He looks affronted but then comprehends my meaning. He melts into himself, recognizable once again.
I draw his head in, pulling him close. Our lips touch. For the briefest of moments, all is right in the world. His lips taste of lingering tequila and every word left unspoken. They fit into mine perfectly, molding into the contour of my mouth. His eyes are warm and radiating. The kiss is fleeting, though the spark that was there was enough to ignite a fire.
Weneedto get out of this.
When I search for Ezra’s eyes, he’s staring at something behind me. Atlas is looking at us. He casts his eyes away once he’s spotted and fumbles with the gathered supplies.
“S-sorry,” Atlas stammers.
Ezra chuckles while Atlas picks up what he dropped.
“Here,” he says and moves toward us. “I couldn’t find any clean towel to compress the burn, but I did find some ointment, bandages, and a water bottle.”
He starts uncapping the bottle, scrupulously pouring the liquid over the burn. Ezra hisses and shuts his eyes tight. Istroke the back of his head, raking fingers down the length of his hair. An ointment is applied next. Atlas dabs swabs of the lotion over every inch of the burn after washing his hands with the remaining water. A blue and a green iris peer at me. The pain behind them shatters my heart.
“I’ve been through worse,” Ezra says.
I know he has. It doesn’t make this any better.
“I wish you hadn’t,” I say back.
Atlas sighs, upset. I don’t think Ezra’s broached that topic with him yet.
I assist Atlas in wrapping the bandages around Ezra’s forearm. Atlas breaks the fabric into two with the sharp edges of his canines and we tie the loose ends to finish it off.
“I’m sorry. There weren’t any painkillers.”
Ezra nods, then studies our handiwork. Once we’ve applied what we could, we wait. The gunfire has ceased, but it’s foolish to believe we’re in the clear. Seconds bleed into minutes. The three of us huddle together. Neither Ezra nor I have objected to Atlas molding into our clump—the press of his body is oddly a comfort. Interpret that as you will.
We wait and I begin to feel bravely optimistic.
Until something collides with the front door. The crowbar lodged between the handlebar remains steady. An unknown force smashes into the door again, which noticeably bends the bar, wedging it tight against the handle. Ezra freezes next to me. Atlas, on the other hand, slowly stands in a ready position.
“Whoever it is will get in. Find a weapon,” commands Atlas. He moves for the plethora of tools that line the back wall.
“It could be the Angelics,” I say.
“Or not.”
The gun’s in my pack. I could grab it—have this be over the moment they break in. Keeping it on my figure had been a ruse in the bunker and I got lucky with Mara, but who’s to say thatluck will persist? These are bad guys, though. They want Ezra. They want me and Atlas dead. If I killed them, I’d be saving the fate of other recidivists. Discovering Mara was alive was a relief. If I killed this time . . .
No,it’s not something I want to think about. I will do what I must.
Fire blasts the door from its frame, sending the equipment careening through the repair shop. I grab a hand tool instinctively and bolt for the entrance as Levi barges in. His twisted expression could kill, but the flames hovering over his palms may do the trick. Maybe I should’ve grabbed the gun, after all. Levi doesn’t deserve to live. The flames climb higher, encroaching on his arms. His smile reveals bloodied teeth.
“This will be fun.”
The mercenary releases the fire and flies away in a blur when Atlas’s hand materializes from nowhere, clinging to the fabric of Levi’s collar. He rams into the plexiglass, buckling to his knees. Atlas streams ahead and knees the man on the nose. Crimson drains from Levi’s nostrils. The mercenary makes a disquieting noise as Atlas rams the crowbar into his stomach.
“Ouch,” he exhales.
Fire plumes from Levi’s fingers. Atlas teleports away. The flames spread, blackening the area with their touch. I take cover behind a vehicle suspended by a lift and feel the heat scorch my clothes. They’re no longer drenched but singed and battered. Boots click on the cement floor, drawing dangerously close. Fire erupts again. There’s a faint clatter from the far end of the shop. Seconds later, Ezra is at my side with a morbid, frenzied look.
“Hand me the Glock,” he whispers.
I hesitate. Ezra blinks, holding out an expectant hand. Behind us, Atlas distracts Levi, and it’s only a matter of time before he finds us. This is the only way.
You’re a coward.
