by Adam Silvera
“That sounds like a great choice,” I say, skating past his sex comment.
“But if I had to choose one moment, I’d go back to when Nox finally chose me.”
“What do you mean?”
“What, do you think Halo Knights call dibs on a phoenix and fly off merrily? We have to prove ourselves worthy. We reckon Nox was in his nineties when his former companion died. That bastard was apparently abusive, and if he were alive today, I would hold his face to the fire for all the aggression he took out on Nox.”
In moments I go from wondering about Wyatt’s sex life to remembering that he’s a Halo Knight who may have killed before.
“Nox had trust issues and wasn’t bonding with anyone else. He seemed especially irritated with me at age eight. I was very annoying, believe it or not. I’d begun training to become a Halo Knight around that time, employing all my nurturing lessons to show Nox that I was safe. But Nox was hard to woo. Over the years Nox seemed to regard me more favorably, but still wouldn’t commit to me by the time I was thirteen. I was the only one among my trainees who didn’t have a companion. They treated me like I wasn’t worth the dirt between a phoenix’s talons.”
Five years is a long time to wait. “There wasn’t another phoenix that caught your eye?”
“Absolutely. There was a queen slayer who’d recently resurrected, and I thought it would be lovely to care for one like my dad, but whether or not Nox was on the grounds with us or away on some adventure, I knew Nox was the right one for me. Our friendship was flickering; I simply had to tend to the fire. Then Nox returned after being gone for months. He was skeletal. Dying.” Wyatt gets up, as if magnetized back to his companion, and he kisses Nox between his eyes. “It’s an odd thing to grieve a phoenix you know will resurrect, but obsidians need roughly three years before respawning. Nox let me hold him as he died, and I protected his ashes in an iron crate. When Nox came back to life I was a blubbering mess, I’d missed him so much. He flew onto my shoulder and nibbled my ear, and we were each other’s.”
“What do you think made Nox ultimately choose you?” I ask.
“I think he understood that not only would I never hurt him, that I would show him the love he deserves. Frankly, I would’ve waited the rest of my life for him.” He turns to Nox. “Don’t go getting any ideas, my beauty. Seven years was plenty.”
This is a beautiful memory Wyatt has shared, one definitely worth retrocycling to. I’m determined to create a world where Wyatt, and all these other Halo Knights, never have to fear someone killing their phoenix companions to steal their powers. That problem began with Keon and will be resolved by me if it’s the last thing I do in this life.
Thirty-Six
Infinity Senses
EMIL
We’re gearing up in the Sanctuary’s meditation room. It’s a simple space with racked candles, incense, a banner of a sun swallower, and a vaulted ceiling with windows wide enough for phoenixes to enter, since they’re welcome here as much as anyone else. Or should I say, more than anyone else. It’s hard for us to feel welcome when a man wraps up his prayers early because he doesn’t want to be here with us. Tala hands us mats that she borrowed from one of the housekeeping families, and we roll them out on the floor. She intentionally gives Brighton the smallest one, intended for a child.
I sit in a triangle with Brighton and Maribelle while Prudencia leans against the wall.
Wyatt opens his logbook. “I spent the greater part of yesterday exploring different potential methods for a specter to retrocycle. Humans don’t hibernate in the traditional sense, but we do sleep, and perhaps more importantly, we dream. I imagine retrocycling will feel much like a dreamer with intense lucidity, but the success rate for that is not in our favor.”
“Based on what? Data from ordinary people?” Brighton asks. “We’re above their level.”
“Be my guest and prove how powerful you are by mastering a muscle that doesn’t naturally exist within any human being.”
I can practically feel how badly Brighton wants to do just that.
Maribelle is fidgety, like she’s forgotten how to stay still. “We don’t need to know what won’t work. We need to know what will.”
