At the front of the fray is Levi Finch and Mara Barclay, followed by a platoon of men. I thought they . . . I thought they had been apprehended? Mara sends bolts of lightning ricocheting off walls, targeting stray Angelics as they attempt to get away. Meanwhile, Levi sets nearby trees and buildings on fire, watching as they burn with sadistic glee. They’re yards away and I’m a dead man if I stay here any longer. Finally mustering enough strength to run, I bolt back up the road Matt and I came down only minutes earlier. I need to find my boys. Ineedto.
A bullet makes impact with my skin.
Chapter 72
Ezra
We’re sprinting into the heart of town. Ash rains down. Smoke coalesces and rockets to the sky in great plumes. Everywhere, people scream, darting past us. My chest is on fire. I search for Conin amidst sudden chaos, keep Atlas nearby by holding his hand. Angelics cry to reach the tunnels, which are Proctus’s last resort in the event of an attack like this one. I won’t go. Not yet. Not until I find the other half of my whole.
“There you are.”
He bloodies Atlas before he can teleport away.
“You little shit,” says Callum Finch.
Before I can react, the mercenary knocks me to the ground.
The prominent, puckered scar on his cheek mocks me. I see him in the mirror at Emery’s party. I see him in my constant nightmares, his gun raised, and his decrepit grin. His hands come down to the base of my throat. In a flurry, Atlas teleports and comes at Callum from behind. He wraps his long, slender arms around Callum’s neck, gripping the skin with ruthlessforce. Blood slips from Atlas’s fingernails where he rips at skin. The mercenary wails while I attempt to get to my feet. Callum throws Atlas off, but not before Atlas disarms him—the gun clatters into the grass. I watch while the two dive to retrieve it.
I rise to my feet and sprint toward Callum to dissuade him from reaching the weapon—a scream tears at my throat. I feel the burn, the inhalation of pungent smoke, the moment Atlas takes hold of the gun and sets to aim. He fires, but the bullet misses Callum by mere inches. The crack of gunfire relays in repetitive bursts—Atlas is being fired at. With a grim, panicked expression, he teleports but doesn’t reappear. I dart my head every which way. He never comes back.
“You fucker,” the mercenary roars.
I’m whipped in the head. The weight of my body crashes into the earth. My vision is compromised, and blurry, but there’s no mistaking Callum’s snarl. He seizes my wrists and starts to drag me away, Barclay’s men surrounding him in support. I blink, dazed by my downfall. My mind screams for Conin and Atlas. Black clouds cover the sky above.
I gasp for my last dregs of air.
Chapter 73
Conin
The stray bullet knicks my tricep. I fall on all fours, my botched palms drawing blood against the road’s surface, crimson draining in rivulets from the bullet’s graze. Before I find Atlas and Ezra, I need to obtain both my Angelic suit and the HK from the armory inside Headquarters. So, I get moving, careening up the hill as flames encroach on the wildlife and buildings behind me.
Angelics scream and cry for help, many of them sprinting in the direction of the tunnels. I wonder if that’s where my boys have headed since they were together working on the fields. That’s where I’ll go once I have the armor and gun in my possession. I round the corner and beeline for the entrance. I need to be hasty since it’s only a matter of time before Barclay’s soldiers find their way here—before the flame climbs, claiming the land around us.
When I enter HQ, a stream of Angelic guards adorned in their armor sprint out and make their way toward the action. I’mbacked against the wall, panting and watching as smoke starts spilling over the streets. It’s thick and dark and blocks any view of the street beyond. Barbara clambers from the desk and spots me hunched, back pressed against the bricks.
“What are you doing?” she exclaims. “They’re coming!”
“I’ll follow after you!”
She hurries through the exit, but the second she reaches the outside, the smoke swallows her whole. I hear thebrat-brat-bratof a gun. Crimson stains splatter over the glass door. The horrifying image is enough to send me sprinting toward the stairs that lead to the locker room. I make it about halfway before I trip over myself and go barreling down head-first over the remaining steps. My body’s on fire and I ache from head to toe. Nothing’s broken, at least not from what I can feel, so I sit up, brush my hands against the metal railing, and pull my body to stand despite everything in me resisting.
I’m slower moving toward the locker room. I keep my hand against the wall, letting it scrape against the concrete, but it’s enough to keep me upright. The room approaches and I slip in, but halt when I see two figures hovering near my locker. Their faces are coated in sweat and grime. I recognize them both and it’s enough to send jolts of hope all through my aching body.
Ambrosia’s purple dreads are a little worse for wear, while Atlas’s glasses are shattered in one lens, his hair disheveled, poking up at odd ends. Ezra isn’t with them, but they have to know where he is. Theyhaveto.
“Here,” she clips, tossing me my emblem. I attach it to the fabric of my beaten shirt, pressing down hard. The armor wraps around my frame and tugs against my stomach. I place two fingers on the neckpiece, feeling the confines of a helmet appear from thin air. The ventilation kicks in and it becomes significantly easier to breathe. The others follow suit.
Ambrosia turns to me, eyes wild.
“Where’s Matt?” she breathes.
I can’t do this now.
“I was with him . . . he—”
“No,” she says. Her visor shakes, glints from the fluorescents above reflecting off it. “No, no, no.”
