Infinity Son

by Adam Silvera

  Atlas rolls out of harm’s way, and the black light explodes against a family photo, leaving nothing but ash. I’ve heard wands are only as powerful as the celestials who gave their blood to make them. I don’t ever want to cross paths with the celestial who is walking around with that kind of power—or with the alchemist who was willing to weaponize it for others. The shape-shifter blasts the window open, and the bang and shattering shock my senses as he takes off down the fire escape.

  “We’re here to take you to our haven,” Atlas says.

  “Who’s we?” I ask.

  “Maribelle is in the car, and Iris is guarding the entrance.”

  “It’s actually you!” Brighton says. “We met the other night.”

  “You asked for a picture.” Atlas nods. “In the middle of a fight, Brighton,” he adds with a grin.

  “You know my name?”

  “We did our research after that brawl went viral. Cool YouTube videos.”

  “Shut up,” Brighton says with wide eyes, and I know he’s breaths away from asking Atlas which videos are his favorite.

  Atlas claps his hands. “If the shape-shifter made a move for you, there’s a chance that other Blood Casters won’t be far off either. You won’t be able to come back here, so pack whatever valuables you can in the next minute.”

  I stand still as Brighton rushes to our room.

  I can’t believe the impostor was a Blood Caster—a specter with shifter blood. He must’ve been trying to recruit me. Nah, he would’ve worn his face if this was a recruiting mission. This was tricking and kidnapping. Who knows what would’ve happened to Brighton if we had followed him. Maybe he would’ve been turned into a specter too, or held hostage unless I agreed to become a Blood Caster. Or worse.

  Brighton returns with one of his rolling suitcases for his flight tomorrow and a duffel bag of his own, the sleeve of a hoodie falling out as he shoves his laptop and chargers inside. “I’m good, I think.”

  What’s going to happen to the rest of our stuff? Will enforcers storm in? It’s wild how much money got dropped on collectible figurines and video games and books, and how none of that matters now that our safety has been threatened. Atlas leads the way out of the apartment and down the stairs, with Brighton keeping close like a second shadow. I’m the last to leave the apartment, and I lock the door behind me. I run down the stairs, reliving these fond memories of going outside to play and hanging out with friends. Now I’m running away from home with my brother and one of the most powerful Spell Walkers.

  Guarding the lobby door is a short young woman with dark brown skin, shaved hair that’s dyed bright green, and a power-proof vest—Iris Simone-Chambers, the small but mighty leader of the Spell Walkers. “What took so long?”

  “The shape-shifting Blood Caster interfered,” Atlas says. “He fled.”

  Before I can introduce myself, I spot a crowd outside the building. There are half a dozen signs, but I can only make out two:

  Move over, Spell Walkers! Fire-Wing is here!

  Burn yourself with that phoenix fire!

  “You’re going to be okay,” Iris says.

  I feel like a celebrity as I step outside the building with Iris and Atlas acting as my bodyguards. I’ve never wanted to be famous; that’s Brighton’s dream. I’m the guy behind the camera, and I’m down with that anonymity. Some people in the crowd are chanting “Fire-Wing!” and want pictures while others are calling me an abomination. I don’t get how it’s possible to feel like my life is in danger when I’m being protected by Iris, who can lift a car over her head and whose skin is spellwork-resistant, and Atlas, who can suspend people with his winds, but I don’t feel safe at all.

  A car horn honks, and Maribelle Lucero leans out of the driver’s-side window of the Jeep, yelling at us to hurry up.

  When we move for the car, a figure I’d hoped I’d never see in person slides out of a sewer grate on his stomach and slithers onto the street with the smoothness of a water snake. His blond hair and clothes are dripping wet, and he smells of waste. Dark green veins branch across his pale skin. His eyes are burning eclipses before shifting to yellow pupils that shrink into slits. I nearly trip over myself trying to get away from Stanton, the Blood Caster with basilisk blood whose face can be found on so many Wanted posters for his gang-related crimes. Stanton opens his mouth and emits a spray that smells like rotted animal carcass. Blood rushes to my head and I’m so dizzy and we all fall to our knees. My heart is beating slowly. I’m nothing but prey as Stanton grips my throat and drags me through the street.

