I whip my neck to stare at him, mouth agape.
“Wha-what?”
“This binding force that shackles me to you. I’ve never felt anything like it before. It’s strong . . . I can’t describe it.”
I’m speechless. My hands tremble, but not because of his proximity. He doesn’t have that control over me. I’m frightened at the implications, and what this means. I’m frightened that I’m staring the issue straight in the eyes, faced with it with no option to go back.
“I feel it.” My voice shakes. “I-I’ve always been inept at feeling other recidivists’ presences. I don’t know why this is different,” I say.
The arcade machines are shut off, their presence looming like figures in the shadows. The paintings behind us, this couch, watch over our conversation, watch the way my body tenses from head to toe. Atlas blinks, then blinks again.
“I’m not sure what it is, either,” Atlas confesses. He backs away, his warmth dissipating. Cold waves wash over the room. “It’s . . . intoxicating. I wish I knew why. It feels . . . it feels as if I’ve known you for a long time.”
“I thought I was going crazy,” I admit and let out a relieved chuckle.
“Me too,” he says. “I’ve felt others in the past, but nothing like this.”
That inadequacy rears its ugly head once more, but I stifle it and shove it back from where it came. Not all recidivists can feel when another is close, I need to remind myself. It would be a disservice to Tommy if I didn’t heed his words.
“That reminds me. I never showed you my ability.”
The awkward tension from before melts into curiosity. Atlas stands, moving farther from me. I stay rooted, unsure why. He settles in the space between the entertainment console and the billiards table. In a moment of concentration, he scrunches his face, and is gone the next. I stare at the empty air his body no longer occupies. An eerie silence rings through the bunker.
A tap on the shoulder confirms the presence of someone behind me.
I whirl on the spot and see Atlas MacPherson gazing at me with wonder in his brilliant eyes.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi,” I say back.
“Everything alright?”
“Yeah.”Sure.
He furrows his brow but doesn’t persist on the matter. My spine is straight. My shoulders are tense. I look at Atlas and see everything that I’m not. I look at Atlas and see a boy who has come to terms with his powers, is unashamed of them, so freely uses them without a care. Every time I use my own, I feel like I’m caving in—hiding from my true self. I hate it. I hate it so fucking much.
“So, you can teleport?”
“Yeah. Not as impressive as your shape-shifting. You should do it again,” Atlas says.
“Um,” I say. “Maybe some other time. I’m tired.”
“Right.” He looks at his phone with eyes that pop out of their sockets when he sees the hour. “Oh, shit. School’s in like . . . two hours.”
I nod and bid him good night. He leaves me here alone in this dark room, this quiet bunker, reeling from his secrets. Secrets told at night.
Chapter 29
Atlas
So many secrets.
Too many for my liking.
My bond with Ezra, telling him about my feelings of inadequacy, me and Conin refraining from telling Ezra about the tracking device, the possibility the Barclay Network can still track these two down, not mentioning that fact to my parents, and now . . . well, I have to tell Ambrosia about abu. She needs to know.
How can one prepare for this?