“You lot are no friends to suspense. Fine. I believe it is in our best interest if you set yourselves entirely on fire,” Wyatt says, showing us a page in his logbook of three stick figures with flames around them. “I take it there will be no concerns since you’re used to the fire already.”
“Yeah, but not our entire bodies.” I’ve gotten stronger since getting my powers, but throwing fire still isn’t easy. The weight of it all is so tiring.
“Your own fire doesn’t hurt you, yes?”
Brighton and Maribelle say no, but I say yes.
“Not usually,” I say, remembering how the charged-up fire-orb I threw at the force field in the cemetery knocked the air out of me. “But it’s been more painful to use my powers since Luna stabbed me with the infinity-ender.”
“I’m sensitive to that, love; I don’t want to put you through pain—”
“Then don’t,” Prudencia says. “I know you want to protect phoenixkind, but I’m speaking up for my friend. The last time Emil even so much as conjured a fire-orb he didn’t have it in him to throw it. He put himself through that to save our lives.”
Wyatt looks like he wants to counter, maybe mutter something to himself, but he nods instead. “Understood. Brighton, you’re welcome to experiment too, but perhaps our focus should be on getting Maribelle to retrocycle since she will have access to Bautista’s life as well.”
“Fine by me,” Maribelle says.
“I want to try,” I say.
“You don’t have to,” Prudencia says.
“Yeah, bro, don’t put yourself through that,” Brighton says.
“This is one of the rare times I can make the most of these powers without actually fighting,” I say. I wasn’t up to full strength during our Crowned Dreamer battle because of all the pain Ness had inflicted on me, but the constellation helped my powers. I can use them, I just have to be the strongest I’ve ever been at withstanding the pain. “I swear I’ll tap out if the fire becomes too much.”
Brighton and Prudencia seem wary while Wyatt is glowing with gratitude for my efforts. I know he’s not trying to throw me in danger, but either way, this is worth the risk. It’s how I can make good on Keon’s crimes.
I straight wish that doing the right thing was enough to overcome fear.
Wyatt walks us through everything else. Tala will coach us on measuring our breaths plus focusing and together they will try to guide us on our journeys back. We know this all might be pointless, but we’re asked to believe in this fully, otherwise we may not be able to connect to our pasts and our bloodlines. I have no reason to think this isn’t possible. I might be my roadblock if I can’t tough it out.
Before we begin, Brighton twists around. “Pru, film this.”
“This is a sacred space, and most importantly, you’re calling forth a sacred power,” Tala says with an edge. “The Halo Knights will determine whether or not a specter’s ability to retrocycle will become public knowledge.”
“Yeah, Bright, we’re trying to make becoming a specter less exciting,” I say.
“I know, but—” He stops himself. “You’re both right. I’m sorry.”
Brighton apologizing is stranger than watching him grow three heads and everyone seems to agree. Prudencia is the only one smirking. Thank the stars she’s getting through to him.
Tala seems suspicious, but for once she doesn’t have to fight back. She leads us through some deep breaths for what feels like an hour but in reality is probably only ten minutes. Even though I got some good sleep this whole thing is only making me more tired. “Focus on the lives you haven’t lived, think about what you need from them, what you hope to gain from going back,” she says. “Remember that phoenixes weren’t taught to use this power. It was pure instinct. Follow yours.”
�
�When you’re ready,” Wyatt says. “Ignite.”
Thirty-Seven
The Scent of Blue
MARIBELLE
I begin with Sera.
I will forever be a Lucero and wear that name like a badge of honor, but in blood I’m a Córdova and a de León. This biological connection with Sera will bring me closer to her, to helping me better understand her psychic powers, which have passed down to me. But I’m resisting. Mama and Papa actually taught me how to use my powers. I was seven when I stood on the balcony of the house we were staying in and I told my parents I was going to jump and fly like them. They told me I wasn’t ready but I jumped anyway and before I could crash through the dining table Mama caught me. Her hands are the ones I want to feel around me now.
