There’s a tight knock at the door. Atlas and I are slow to respond, neither of us wanting to break from our comfortable positions on the couch. When it knocks again, this time more quickly and urgently, I get a gut instinct something isn’t right. Atlas shuffles away to stand up and I trail behind him for the door. Matt greets us from the other side, though he no longer wears his signature, cordial countenance.
“Good, you’re here. We need you two at the infirmary, stat,” he says. He doesn’t even question why Atlas is here. Matt’s level of distress triggers the anxiety already pitting in my stomach.
“What’s happened?” Atlas asks because I apparently can’t get my mouth to open.
“It’s Conin,” Matt mumbles and I’ve shoved past him, sprinting down the steps as fast as my bare feet can carry me. I hear Atlas call my name, but I don’t pause, I don’t freeze in submission. My feet slam against the pavement, each step drawing a fresh scrape. He teleports in front of me, extendinghis arms out to get me to slow down. I won’t. I jump into the road and let these feet and legs and body lead the way. Because this can’t be happening. Thisisn’thappening. I’ll arrive at the infirmary and it’ll be nothing but a misunderstanding. Conin will befine.
“Ezra, stop!” Atlas cries.
I take the turn near HQ leading to Sacremento Avenue, letting the momentum of the decline leverage me forward. In several instances, I almost trip, but remain upright, continuing as if there wasn’t a hiccup. I veer a harsh right—Atlas is at the front entrance, waiting alongside Ambrosia, who has her arms folded tightly against her chest. She’s out of her Angelic garb, her dreads a mess, her eyes wide with ladened fear.
“Ezra—” she tries.
I push through the threshold and storm right in, Atlas on my heels. The infirmary is a chaotic mess of orderlies working tirelessly. Injured Angelics either wait at the makeshift lobby or are being tended to farther in. I tear my eyes around, searching, hoping, wishing I’ll find Conin and find out there was nothing to worry about in the first place. Atlas wraps his fingers around my biceps, but I flinch and launch away from him. He seems like he’s about to cry. Ambrosia’s careful gait makes me defensive the closer she gets.
“Where is he?” I yell. “What happened to him!”
She hesitates, sucking her lips in, biting them until a bead of blood wells. She’s struggling to maintain eye contact with me. Atlas stands by my side, awaiting the same devastating news.
“He . . . he came with us on our supply run—”
The more she talks, the more her words muddle together. I try to understand what she says, but nothing that comes out of her mouth makes sense. She tells me and Atlas everything from beginning to end. I hold my crumbling pieces together, try to remain intact the longer I absorb this news that cannot be real.
“He’s in critical condition. The healers are operating on him now.”
“Oh my god,” Atlas whispers.
The sight of Ambrosia makes me sick. Fury builds and collects until I’m a meteorite of rage crashing, crashing, crashing. I ram into her with all my weight. She clatters to the floor, drawing the attention of everyone near us. Some Angelics rush to her aid while others move closer, standing nearby in case they need to intervene. I want to kick her in like I did Callum that night—I want to so badly when Matt picks the perfect moment to enter, watching with wide eyes at the scene unfurling before him. He spots Ambrosia and rushes over. She sits up and instead of acknowledging Matt, she looks at me.
“I’m so sorry,” she says.
I don’t fucking care.
“I WILL NEVER FORGIVE YOU!” I bellow. “YOU DID THIS. YOU DID! IT’S ALL YOUR FUCKING FAULT!”
She vouched for him to become an Angelic guard. She convinced him to go on that fucking supply run. She . . . brought us here, somewhere that was supposed to be safe. This never should’ve happened. Conin shouldn’t even fucking be here. “He’s in shock. We’re working on him now,” someone says.
I don’t feel anger anymore.
The earth caves in.
Chapter 57
Ezra
The words sound wrong in my ears. I don’t know what to make of them. I don’t know what they mean. We’re supposed to be safe. Proctus is supposed to be a safe place—a haven where we can’t be touched by the outside world, where the Barclay mercenaries can’t find us.
They lied.
The Angelics fuckinglied.
I don’t fucking care Conin’s one of the Angelic guards.
I don’t care that this was his job.
He was injured,
he’s in a coma,
