I recognize his voice.
Thax rudely gestures at Melissa, shoving an indignant finger at the base of her sternum. I slap his hand away the second my own is free from the sea of people. The look he casts me is callous and hostile, but he grins when he realizes who I am. It’s unsettling. All I want to do is pummel his face into the ground. Thax takes that same index finger and thrusts it into my bubble. I notice the prominent black eye.
“You can’t protect him anymore,” he slurs, maintaining that dreadful curve of his mouth.
He’s upset and I can only imagine why. But fuck will I tolerate him threatening Ezra. I will not let him carve one more single line into Ezra’s skin. I don’t know whether Thax is high or extremely intoxicated. Either way, I have a strong sense this interaction won’t end well.
“Ezra’s actions have consequences,” Thax continues, his gaze held on me. “Whatever the fuck he did to my dad, he needs to fix it.” Thax got in trouble. Lukeman didn’t have an outlet, so he chose his older son instead. How utterly useless does Rochelle need to be to let this continue to happen? I shouldn’t sympathize with Thax, of all people, and I understand that their mother must be scared, but this treatment is blatantly unfair and cruel.
“I made a deal,” he spits.
Melissa backs into me. She says nothing, waiting for me to react first before she intervenes. She’s letting me handle this on my own terms.
“I’m sick of his bullshit. I’m so sick that he has the power to leave, to get far away from here, but he never does. He always fucking stays! He’s useless! Imagine what I could do with that kind of power.” Thax pauses, thinks. “Nah. Ezra’s going to be dealt with.”
What the hell is he talking about?Power?What power?
“All right, this is enough,” Melissa says sternly. “Let’s go, Conin.”
She tries to pull me away, but I stand still, firm and unwavering. I wring my wrist from her grip and get close to Thax. We’re face to face, nose to nose. He’s unstable on his feet as he leans with the sway of the partying students. He trains his look on me regardless.
“What do you mean? What did you do?” I ask.
“Where is he, Thomas?” I spit.
He hates that name. Thax’s eyes narrow into slits. And in one swift, blundering movement, he shoves me with a freakishly strong force. It is taking every fiber of my being not to explode on him. I try to suppress the urge to rip his throat out while students take an interest in the unfolding fight. Not knowing where Ezra is has spiked the worry that’s been churning in my stomach since I was driven away from him. I need to know where he is. I need to know now. I need to know before I break and someone ends up hurt, or worse.
A hand finds my shoulder. At first, I think it’s Melissa abating the situation, but a much deeper voice emanates from the stranger. Tommy Donahue. He pulls me aside and I let him. Melissa waits on the sidelines. Thax is now nowhere to be seen. The crowd of people return to their partying as if nothing threatened to ruin their fun tonight. Tommy leans in close. His breath is warm.
“Have you seen Ezra?” he whispers.
Chapter 11
Ezra
Silence.
I will myself not to speak. It’s easy. When Lukeman Gray verbally abused me in the past, I quickly learned to keep my mouth glued shut. Maybe I should scream, but I can’t. This trait has coded itself into my very existence. Even when Thax carved lines into my skin, I kept silent. Now, I wish that I wouldn’t. I wish I could scream and scream and scream.
The defining scar across the man’s cheek haunts me. I dare a glimpse over my shoulder and see that the stranger isn’t there. I whip my gaze back to the mirror and notice that he remains within, still watching and carefully calculating. He’s a recidivist. There’s no doubt. He laughs again, a mirthless, pathetic thing.
“Admittedly, we have our methods of snuffing out people like you, but your brother was very willing to offer you up,” the stranger says. “Don’t worry. Thax and I go way back. He’ll be safe with us. You, on the other hand . . . not so much. Though I’ll admit, he’s kind of a dick for turning you in.”
And with those words, my compassion for Thomas Gray diminishes. I take an involuntary step back. The stranger, wherever he is inside that mirror, looms closer.
“Someone’s willing to pay a pretty sum for your powers, Ezra Gray.” Then he pauses and the world stands still. “Faux.”
He knows what I am.
I shouldn’t be surprised. He and Thax are apparently well acquainted with each other. It’s been so long since I’ve heard that term—the appellation given to those with shape-shifting abilities. I can mold myself into anyone I want. Yesterday, when Lukeman destroyed my violin, I shifted into my mom. Her body was unfamiliar, untouched. The sensation was new. But I’d done it as if it had been the easiest thing in the world—instantaneous as the snap of my fingers.
Faux.
The coined name for those with shapeshifting powers. Me. And this man, the man in the mirror, who speaks, but whose words don’t make sense, says that my abilities are desired by someone. That they’re willing to do whatever it takes to have them. It’s true, though, what they say. A faux’s ability is rare. Faux possess the power to undergo separate aliases, which makes them a rarity for trafficking networks. They could become anyone—leave the life they were born in for a new one.
But not me. I never had the guts to leave and start a new life. There were always tethers reeling me back. My love for orchestra, my unhealthy attachment to Mom, lack of funds . . . Conin. I could never leave him. Even now, when it’s clear my life is in danger and staying will only guarantee my death or capture, Conin holds me back. I can’t leave him. Iwon’tleave him. And then the cold, cruel image of his pale, lifeless body flashes in my eyes. If I stay, I risk his life too. Because whatever this means . . . it’s not good. It won’t end well.
I edge toward the door. And to my horror, the stranger phases through the firm mirror—a solidified, corporeal body. He lunges and pins me against the wall. I struggle against his considerable strength, waiting for the inevitable to happen. But it doesn’t. Just when I am convinced I’ll die in this bathroom, Tommy Donahue barges in. The handle splinters, the knob clattering to the tile.
