Page 55 of The Bonds of Indigo

“She’s smart. We don’t have anything to worry about in regards to her running.”

“Too weak to run off?”

“No…” he hums. “I trust her more now that we are friends. If she says she’s not going to run, she isn’t.”

These feelings of anger can’t be healthy. I don’t even know this girl, yet the mere thought of him trusting her so suddenly, after just one night, sends my mind racing. What happened last night to make them friends?

I cannot be jealous over someone I don’t even care about.

“Why do you say that.” It’s not a question, but a fucking demand.

He laughs anxiously. “It was just something that happened.”

“And that was?”

Something shifts in my chest. It’s the same thing that happened last night when I pestered him over telling me about her back. He said she had a lot of tattoos, or markings that looked like them, and couldn’t understand how she got them if she was in prison because they looked fresh. I know he’s lying, but I can’t fathom why.

“We shared a drink.”

I swear a vein in my neck pops.

“And friends share drinks.” He then smiles sweetly at me. “I’m going to get her. You going to pick which car we steal?”

Without waiting for me to respond, he turns his back to me and heads down the strip of motel rooms until he gets to her door. I pinch the bridge of my nose and look away from him, instead just listening.

He knocks softly on the door, and I can hear the soft patter of her feet approaching before she slowly opens it.

“Good morning, Amarah.”

“Morning.” There is really only one word to describe her tone: detached.

“Did you get some sleep?”

He’s so nice now… Was it really them sharing a drink that turned his attitude toward that killer around? Maybe it’s because he knows that I need Amarah, so he’s playing house. And honestly, I appreciate it.

But genuinely, I know Atlas is a great guy. This is just who he is, and his words from when we were serving in the militia together come right back into my head: “I’m Mundane, Sargent Butcher. I don’t live long enough to be living a life of hatred. I’ll just separate myself from the toxicity, because why would I waste what little time I have on someone unworthy?”

“Where are we heading?”

As she asks her question, I’m already on my feet, taking the last two steps down the stairs and heading toward them. Atlas is leaning against the doorframe while the little slayer is hidden, still inside her room.

“We will need to get out of here, but we need to snag some essentials for…” He groans and looks over at me. “Camping. You know, I’ve backpacked enough in my militia days, Butcher.”

“I don’t mean to be rude, but why do you need to come?”

Atlas slams his palm to his heart, mock gasping. “Ouch. What a hurtful thing to say to your new friend!”

He steps back, and out comes Amarah. She’s wearing a white dress that drags along the floor as she walks. It’s long-sleeved, with no cut at the chest or down the back. The only skin showing is her shoulders, neck, and obviously her face. The fabric doesn’t cling to her—it flows, just like her slightly wavy hair.

When her head tilts in my direction, her eyes, rimmed red, meet mine.

“I’m your connection to finding those gates. I’ve got access to the militia database, for now. We just need to stay on the move, head in the direction of openings, and pray that you can do your channeling thing.”

Her lip curls up in a mocking way toward me. “You look like shit, Butcher. Guess none of us got any sleep last night.”

I release a heavy breath. “Yeah, had a lot on my mind.”

“And you just had to share with the class.” Her tone is anything but friendly. She then turns back to Atlas. “Fine, but could we go to another town to get what we need?”