“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—notfor 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, theimposterstumbles 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—therealEzra. 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 notthem—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 spacenear 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.
