“And you, Ezra Gray, are my consolation prize. A bonus for all our hard work. I still plan to siphon your powers, of course,” she says malignantly.
“Why?” I say, knowing my words are futile.
“For my personal use.”
Angela absorbs the scene unfurling ahead.
“Your capture set into fruition our plan to eradicate the Angelics. Senator Cornwallis will pay us handsomely for our achievements made here today,” Angela says. “And I will possess your power by the end of it.”
“Now, Thomas. It’s time.”
Thax materializes through the throng of men.
For a moment, I wonder if I’ve imagined him—a mirage, but not of paradise. A harbinger of what’s to come. When he stalks up to punch me square in the nose, I know he’s not a conjuration of my imagination. Blood spews from my nostrils. I taste iron on my tongue and splutter, expelling the phlegm from my mouth.
“Now, now Thomas. Don’t damage the merchandise,” Angela says buoyantly.
“Fuck you,” he spits, but it’s not at Barclay. His spit lands on my forehead and grazes my bruised cheek.
“Thax—” I gasp.
“Go to hell!” Thax screams. It’s loud, and deafening, even amongst the gunfire that echoes around Proctus. Hate fuels his irises. I’m not sure I ever had a brother to begin with, but the man above me is unrecognizable.
“Bring him to Miss Zagan. If you wish to prove your loyalty to us, Thomas, you will be the one to deliver Ezra to his demise.” There’s a playful mirth in Angela Barclay’s voice. The sound of it sickens me. “You can make it painful, but leave him alive.” Her smirk is conniving.
“Come here, Ezra,” Thax says, but it’s not his voice.
It’s Conin’s.
“It’ll be okay,” he says, this time in Atlas’s.
Which is impossible.
Thax doesn’t know who Atlas is. He never met him.
Unless . . .
Unless the two boys I love most in this world are dead.
Chapter 75
Conin
“Ican’t . . . feel . . . my legs,” Levi groans.
Copious amounts of blood pool from his severed torso. His intestines spill over the road, flabby tubes and excrement mingled in with a deep crimson. The sight is sickening. I don’t think he’s aware that we hover over him, watching as the life drains from his eyes.
“Put him out of his misery. Please,” I say.
Atlas unmasks and retches on the asphalt. Vomit mixes in with the blood and guts that drift away from Levi’s body. He wipes his mouth and coughs excessively after inhaling too much smoke. He stands to his full height, sliding a finger over the trigger. I don’t want to have my boyfriend bear this burden, especially not after severing the man in half. Ambrosia is capable enough, but a layer of green sickness has overcome her face. She tilts, evidence of how much energy this fight has drained out of her. Through her mask, I can tell she doesn’t have what it takes to finish him off.
“Stop,” I say, lowering the gun in Atlas’s hand. “Let me.”
“Conin . . . you shouldn’t—”
“Let me,” I repeat.
“Please . . . help . . . I . . . I can’t feel . . . my legs,” Levi gasps.
