I can no longer speak.
“Oh, dear. It’s okay. Rest now. You’re allowed to rest.”
Thank you.
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 runningaway?
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, Ambrosialeads 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 movedon 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 Ican’thandle 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.