  Fighting Stanton at the top of my game would’ve been impossible enough, and all I can do now is kick at the air and tap Stanton’s wrist for mercy. I have no idea where he’s taking me. I try casting fire, but nothing. Just as I’m ready to give up, Stanton roars in pain and releases his hold. He rips a dagger out from his stomach and drops it on the ground while applying pressure to his wound. Through the haze I see Maribelle floating toward Stanton. When she reaches him, she unleashes a furious cycle of kicks against his chest until he falls.

  She scoops up her dagger by its pearl handle and eyes the bloody blade that is bubbling in red acid. “You ruined my father’s blade,” Maribelle tells Stanton, as if he threw it at himself. She helps me to my feet as Iris approaches.

  Iris sways and rights herself. “Get him in the car.”

  “Ace idea, Captain. What would we do without your brilliant commands?”

  “Now’s not the time—get out of the way!”

  Iris shoves us, and we fly a foot into the air, slam down, and roll against the curb. I pay no mind to the scrapes and aches when I see Iris is bent over as acid eats away at her shoulder—she took the hit for us. Stanton pounces, scoring punches and kicks on Iris. She tries fighting back with her good arm, but his reflexes are swift.

  “Get to the car,” Maribelle says as she runs over to fight Stanton.

  Atlas assists Brighton into the back of the Jeep with our luggage before flying over to us. Gusts of wind carry Stanton into the air as Atlas pins him against the wall, shouting for everyone to escape. I stay to help Iris.

  “I said get to the car,” Maribelle snaps.

  “I’m here to save you, Emil,” Iris groans.

  “You did, you did.”

  We get to the car, and Brighton and I sit in the far back behind Maribelle and Iris. Maribelle reaches over and slams on the horn. Atlas releases his hold on Stanton, letting him crash to the ground, and glides over and jumps straight into the driver’s seat. I can’t believe we’re moments away from escape.

  “Hang tight, Iris. We’ll get you to Eva,” Atlas says as he starts the car. “What the . . .”

  A girl with big eyes and dark silver hair and moon-white skin is rising out of the ground. She’s barefoot, drenched in sweat, and wearing a heavy sweater that trails above her knees, nearly concealing her black shorts.

  “Move out of the way,” Atlas shouts out the window. The girl doesn’t budge. “Fine.” He steps out of the car, and wind picks up around her. Trash swirls through her. She’s untouchable.

  “It’s her,” Maribelle whispers. “It’s her! It’s her!”

  “Who?” Brighton asks.

  “The celestial from the Blackout, the one from the surveillance tape.” Maribelle grabs Iris’s knee. “The one who must know what really happened to our parents!” She goes for the door, but Iris binds her with her unaffected arm. Even though it doesn’t look as if Iris is placing a lot of effort into restraining Maribelle, she can’t escape. “What are you doing? Let me go!”

  “Drive!” Iris shouts.

  “Don’t you dare, Atlas!”

  Atlas is torn, then looks out the window before kicking into gear and speeding off. “Stanton is recovering, Mari, I’m sorry.”

  The girl doesn’t move out of the way, and she phases through the car as if she’s nothing but wind.

  “Please, please, this might be our only chance to see what she knows!” Maribelle’s eyes fill wit
h more and more tears the farther we get from the block. “She could clear our parents’ names!”

  Iris groans in pain. “I know you have no problem watching me die, but we have two rescues who’ve survived not one but two fights against specters today. It’s imperative that we get them to Nova.”

  “What’s Nova?” Brighton asks.

  “Our headquarters,” Iris says. “We have a lot to catch you up on, Emil.”

  Thirteen

  Nova

  EMIL

  The world passes by in blurs as we drive to Nova. My nausea is next level with Atlas driving like enforcers are tailing us. If Iris wasn’t so obviously doing her best to not howl in agony, I would’ve begged to pull over to force myself to throw up. I need this painful stretch of a day to be over already. But even as we get closer to Nova, I have a feeling the Spell Walkers are pushing me deeper into the chaos, not protecting me from it.

