“Several explosions are being reported from the security guards at Cathedral City Asylum,” Sheila says.
I look at Thomas and he shakes his head. “Wasn’t me. I swear to God, it wasn’t me.”
“I think it was me.” We all turn to see Molly holding a headset up to her face. Her eyes are downcast and her shoulders are slumped. She forces herself to look me in the eye. “I guess I’m not the hero of this story after all.”
Chapter Fifty-One - Lincoln
Thomas hit his self-imposed Friday deadline. I admit, I’m surprised. Twelve hours ago we were racing away from the scene of a massive explosion at Blue Castle. The whole electrical grid went down, the town went black, the asylum exploded, and Channel Nine somehow got a hold of Chief O’Neil’s indiscretions over in the Merchant District. There have been no fewer than four news conferences this morning. Thomas is about to start number five.
It’s been a pretty fucked-up twelve hours.
Well, unless you’re us. Because it’s been pretty sweet for us.
I’m watching Thomas on TV, Molly still sleeping, her head resting on my chest as I play with her hair. She’s been changed, just like me. But we’re still not sure exactly how. Sheila has the bots running tests on her blood and DNA, but it will take time to figure it all out.
She’s slipping into a depression over it, I think. She is convinced that the Blue Boar made her blow up Atticus and her mother. Somehow, some way. She won’t listen to any other explanation. She blames herself for all of it.
It’s dumb, but it’s natural. And she will come out of it sooner or later once she gets some perspective. All she needs is time. “We’ll get all the answers, Molls,” I whisper into her. “We’ll solve all those leftover mysteries and you’ll be better than ever. I promise.”
She stirs slightly as Thomas begins to speak on the screen.
“Good morning, citizens of Cathedral City,” Thomas says, beginning his announcement. “We are all reeling together as the explosions at Blue Corp and the Cathedral City Asylum sink in. And some might say this is not the right time for such an announcement, but I say it is.”
Thomas’ expression hardens as he looks straight into the camera.
“I say today is the perfect day to announce that I have initiated a hostile takeover of Blue Corp. And the gross negligence you witnessed last night due to improper chemical storage will never threaten the safety and wellbeing of Cathedral City again. SkyEye will incorporate and take over all of Blue Corp’s many subsidiaries.”
His stare is like granite. He’s so focused on these words.
Who is he talking to? I wonder. Not the city. Not me or Case, who is downstairs in the cave recovering from his shoulder injury after Sheila injected him with jellyfish goop. Not Molly. Not the Blue Boar—he’s dead. Blew that motherfucker’s skull to pieces, I did.
“By this time next week,” Thomas continues, “I will be a steward of the community in a way that Blue Corp never was. SkyEye,” he says, pointing up to the satellites that hold vigil above, “will take care of you.”
Atticus, I think. Even though Molly thinks he’s dead, blown up in that explosion, I don’t think he is. Sheila reported a city-wide blackout at the time of Blue Corp’s explosion. That would’ve been twenty minutes before the asylum one happened.
Plenty of time for an Alpha like Atticus to get away.
So I think Thomas is talking to Atticus. A warning, maybe. A warning that says, Don’t try it, brother. You had your chance and this one’s mine.
Thomas still creeps me out. He’s probably gonna fuck Cathedral City up in a way Blue Corp never even dreamed of. He’s psychotic and emotionless and all that talk about satellites taking care of people should be sending chills up every spine within a hundred miles.
But fuck it. That’s what happens when people lose respect for good and evil.
Even the bad guys get to win sometimes.
Epilogue - Molly
Two Months Later
“Oh, my God. What the hell is that?”
“Don’t answer it,” I whisper to Lincoln. “It’s bad news.”
“Sheila!” he bellows from under the covers of our bed. We’ve been staying in his little house above the cave since the whole let’s-take-over-the-town debacle. Sheila has been unbearably snoopy and invasive as far as our private lives go. “The fucking doorbell!”
“I’m sorry, Lincoln,” Sheila says from his phone sitting on the nightstand. “It’s a delivery for you and Molly. And since I have no access to the house, you’re going to have to answer it yourself.”
“Bitch,” he mutters. “It’s Sunday! There are no deliveries on Sunday!”
The doorbell rings again, several times in succession.