Atlas is haloed in the overhead light. The way his eyes flick away from me makes me wonder if he feels this tether, too. The closer he is, the more I pay attention to it, the more it pulses. My breath hitches and I’m suddenly hyperaware of Conin. He tries not to act it, but he’s been closed off since I mentioned the sensation earlier. Now, it’s as if I’m dancing over pins and needles, carefully skirting around the issue. Knowing Conin, he’ll suppress it. And knowing me, I’ll continue to believe it’s my fault.
“Did Tommy send you?” Atlas whispers. Conin peers back at me. Visible relief floods his face. We’ve been stewing over it the entire day, waiting and wondering if we should be the ones to initiate the conversation—if this boy in front of us is the true Atlas. I mean, how many “Atlases” could there be in such a small, remote town?
“You’re Ezra and . . . Conin, right?”
“That’s right,” Conin says reluctantly.
Atlas hesitates a moment and lets himself in when Conin shifts to make space. A blanket of tension weighs heavy on my shoulders.
“I’m Atlas MacPherson, an Angelic stationed here in Eureka,” he says. “What happened to Tommy?” Straight to the point.
“We don’t know. We were hoping to meet him here but were delayed in our arrival after an excursion on the highway,” Conin answers. He shifts on his feet, leaning away from his injured ankle.
“Is he not here?” I interrupt.
Atlas trains that distinct, calculating stare on me, almost as if he’s sizing me up. An itch crawls over my cheeks, searing my forehead. I’m not sure if I like it.
“No.”
“He lost then . . . in that fight against the mercenary,” Conin murmurs.
“What are you talking about?” Atlas questions.
“There was another mercenary,” I say. “They beat Callum to us on our way to Wendover. Whoever it was possessed lightning abilities and wore a skull mask.”
“You’re kidding me,” Atlas whispers.
“Who is it?” says Conin.
“Mara Barclay. Angela’s adopted daughter, the leader of the Barclay Network.” I could feel the power those names carried—their insidious weight.
“And Callum. I recognize that name. What did they look like?”
“He had a prominent scar across his cheek, green eyes, ashy hair,” I say. The image of the man in the mirror is ingrained in my mind. It haunts me.Hehaunts me because my old life ended the moment he came into it.
Just how I know Conin is haunted by Mara’s fall—whether or not they’re dead, it must be a frightening thought.
“Jingoist scum,” Atlas says. “I’ve only heard of him. He’s infamous in our world. When Tommy mentioned the Barclay Network, I hoped it wouldn’t be him. Or Mara, for that matter.”
“That klutz?” Conin guffaws. “He could hardly stand upright on his own two feet.”
“Don’t underestimate him. The stories I’ve heard . . . Callum’s done some pretty fucked-up shit. And Mara’s worse.”
I don’t know if the mercenaries had just been having a bad night or if we’d bested them with sheer dumb luck, but we’re both thinking it. Wemustbe. There’s absolutely no reason we should be alive.
“Anyways,” Atlas says and directs his attention to me, “what can you do?”
“What?” The subject change leaves me with whiplash.
“Your abilities.”
The clothes are still tight over my frame and my hair isn’t veiling my face. Nothing prominent or distinguishing about me is up for display and it’s been hours since we left the check-in office. This disguise was Atlas’s first impression of me. Great.
It’s easier to shapeshift into someone after I’ve done it once or twice. I kill the disguise and transform back. Atlas’s eyes widen with excitement.
“You’re a faux! No wonder they’re hellbent on capturing you.”
Oh, that makes me feel better.
