Page 46 of Atlas and the Traitor

Finding Cyrus took the rest of the day and the better part of the night. And the only reason they’d found him was because Paris had stepped in and called Lila’s soul to him.

Mac had nearly had a coronary over the idea, which had been his husband’s. After a day and night of police and tracking work turned up nothing, Paris had offered an alternative. If Cyrus had gone to his mother’s house last time, was there another place that held meaning to them? And would Lila tell them? Mac had delivered enough evil souls to be extinguished, including Paris’s own father, that he’d refused to believe Atlas when the warlock had assured them that the Lila who Paris might reach would be different, that it had been Chaos who’d infected her soul.

Mac wouldn’t hear it, refusing to put his soulmate at risk. Robin couldn’t say that if it was Atlas offering to do the same, that he wouldn’t put up as fierce a fight. Atlas, of course, would tell him to fuck right off, and Paris was, lest anyone forget, Atlas’s pupil. His delivery, though, was much gentler than Atlas’s would have been, the medium reminding his husband that the clock was ticking. Solstice was two days away, and the future of peace was missing.

The raven had finally relented, but only with Liam, Mary, Jason, and Atlas on standby to channel the soul if it proved hostile. Unnecessary, it turned out; Atlas hadn’t lied. Lila had only been doing what she thought was best for her son, what Atlas’s father had encouraged her to do, what he made her. Based on the timing, Atlas had determined channeling Chaos into Lila had been the last spell his father ever cast before he’d turned to religion.

Nearly fifty years of Hail Marys to assuage his guilt.

Atlas had simmered with anger, the knowledge that his father was an even bigger asshole than he’d already thought rage-making, but he’d stashed the fury in a mental box somewhere and cooled down while Paris had finished painting the small coastal cottage Lila had shown him.

An hour later, Robin was hiding in the shadows of a cypress grove near said cottage with Atlas and Brock and Adam and Mac. “How do you want to handle this?” he asked Adam.

“Ambush,” he replied. “Atlas snaps us all in together.”

Atlas propped himself against the closest tree trunk. “You’re assuming he doesn’t already know we’re out here.”

“Can you put a shield around us?” Mac asked.

“As soon as we land, but not a second sooner, if we don’t want to end up out there,” he said with a jut of his chin toward the rough-and-tumble ocean, another storm moving in.

“Got it,” Adam said. “That’ll have to be soon enough.”

“Smash and grab?” Brock asked.

“No,” Robin said, and everyone’s gaze shot to him. “He’ll just keep coming. We’re two days out. We can’t afford another swerve like this. And if Pati’s working with him?—”

“She’ll just try it again,” Atlas finished.

“All right,” Adam said. “Brock, you take perimeter. You two”—he gestured at him and Atlas—“neutralize Cyrus. Mac and I will talk to Pati.” That division made sense: a warlock lookout, the two heavies on the threat, the interrogators on the unknown.

There was another variable Robin needed to know how to handle. “And if we have to kill Cyrus?” he said, gaze landing on Atlas. They’d both lost family to this war, so many, Robin most recently, and he was still tender, no time to grieve. And now Atlas’s was in the crosshairs again. Recently discovered, and an enemy, but family, nonetheless.

Not a problem for Atlas. “Then we kill him.”

Robin didn’t buy it. “Atlas?—”

“Don’t,” he said with a sharp shake of his head. “We share a sperm donor. That’s it.”

“But after we defeat Evan?—”

“There will be only one Shaw left, assuming I survive.”

Robin growled. That was not an outcome he would entertain.

“We need to go,” Adam said. “Brock, you’re up first.”

The warlock snapped to the roof, landing silently, then after a moment, signaled them all clear. They positioned themselves so Adam, the human among them, was shielded, then, each with a hand on Atlas, rode his snap into the cabin.

And froze, the sight that greeted them catching them all off guard.

Pati was asleep on the couch beneath a colorful quilt, and in the rocking chair by the fire, under a similar quilt, Cyrus sat cradling Pax against his chest. His other hand rested on his knee, gripping a pistol.

“No one fucking move,” he said, voice as rough as his appearance, then with a flick of his brown gaze to Atlas, added, “And no spells either, brother.”

“We’re not here for you,” Adam said, human to human.

“I know. You’re here for Pati and this little eaglet.” He gently patted the snoring baby’s back.

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