I can’t resist Sera. I don’t know how much she loved me, whether or not she wanted me, or if I would’ve been safe with her, but I have to accept her if I’m going to reach her. I can’t keep acting as if she doesn’t matter because she doesn’t have any bearing on my life today, or because I feel guilty I’m not honoring my real parents. Sera being my mother doesn’t mean Mama wasn’t.
In the darkness, I struggle forward as if there’s an actual road I’m traveling, one paved with guilt and grief. The more I think about Sera raising me, the more my senses feel out of control. It’s like I’m separating from myself, like I’m being reborn as the daughter I would’ve been if Sera hadn’t been killed. I believe I can smell the color blue—ocean waves crashing into each other, baths with Atlas where he would get carried away with shampooing my hair for his own amusement, clear skies I can now fly within. I listen to pain—when I was a girl trying to glide from one tree to the next and smacked through the river’s surface, the way my heartbeat was so loud in my head when I held Atlas’s corpse.
This is unlike any sensation I’ve ever experienced, so I must be getting somewhere. I trust my instinct and grow my senses. I feel lost and found inside a space that’s warm and cool and everything and nothing. There are whispers invading my head and heart and clarity strikes me like lightning. As suddenly and oddly sure as I am that my own birth felt like being woken up by starlight, I know the person I’m hearing is Sera Córdova even though her voice is completely foreign to me. I have no idea what she’s saying, it’s as if she’s expecting me to read her lips that I can’t see, but something about this space bridging our bloodlines allows me to understand the emotions behind her words—there’s love, there’s panic, there’s sorrow, there’s defeat. Then finally relief.
I think I’m somewhere near the very edge of her death.
Thirty-Eight
The Sound of Skin
EMIL
I got to get to Bautista.
I visualize the gray and gold flames, trying to center myself, but it’s hard when I hear the fire already roaring around Brighton and Maribelle. The fear of disappointing Wyatt creeps up on me, but I got to push that thought out and keep my eye on the prize. I concentrate, heating up, and I bite down on my bottom lip to keep from screaming and ruining Brighton’s and Maribelle’s progress.
No, I got to stop. I cut out everyone else. I’m the only one in the room.
I train myself to believe that I could overheat like a supernova right now and no one else would die.
I’m trying to—no, I have to run with this faithfully. No doubts. I’m going to walk through Bautista’s life. I’m going to somehow find the right moment I need to learn the true names of the ingredients for the power-binding potions. I think about them all, memorized from all the time we’ve spent researching: burnt-berry, Shade Sea water, cumulus powder, feather-rock, ghost husk, crimson root, dry-tear, and grim-ash. Once I’m Bautista again, once I’m in his flesh and bones like I’m possessing him, I’m going to get all my answers. I’m going to bring his knowledge back with me, knowledge I would’ve been born with if Luna hadn’t killed me. No, him. No again.
I’m going to know everything I should know if Luna hadn’t killed us.
Someone whispers in my ear, but I can’t understand the words, even though my gut tells me it’s not some foreign language. It’s strange, but I almost feel like I can smell the words. They’re rank like some of the times at Nova when I didn’t brush my teeth because we were too busy strategizing how to stay alive or I was too depressed to care.
Man, this doesn’t make sense, but I swear I can hear gold. It’s heavy, but I wouldn’t compare it to an actual block of gold. The weight is like my gray and gold flames. But these flames aren’t mine. They’re Bautista’s and I can practically hear his skin, the way it must’ve panicked when those gold flames were first set alight, all those nerves hushing once it was clear that he can’t be harmed.
I’m feeling closer and closer, moving into his life—our life.
Bautista will be Emil, Bautista has become Emil, and Emil was Bautista.
We are one; we’re not even we.
