“No, it’s just . . . what if this Atlas person isn’t who they say they are? What if we put ourselves in more trouble?”
“Co,” I whisper, “what else are we going to do?”
“Right,” he murmurs. “You should shift,” he says.
And I do as fast as possible, walking out with a confidence I do not possess.
We’re across from a Methodist church—a quaint white wood-paneled building with a small tower and spire on top. Coninlimps toward the motel’s office while I trail behind. His gait is clunky, his movements deliberate, masking the fact that he’s obviously in pain.
That tether, the sensation from earlier, instantaneously blooms at an unprecedented speed. I’m suddenly deprived of air when we enter the office space. An invisible grip tightens my lungs, then relaxes, but that feeling reverberates in my chest and echoes long past the moment I can breathe again. There’s a boy behind the counter: tan, golden skin, brown eyes, and brown hair with blonde highlights that streak its tousled nature. Freckles constellate his cheeks, complemented by sleek black, square glasses. He has a nasal piercing, a black loop that glints in the morning sun. Impressionably, he’s objectively cute, which makes me feel guilty since I am undeniably infatuated with Conin. He and I aren’t an item, and I don’t even know if Conin is queer, so wherever this guilt stems from, I’d appreciate it if it would fuck right off.
Plus, I’m demi, so . . . if I can equate this feeling to attraction, which I’m not even sure that’s what it is, then this is unexpected as hell.
It’s undeniable this tether binds me to him. Our eyes meet and he sharpens into focus, almost like the universe is feeding me a sign. Those overwhelming sensations roil off him in relentless waves. My eyes gravitate toward his chest where a nametag readsAtlas.
Thisis Atlas. This boy, who must be around mine and Conin’s age, is the person Tommy told us to find. A boy. A boy I already feel a staggering connection to. And why? I’m being lured toward him as if I’m a fish hooked at the end of a line. My mouth glues shut. I’m rendered totally and utterly useless, though that isn’t anything new.
Atlas’s velvety-chocolate eyes find mine again. We hold each other’s gaze for one, two, three seconds before the boy returnshis attention to Conin, who inquires about a room and its rate. I cannot pry my eyes away from him, a supposed Angelic, someone who can lead us to Proctus. This is the guy. This is the guy who will lead us to our salvation.
Atlas shifts uncomfortably under my intense gaze. I look away, anywhere but at him, though it’s too little, too late. The damage is done. Conin’s thanking Atlas for his time, then scurries to usher me out the door. Did he notice Atlas’s nametag? The question’s tipped on my tongue when Conin leads me to our room. It takes him several minutes to pry open the door with the key, but we manage. A single queen-sized bed awaits our arrival. Together, we groan.
Chapter 23
Conin
“What the hell was that back there?” I ask.
Ezra situates himself on the bed. His jaw contorts as his brow wrinkles.
“Don’t think I didn’t notice, Ezra.”
“Notice what?” he says as if I’m unaware. He’s deliberately avoiding the question. An unnecessary, totally unwarranted rage ignites within me, and if I’m being honest, I’m not sure where this anger is coming from. More importantly, I’m unsure why I’m directing it at him.
“The way you two looked at each other . . . it was more than just recognition. It was so much more than that. I want to know why it looks like you and Atlas have known each other forever,” I say.
“We haven’t.” He focuses on the floor. “I felt this strange . . . sensation the closer we got to town. Atlas was exuding that same energy. And the way he looked at me . . . I wonder if he could feel it, too.”
The loneliness from last night pierces me like a blade. What do I make of what Ezra said? An energy that connects him to Atlas? One I can’t see or feel or hear? I felt estranged from Ezra before, but that feeling has only amplified a hundredfold now. If there’s a connection that intertwines recidivists, one that ties itself between Ezra and Atlas, well, that distances me further from Ezra, doesn’t it? How is it that they have a connection when the two have never met? Ezra has no incentive to lie, and I have no reason not to believe him. Fatigue claws at my eyelids while my irritation cools. I exhale an exhausted breath.
“Conin?”
“Sorry,” I sigh.
“Don’t be,” Ezra mutters.
“I suppose nothing is keeping us from talking with Atlas now.”
“Should we?”
“Let’s wait. See if he comes to us.”
Time slows. The sun shifts, casting its orange glow onto the blinds. We keep the television on for background noise, neither of us paying attention, too lost in our thoughts to be comforted. Ezra turns on the news. He and I watch in silence, trepidation present after each passing second. There are no reports on the past several nights—zero coverage about two missing boys and mercenaries with a vendetta.
I tell him to search for another channel. He listens without refusing. He rises from the bed but pauses to stare down the beaten threshold. His features scrunch up in consternation. Seconds later, a knock comes from the door.
Chapter 24
Ezra
