Right. The scar. My exposed arms reveal the aftermath of Thax’s brutal tirades with the burn as a nice touch.
“Sure,” I say.
Conin tenses beside me, observing the ethereal glow emitting from the healer’s hand. She runs it along the length of my forearm, deliberately. Slowly. It isn’t painful, but it’s not comfortable, either. It’s air on an exposed wound, a soothing wind. Trickling water on parched, dirtied skin. I sigh a breathof relief when she finishes. The scar is still there, evident by the burn’s streak, but it’s duller now. The pain’s gone. I smile weakly and mutter a “thank you.” She grins, asking Conin if he has any injuries. They discuss his ankle, finally.
Atlas catches my attention. An onslaught of tears streaks his face. He says something, Ambrosia nods, and then Atlas is escorted out with an Angelic in tow. My heart pangs for him—I feel a sudden jolt in my mood: grief, loss, and fear, though I’ve lost no one.
Our tether ebbs and flows, coalesces and disperses, but lingers stronger than before. I wonder why he’s upset and what the Barclay Network coming here will mean for him and continuing his grandfather’s work. Is that even a possibility now?
“Alright, let’s get moving. Angela must be sending in reinforcements as we speak. It won’t be long before law enforcement gets involved, if they aren’t on their way here already,” says Ambrosia.
Some Angelics load Levi Finch onto a stretcher and follow Ambrosia out. Matt leads Conin and me to the white vans aligned on the main street. An Angelic converses with an official-looking woman near Eureka’s tiny town hall. She nods, unperturbed that recidivists have overtaken her city. I know not everyone’s prejudiced. Maybe she’s one of the good guys. She could be grateful we apprehended the mercenaries. Or, perhaps, she’s humoring us until law enforcement arrives to whisk the responsibility of the predicament away from her. Either way, it’s not my problem. Not anymore.
There weren’t any casualties. That comes as a relief. Some injuries, sure, but no lives were lost. In my periphery, Mara is loaded into the same van the Angelics took Levi’s stretcher in, her wrists inside power-suppressing handcuffs.
Apprehension hits me full-force. Where the fuck is Callum?
“Conin!” His name comes out as a hiss.
“Yes?” he asks. He seems confused by the tone of my voice.
“You didn’t see Callum anywhere, did you?”
Conin looks around as if Callum will take shape from out of nowhere. I suppose he could, having the ability to navigate through mirrors.
“I don’t remember seeing him at all. Should we ask?”
I’m about to object because I detest confrontations, but—
“Excuse me. The man on the stretcher? His brother is—” Conin says before he’s interrupted.
“Callum Finch. What about him?”
“Is he here? Did you capture him?”
The Angelic straightens. He detracts his mask with a simple press of a button, then peers around. Mara laughs. It’s sinister and discomforting.
“That pathetic, incompetent loser will be out of commission for a while,” she snarls before the doors of the van are shut, cutting off her voice.
The motel we fled to with Tommy was the last time we saw Callum. Callum had been rendered unconscious by Conin’s brute force, but something must’ve gone down in the aftermath. Mara would have stumbled upon a comatose Callum Finch, vulnerably frail. Realistically, his injuries should’ve prevented him from pursuing us any further. It makes the most viable sense. But that fear, strong and curdling in my chest, hollows itself deep inside, rests against my bones until they ache.
I’m nudged on the arm. We’re in a van, the Angelic we’d been speaking with only moments ago is gone, and we’re idling alongside the curb.
“Are you okay?” asks Conin. His expression is neutral, but I catch him making indirect glances as if the police or more of Barclay’s men will spill out and attack us at any given moment. The longer we wait here, the more we’re put at risk. Why haven’t we left yet?
“I zoned out there. Sorry,” I say.
“We were told they’d investigate it, but I have a feeling nothing will come from it. They’re clueing in to what Mara said, and given everything, I think it’s the least of their priorities.”
“Do you believe that?”
“I’m not sure,” he says, thoughtful. “But I trust that we’re safe now. The Angelics will protect us from here on out.”
That’s not how he felt before. His opinions were in flux. Seeing the Angelics in action probably changed his mind.
Safety was our end goal. Putting our trust in these people feels too far a stretch now that it’s happening, contradictory to my earlier beliefs. I have to remind myself the Angelics are like me. They’ve undergone similar situations, some much worse than my own. This is only paranoia—the Angelics aren’t against me and they sure as hell aren’t the family I left behind. I trusted Atlas quickly. And maybe it is the strange, innominate binds that tie us, but if Atlas trusts the Angelics, I should, too.
Guilt, sharp and quick, sinks its teeth in. Leaving without Tommy feels wrong. There is nothing we can do, but that doesn’t relieve the guilt’s piercing hold. For a second I forget to breathe. It might be better if I forgot about him.
