezra’s face accuse me of being traitorous. What have I done?
“Ezra . . . I thought—”
“You saved our lives, Ezra,” Ambrosia interrupts. “Thank you.”
He doesn’t answer. His mouth is glued shut, eyelids wide, staring at me with unbelievable horror.
“Are you okay, love?” Atlas questions, but he’s not asking me. He kneels over Ezra, tending to him, surveying his skin for any bruises or scratches.
An imposter wouldn’t have killed Mara. An imposter wouldn’t have gunned down their own people.
I sit on the floor, festering in the pain I rightfully deserve, quiet because otherwise I’d be a blubbering mess.
Ezra’s attention has shifted to Atlas. He whispers something and then asks to stand.
Atlas assists him up. Once Ezra’s on his feet, it’s grueling, every step that he takes in my direction.
I’ve failed you.
He bends over and falls to his knees. And instead of hitting me like the punishment I know I deserve, he kisses me.
His lips are gentle, warm, and kind. The guilt is still so obviously there and I know I will always feel it deep, deep down, but perhaps the joint meeting of our mouths can make the burden more tolerable.
A promise.
“You aren’t them,” Ezra whispers and I know who he speaks of. I’m not them—Ezra’s father and brother—the mother he adored, but who always batted an eye.
“You thought I was someone else,” he says—a statement rather than a question. “You thought they took my powers.”
I nod.
“And you were protecting Atlas.” There’s a pause. “It’s okay, Conin.”
He leans in further. We hug as Atlas’s presence lingers above us. We’re huddled longer than we perhaps should be, but letting go of him now is not something I think I can do. The thought of his dead corpse was so visceral. If our bodies detach, I’m afraid I’ll lose him forever.
Meanwhile, the Angelic council members reconvene. Ambrosia joins them alongside the Angelic Guard that came to her aid moments ago. They converse, huddled in the open space near the set of steel doors. Atlas and I are alone with Ezra, or as alone as we can be.
We trudge over to a free space alongside the wall.
Ezra wears jeans, an ill-fitted T-shirt frayed at the hem, and holes that dot the fabric.
His face and hands are caked with dirt. I look at the healed burns that stretch up his forearm—and at the tattoos that now paint over them.
Nothing fresh. He doesn’t appear to have been caught in any of the fires roaring outside. A wave of relief washes over me.
“Are you . . . alright?” I ask.
I can’t imagine how it must feel to have gunned down six people.
“I’m not sure,” Ezra concedes. “I think I’m dehydrated.”
Atlas promises he’ll return with water. He leaves in search of some. Ezra, in the meantime, rests his head against the crook of my neck. He sighs into me. His breath is hot against my skin. It means he’s alive. Ezra is alive.
“I didn’t think I’d see you two again,” he whispers.
“You found us. That’s what matters,” I say.
Atlas doesn’t return, but Ambrosia does.
Several council members flank her from behind.
Brett Rosenbaum isn’t amongst them. It’s safe to assume he perished in the attack.
They look stern, unsure. Our predicament is a dangerous one I’m sure is weighing down heavily on everyone.
I worry they’re not positive how to handle the situation.
“Ezra,” Ambrosia says kindly. “How’d you escape? What did you see out there?”
I’m suddenly defensive when I have no right to be, but Ezra’s been through a lot. Maybe he doesn’t want to talk about it. He doesn’t object because this really can’t be avoided. He blows out a gust of air.
“Mafu saved me right as Angela attempted to siphon my power. He manipulated the metal of the vehicle, crushing them.”
“His prowess is unmatched,” chimes in a councilman.
“He mentioned hearing gunfire, then screaming. He came rushing into town and found me before it was too late. So many of Angela’s soldiers are dead, but I’m not sure what came of her.
Mafu’s currently leading a resistance against those who remain with a group of Angelic stragglers.
They’re putting up a good fight,” he says.
“They have their suits?” asks a councilwoman. Ezra nods. “That fire is going to continue spreading. If we can take control of the fight, we’ll see what our water-users can do about the flames.”
Ambrosia’s stone facade, once an impenetrable force, falters for the briefest of moments. Matt was a water-user. And a damn good one, too.
“When should we expect Esther’s reinforcements? And what of Leeanne’s crew? Where are they?” a guard says.
“Esther’s scrounging up who she can from Washington, Nevada, and Arizona. We’re stretched extremely thin. We’ve lost so much of our forces from the government retaliating and the local cartels, that managing enough reinforcements might be a longshot. It may not be enough,” someone says.
“We’ve radioed Leeanne. No word.”
“There’s one more thing,” Ezra interrupts. The group’s attention returns to him. “Angela mentioned an agreement with Senator Cornwallis. I think it’s safe to assume he promised the Barclay Network reinforcements. We need to act quickly in case they retaliate.”
“Would they intervene?” questions Atlas. I hadn’t realized he had returned.
“I’m not sure,” Ambrosia says. “I don’t believe Cornwallis would get directly involved if it could be avoided. I think he’d rather watch as we wipe each other out.”
“A fair assumption,” says the councilwoman.
For now, we’re on our own.
Cornwallis must’ve always known of our location—meaning, because of his greed, we no longer have protection. It appears he was willing to look the other way for the Barclay Network.
“If we rendezvous with the others, we can wipe out what’s left of Angela’s men,” Atlas says.
“I agree,” Ambrosia says, folding her arms. She turns to the room.
Other utterances of agreement echo in the bunker.
“Mafu and the others may not have much time. We must act quickly.”
“I’ll take every abled body I can,” Ambrosia instructs. “We’ll use the other passage out. Employ the element of surprise.”
In total, we rank ten Angelics strong. Better than nothing at all.
We clad ourselves in the signature Angelic white, emblems gleaming on our chests.
We turn down a passageway that stretches far into a bleak darkness.
Lights flicker on the farther we go—our boots clack against the cement of the tunnel.
We’re met by another ladder that climbs up to an inky blackness. LEDs buzz on and we ascend upwards.
Once we reach the top, a hazy sunlight drapes over us.
It’s hot, but the inferno tearing the landscape down burns hotter.
Smoke superimposes the environment. Tendrils rise into the air.
Bursts of orange and yellow consume the evergreens and wildlife.
Ahead is the unknown, but ahead is where we must go.