“That sounds like you,” Ezra says.
It does . . . sound like him.
“So . . . what about you two?” Atlas questions. “I was talking to Conin several days ago and that crush of his was still unrequited. What happened?”
Ezra’s red in a millisecond.
“Well,” he mutters, “I’ve . . . loved him for a long time, too.”
We haven’t had a moment to discuss this yet: he and I, us two, alone. His words erupt my skin into a furious blush. I can hardly look him or Atlas in the eye, finding a focal point somewhereon the floor. The leg of the coffee table suddenly becomes very interesting.
“So, you were both oblivious? How cute!” Atlas coos in a mocking tone. “You know, I told him he should confess. I am the perfect matchmaker.”
Ezra’s expression is torn between many things, but cheer prevails, and he spews it like a geyser. “So, I’ve heard.”
Our conversation halts abruptly after a knock at the suite’s door. Atlas is the one to answer it. He peers through the peephole and opens the door to reveal Ambrosia, Mafu, and Matt stand on the other side. They walk in, situating themselves around the lounge area. Ezra sits up, all traces of relaxation gone. His posture is straight, and his shoulders are tense, drawn back against the slope of the couch. Ambrosia whispers something into Atlas’s ear. His face incontrovertibly relaxes.
“Leeanne and her crew are on their way. They should arrive sometime tomorrow,” Ambrosia informs us.
Atlas nods. Ezra’s tight-lipped, staring off into space.
“I understand we haven’t been completely transparent with you three. You deserve some explanations.”
“We do,” I say.
Mafu sits on a stool at the kitchen island—he’s impassive, watching the sun drown under the cerulean sky. Matt has his arms hugged to his chest. He’s concentrated, yet still manages to display a jovial front.
“Truth is, the Angelics are spread incredibly thin. Our numbers are dwindling. A lot of this has to do with an influx of mercenaries, bounty hunters, and recidivist trafficking networks. Laws and alliances are rapidly changing because of the attack on Buford Elementary. We’re noticing increases in shifting allegiances with people we once relied heavily on, even in states that are known to protect recidivist rights.
“The fight’s more brutal than ever before. Leeanne’s crew . . . their latest recruit was a trap set by a local network. Several died. They just barely managed to escape. So, when they arrive, expect them to take extra precautionary measures. Luck’s running thin. We must be more careful.”
“So, why here? Why in plain sight?” I ask.
“It’s a lot easier to run our operation this way,” Matt answers. “The last thing people would suspect is for an Angelic operation to be running amid so much activity. It’s the perfect cover-up.”
“You mentioned earlier Esther owns the Excelsior? How’s that?”
Ambrosia opens her mouth to answer, but Atlas interjects.
“Can I?”
She gestures for him to continue.
“The CEO of LAM Resorts is Esther’s father. He bought the Excelsior back in, what, 2006?”
Matt confirms this.
“Erwin knew his daughter was an Angelic when she was very young—of course, the laws on mandatory testing and patient confidentiality were much stricter then. Erwin had to pay millions of dollars in hush money to keep Esther’s abilities secret.
“But he bought the Excelsior and lets Esther use it for secret Angelic operations. Essentially, it’s like our own underground railway. She’s in charge of aiding runaway recidivists and getting them safely to Proctus. So many of the workers here are people like us—Angelics with abilities they’ve hidden their entire lives.”
“Precisely,” Ambrosia cuts in. “Now you know. Be prepared for when Leeanne arrives.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“You should get some rest,” says Matt.
The trio takes their leave, abandoning the rest of us to think about what they said.
