I rummage through the contents of my bag and feel the cool, metallic sheen of the handgun. My hands shake violently as I pull the weapon from the depths and proffer it to Ezra. While Levi and Atlas parry in the background, Ezra attempts to pry the gun away from my grip. I can’t let go.
“Conin,” he says, “give it to me.”
Ezraknows.Of course, he does.
“We’re wasting time.”
“Okay,” I concede. He takes the Glock and rounds the vehicle. I follow, witnessing when Levi decks Atlas in the gut. He hunches over on the concrete, gasping for air. Flames lick the length of Levi’s arms. Atlas’s moves are stagnant as he backs into the garage door. The emergence of yellow and orange flame burns bright, then releases. Ezra cocks the barrel of the gun, firing at Levi. Atlas drops to the floor. His wail is painful.
The fire dissipates at the release of a bullet. Levi turns in the nick of time, his attention drawn to the loud noise emanating in our direction, and gets grazed in the cheek by Ezra’s lone bullet. In reply, the mercenary loses balance and slumps against the garage door. He holds a hand to his bloodied face in blatant shock but has no time to react when Ezra fires again without hesitation.
The bullet misses. It shatters glass, remnants raining down on the injured mercenary. This buys Levi time. Atlas has moved to the far corner, hunched behind a worktable. My eyes flick from him to Levi, who’s trained his gaze on Ezra and pursues the death blow. Levi’s irises are murderous as blood trickles down his cheek and dribbles from his mouth, his sandy hair disheveled and his forehead scrunched up, features livid.
“Fucking bastard,” he growls.
The Glock clicks, out of ammunition.
“This will be satisfying.”
He slams a fist into Ezra’s chest. The boy I love rams into a tool cart that clatters away and tilts to the floor with a swarm of tools that spill over the concrete. I raise the hand tool I gathered as Levi homes in on me. He crumples his hands into fists and readies himself for a punch, but I’m set. The hand tool swings at his ribs. Levi loses his purchase on the ground and falls on his ass, so I raise my weapon, getting ready to drive it in his face. Armor-clad people rushed in and tackle the mercenary before I can finish the job. I’m disarmed and held against the wall by an Angelic I’m not familiar with. Ambrosia appears, blurred, while I take large, gulping breaths.
“Stand down,” she commands.
I’m not doing anything.
“Let him go!” someone cries.
Ezra fills my vision.
“It’s okay, love. It’s okay,” he says.
Love.
Chapter 41
Ezra
Ireel from that kiss and the promise of more. I’m on cloud nine, despite the situation we find ourselves in. It’s also pain, but a comfortable pain—tolerable and wanted. I invite it in. Because I never thought this would happen. I’ve dreamed of it, conjured up scenarios where Conin and I would be together, living our best lives. Deep down, there was always that unequivocal denial.
And to let it happen today of all days. What is this life? Certainly, it’s not mine. It’s something good to quell the bad that exists. I just hadn’t realized it was always there. Always Conin.
My dreams aren’t dreams anymore. For the first time in a long time, living doesn’t sound as painful. Living doesn’t sound quite that bad.
In some morbid way, I’m grateful for this. Maybe I’m selfish for thinking so, but right here, right now I don’t fucking care that our lives aren’t the same, that we had to leave what we knew behind. Maybe I was meant to be found by the Barclay Network.Perhaps it was the driving force redirecting me to happiness. Or maybe I’m just fucking delirious.
Am I not allowed mercy?
I’m cooped up in the back with Conin’s attentive arm slung over my shoulders while Atlas stares down Levi as if he’ll wake at any moment. I saw how hard Conin hit him. It shouldn’t be any time soon.
While the Angelics handle the fallen mercenary, Ambrosia pulls Atlas aside, whispering silently to him. Tears brim his brown eyes, obscured by his glasses. His forehead creases in three horizontal lines, something resembling dread. His mouth dips down, parted slightly at the lips. Atlas looks trapped in time. If I look away, I’m afraid he’ll crumble or never move again. He’s alive and it’s only by the slight twitch of his fingers that I can tell. Fingernails rake up his palm and clench at his sides. That’s when I realize I’ve been ignoring Matt. Conin nudges me, helping me stand.
“May I?” Matt inquires. I nod, then he observes the burn.
He beckons an Angelic over who also asks for consent—I’m not used to it—not by strangers or people who pretend to be family.
Conin was always the exception.
“It’s a nasty burn,” the Angelic says, matter-of-fact. She observes it a while longer before ungloving her hand. “I’m a healer. It will take some work and won’t immediately go away, but I can subdue the pain and lessen some of the scarring.”