  Maribelle is wrapping up a call with Wesley Young as we enter Brooklyn, going in on him for not making it to the mission to retrieve me on time. She instructs him to pick up Ma from the hospital and get back quickly before hanging up to make another call. She lets someone at the haven know that Iris was wounded by Stanton’s basilisk acid and will be in serious need of healing. If someone as powerful as Iris is fading in and out like this with her spell-proof skin, I would’ve been a goner. It’s hard to stomach a stranger getting hurt for me.

  We pull into the parking lot of a lively gas station in Bed-Stuy. Just as I’m starting to feel nervous someone will recognize me, a massive flash swallows us whole. I shout and shield my eyes, bracing for an explosion.

  “It was only an illusion,” Atlas says.

  I open my eyes, and the gas station behind us is now abandoned and run-down with shattered doors, as if it’s been looted. “So it’s safe?”

  “To the best of our available abilities,” Atlas says.

  “One day we’ll find a solution where we don’t have to worry about sellouts,” Maribelle says.

  Iris groans as she presses her jacket against her wound. “Don’t restart this fight when my shoulder is literally melting, Maribelle.”

  “I’m not going to let you forget how three of our people died because you swore a superintendent would rather do the right thing than be rich,” Maribelle says. “That wouldn’t have happened if I was in charge.”

  “But you’re not, and everyone is thanking all the stars for that one.”

  I don’t know a damn thing about the history between Maribelle and Iris, but I would’ve expected the daughters of Spell Walkers to be there for each other during their time of grief. Not going to lie, it’s hard holding hope in a team with this kind of energy.

  We drive up a hill and park in front of a two-story building where there’s a dangling sign for Nova Grace Elementary School for Celestials. I’ve long outgrown expecting the Spell Walkers’ hiding spot to be a floating structure, but I still expected it to have a little more style, like some astronomy skyscraper with all the latest tech. It’s all good; a school where celestials are able to practice their gleamcraft a little more freely is going to be its own sight to behold.

  Everyone gets out of the car, and as I enter Nova, I truly feel like a character straight out of a fantasy book who discovers he’s special and is now going to attend a school to hone his powers. Except there’s nothing remarkably fantastical such as moving staircases or glowing wells to greet me. The hallway appears to be like any other school with a little celestial flair: posters on mindfulness when it comes to using gleamcraft in public, reminders on when to wear half capes, sign-up sheets for after-school training with savants, and more of that nature.

  A young woman with brown skin and shoulder-length black hair runs out of the auditorium aiming a wand that glistens with the same rose quartz gems found in her necklace. “Password.”

  Atlas turns to Maribelle. “You have it, right?”

  “No, we were all in a rush to save Emil,” Maribelle says. She points at Iris. “Your girlfriend is in pain, Eva. You might want to get to work.”

  “Password,” Eva says again as the tip of the wand glows. Her hand is shaking, and she doesn’t take her teary eyes off Iris. “Give me the password. Come on, this is serious.”

  “Feather of fire,” Iris breathes as she sinks to her knees.

  Eva throws down her wand and is immediately at Iris’s side, inspecting her wound.

  “Maybe take them to their room?” Atlas asks.

  “Good call,” Maribelle says before instructing us to follow her, but we continue to stare in wonder. “Trust me. You don’t want to stick around. Healing isn’t pretty.”

  We keep peeking over our shoulders and can only make out Eva leaning over Iris with her hands pressed against the wound. As we head up the steps, screams echo through the hall. It reminds me of Ma’s cries when she learned Abuelita passed; I’ve never been able to get that out of my head. “Is Iris okay?”

  “Iris will be,” Maribelle says.

  “What was the holdup with the passwords?” Brighton asks.

  “Precaution. We’ve been betrayed a couple of times.”

  As we walk down the hall, Maribelle tells us the story of how their West Harlem haven was infiltrated because of a trio of celestials who were in their care. They were so paranoid about getting caught and detained that they signed up to become enforcers instead who were rewarded with high salaries and health insurance. To prove their loyalty, they exposed the haven. I don’t understand celestials who become bodyguards for politicians who are campaigning against their existence.

