Page 9 of Atlas and the Traitor

As if to prove his point, Mary continued to interrogate from where she stood. “We just want to know who the giant met with before he was killed. Simple question.”

One of the men lunged, thrusting a chair at Robin. The coyote caught the foot rail, yanked the chair free, then flung it wide, scattering the remaining onlookers.

“Get out of here,” Atlas said to Watson.

Unlike the coyote and hard-headed deity, the baker didn’t need to be told twice, joining the rest of the merchants as they cleared out with their goods, only the combatants left behind.

Ten against two. Despite what the group of humans thought, the odds favored Mary and Robin. And Atlas could hasten things along. He shoved two fingers in his mouth and whistled, the high-pitched noise drawing everyone’s attention. “How about we even things up a bit?” Palms up, he summoned two green orbs, and Robin yipped twice, a call that Atlas had only ever heard before in battle. And technically, that’s what this was, but those yips, combined with the dancing golden eyes and stretched wide mouth, canines gleaming, registered to Atlas as laughter.

Only, he couldn’t figure out who Robin was laughing at—him or the humans? Couldn’t figure out whether to throw one of his orbs at Robin for being an ass even now or if he was about to have the most fun in a fight he’d had in ages.

The quandary distracted Atlas a second too long, time enough for one of the humans to draw a gun and fire. The bullet sailed wide of Robin’s head, past a fluffy ear that was already missing its point. Atlas didn’t hesitate to hurl his first orb at the shooter, searing the gun from his hand and leaving him howling in pain.

“Guard her,” he shouted at Robin, then advanced on the remaining humans, scattering the group with his other orb before spinning up more, chucking them each time the humans tried to reassemble or attack with whatever furniture they could use. They spouted scripture the entire time, as if it would somehow magically make the warlock and shifter disappear. Even more ridiculous were their attempts to talk Mary “out from under their spell.” To try and “save” her.

Atlas laughed at the irony, a series of yips echoing him, and he had the answer to his earlier question. Laughing with him, not at him. He didn’t want to like that as much as he did.

“Atlas, get down!” Mary called from her perch, as she’d done through much of the fight, directing his and Robin’s maneuvers. Atlas dropped into a crouch, and the coyote vaulted over him, taking down the human who’d been coming at Atlas from behind. Robin knocked his makeshift spear free and pinned the man to the floor, letting loose a thunderous growl in his face. Atlas didn’t want to like that either—or the heat it sent racing down his spine.

Thankfully, he didn’t have time to get caught up in the implications, Robin roaring an order Atlas had no trouble interpreting. He hurried to take up Robin’s prior position, reaching Mary just as another of the humans had the dumb idea to engage her in a knife fight. The attacker got a slash across his chest for his idiocy, and the good little zealot act died on his next nasty breath. “You little bitch,” he seethed, as he drew back an arm, preparing to lunge with his own knife again.

Atlas caught him by the elbow. “So much for that godliness,” he seethed back, then flung the man into the nearest wall, knocking him unconscious. Robin flung another body on top of him, adding to the pile. But the five remaining attackers were reorganizing, one of them lighting a washcloth stuffed in a bottle of cleaning solution on fire.

Mary grabbed Atlas by the biceps. “I’ll bring this place down if I have to. We’ll walk out alive; they won’t.”

“Donotshow yourself.” Right now, she was just a nosy, green-haired human who was asking the wrong questions and in the wrong company. If she revealed who she truly was?—

The doors at the opposite end of the mess hall slammed open and mangled furniture was tossed aside, revealing a hulking man dressed in all black, from his hooded trench to his leather boots to the crossbow propped on his shoulder. He tossed back the hood, revealing the scarred face of Atlas’s nightmares.

“Change of plans,” Atlas said and, with another whistle, called Robin back to them. For once, thank fuck, the coyote obeyed, leaping over two attackers to land between him and Mary. “Bring it down,” he told the deity, then waited only long enough for her earthquake to shake the first ceiling beam loose before snapping them out of there.

Seven

Robin’s “Who the fuck was that?” collided with Mary’s “Where the fuck are we?” and all Atlas could do was hang back his head and exhale his exhaustion.

Nothank you. Noare you okay. Not even a second to get a drink or take a piss or to check if he was actually still in one piece. Just right into the interrogation.

“The ceiling didn’t ask you a question,” Robin mocked, and Atlas lowered his chin, ready to list the many reasons why he’d rather have a conversation with the pitched ceiling than either of them, but his words died a swift death, snuffed out by the man standing naked in the middle of his safe house.

Rays of afternoon sun streamed in through the structure’s A-frame windows, painting Robin’s freckled skin with warmth. Burnished, all of him, from the golden hairs on his muscular limbs, to the coppery strands mixed with the blond atop his head, to the swirls of red-gold hair on his chest and the wiry curls around the root of his thick cock.

Fuck, even soft it was impressive. Hard, it would be big enough to choke Atlas, to split him in two, to fill him full and make him scream.

“Eyes up here, sugar.”

Atlas snapped his gaze to the heated gold one that was unmistakably smug. Fucker. “There are extra clothes upstairs,” he bit out, as he retrieved a bottle of much-needed vodka from the freezer under the stairs.

When he didn’t hear Robin move, he poured himself a double, tossed back the shot, poured a second, then turned back around, marginally more fortified to face the shifter who seemed hell-bent on driving him mad.

Robin sat propped on the arm of the leather couch, arms crossed, legs spread, semi-hard cock resting against his thigh. At least he wasn’t unaffected; unfortunately, he wasn’t distracted either. “Now, who or what was that nightmare that walked through the door before you snapped us out of there?”

Atlas leaned against the side of the stairs. “A hunter.”

“I don’t know him.”

“Because he only works in the South, which you usually stay out of. So why venture this way now? To La Purisima, of all places.” He shifted his attention to Mary, who stood leaned against the stone wall by the double front doors. “You, especially, know better.” All the trouble Icarus had gone to to keep her out of these parts, and she was right back here. “Someone could have recognized you.”

“You killed a giant in LP,” she said, ignoring the parts of his logic she didn’t like and substituting her own. “Stood to reason Evan had been there too.”

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