  Maribelle leads us into a room decorated with star charts and posters of children’s songs about prime constellations. Brass planets hang from a steel track in the ceiling, slowly orbiting and casting dizzying lights and shadows in the small space until she switches it off. “Tight squeeze, but it’s the best we can offer.”

  “We’ll take it,” Brighton says as he gazes out the window through a silver telescope.

  “What’s the plan?” I ask. “Is Eva healing us too when she’s finished with Iris?”

  Maribelle runs her hands through her dark hair and lets out a deep sigh before pulling out her phone. “Luckily for Eva, neither of you are in critical condition. She’s going to need a break.” Maribelle’s typing away while she heads for the door. “I need to keep digging online for that celestial girl, but I’ll send someone over with aspirin and snacks, and we can all circle back in a bit.”

  Before I can ask for a game plan, she’s gone.

  “Pretty cool setup,” Brighton says, inspecting more of the room. I’m sure that he’s itching to run around this building. “I wonder how long they’ve been hiding here.”

  I sit on a rug shaped like a comet. “What do they want with me?”

  Brighton joins me. “The Spell Walkers?”

  “The Spell Walkers and the Blood Casters.”

  “To join a side, I bet.”

  When we were kids, we would draw ourselves in the power-proof vests Spell Walkers wear. In Brighton’s pictures, he was always flying from one mission to the next. In mine I was teleporting, but I wasn’t thinking about using the power to escape danger the way I do now. I dreamed of teleporting onto mountains and sleeping under the stars and sailing in the middle of nowhere with my family and preserving nests for phoenixes.

  “I’ll never be a Blood Caster, but I don’t want to be a Spell Walker either,” I say with a crack in my voice. I’m exhausted and starving and scared. “And I don’t like the odds of hiding here as a rescue, since two of their havens have been exposed.”

  “You heard Maribelle in the car—they’re learning from their mistakes,” Brighton says. “Someone would have to be self-destructive to charge into the spot where the Spell Walkers have home field advantage. We don’t even know about the other celestials here and what powers they’re packing. I wonder if we’ll get to meet them. . . .” He has this faraway look.

  This isn’t how anyone should be living their li
ves. Hiding out in some school while being hunted down by enforcers and gangs. My panicked breaths increase, and a phoenix’s cry is roaring to life inside my head as I warm up. “I shouldn’t have these powers,” I say, shaking my head vigorously. “What’s to stop me from burning this place down?”

  “I will,” Brighton says, grabbing my shoulder.

  I can’t believe I tried running away alone.

  Atlas pops in shortly after with bottles of water, protein bars, and a medical kit. I throw back aspirin while Brighton bandages my scraped arm.

  The door opens, and I’m expecting Maribelle or Atlas again, but it’s Wesley. He’s a white dude about our age and height. He’s got strong curves, like a linebacker who takes no prisoners, and he’s rocking a football jersey that has the Spell Walker insignia—probably custom made but looks legit. In the poster Brighton has in our room, Wesley has a military buzz cut, but now his brown hair is grown out and pulled back into an absolutely hipster man bun that makes him even handsomer than I thought before.

  “There you go!” Wesley says. He steps into the hallway and shouts, “They’re in here!” He smiles my way and reaches out a hand to shake, but Brighton pops up and beats me to it.

  “Huge fan,” Brighton says. “I’ve lost count of how many times I watched that video where you ran up the plaza’s wall and stopped those jewel thieves.”

  “That was supposed to be a personal shopping day,” Wesley says with a chuckle before returning his attention to me. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there to back up my crew. I was on my way to Philadelphia to see my family, but I did manage to collect yours.”

  Before I can say anything, Ma rushes in with Prudencia right behind her. After the ten thousand times it’s felt like my heart has fallen out of place today, I’m shocked at how good and secure it feels after seeing my people, like I’m not as fragile as I thought. Ma hugs me so hard that my entire body doubles down in pain, but I don’t care. She’s nonstop telling me how relieved she is that I’m alive without taking breaths.