Fire rages around me and my tongue is thick with blood. I’m tasting death. No, wrong again. I’m tasting life, I’m tasting the infinity cycle. There are explosions of pain throughout my body and I want to be comforted by my parents, but I don’t know the souls who parented Bautista. I’m slipping without this knowledge, like I should know those people as clearly as I know Carolina and Leonardo Rey. The fire and explosions grow tenfold, and staying in this space is as difficult as flying with weighted wings.
I’m falling, falling, falling back into my own life, and even though I trust that I’m safely sitting in the Sanctuary, the dizzying sensation and inferno within me feels like I’m an earthbound meteor.
And I no longer believe I can’t hurt those around me.
Thirty-Nine
The Weight of Nothing
BRIGHTON
I better not find Ma.
If I succeed at seeing her past, that means it’s too late. If so, it’s absolutely game over for Luna, every Blood Caster, every acolyte, every friend of a friend to the gang. It won’t be enough to disempower our enemies and have them locked up like Emil wants. If my mother is dead, I will send them all to their graves.
Anger is demolishing my focus while also making my silver and sapphire flames grow.
My instincts are practically shouting at me to convince myself that Ma is dead so I can test this retrocycling theory. It reminds me of childhood when Emil believed we could jinx our fortunes by talking about them too much, especially in regards to becoming celestials; one could argue that he was right on that one.
I’m leaning into thoughts of Ma’s fatality, searching for her throughout time. I’m not sure when I’m trying to go back to. It could be any time I guess. I decide on my birth. It could be good for me to understand that day for what it actually was. The day that I was born alone while Emil was reborn somewhere nearby. It also means I get to see Dad as he welcomes me into the world. I remember how Ma looks from all the pictures in our albums. Dark hair pulled back in a bun, no makeup, both me and Emil cradled in her arms as she smiled at Dad.
I’m waiting for some sign that this is working. A tingle, some dizziness. I stack more and more details about Ma to see if it will trigger something: Carolina Rey, only child; she took dancing classes as a kid but quit when her nerves got the best of her; she went to Comic Con while she was pregnant to get an autograph from her childhood crush; she never understood how her mother knew when she was sneaking up on her until Abuelita told Ma about the visions on her seventh birthday; she was devastated when her father died before he could walk her down the aisle like they always dreamed; she was never able to narrow down her favorite day because she said she was blessed with many.
Nothing.
On the one hand, there’s so much relief that Ma is alive and I can save her. On the other hand, if she’s alive, what conditions is she being put through?
Before I go racing out of here, I have to be sure that I actually have the power in me—that I can trust this proof that she’s alive. The flames are roaring around, drowning out Wyatt and Tala as they discuss someth
ing. Sweat is dripping down on me. I’m so hot I want to stand under Roxana’s rainstorm until I’m shaking cold. First things first: prove how extraordinary I am by retrocycling to Dad.
I once again try to return to the day I was born, except this time from Dad’s perspective. The memories come just as easy to fill out his history: Dad never missing episodes of Monday-night wrestling even though it’s staged, because he loved any sport with celestial competitors; the way he loved organizing our hardware cupboard, putting all loose screws and tools in labeled envelopes; how he used to talk so much as a kid that Grandpa would add a dollar to his allowance for every hour he didn’t utter a single word; his habit of falling asleep in front of the TV; how fondly he spoke of his friend Brighton, who apparently saved Dad from a lot of beatings on his block.
Nothing.
I open my eyes to check if anything has changed, but I see only Maribelle and Emil sitting in towers of fire as Wyatt, Tala, and Prudencia look on, concerned. I’m immediately right there with them. I swipe the sweat out of my eyes so I can see clearly. Emil and Maribelle have nosebleeds mixing in with the gallons of sweat cascading down their foreheads. Strangely, their teeth are chattering so hard they might crack if we don’t gag them with a shirt or something. In both of my attempts to retrocycle, it never felt as extreme as this looks.
They’ve pulled it off. They’re going back to Bautista’s and Sera’s lives.
“Brighton!” Prudencia grabs my hand. “Are you okay? How are you feeling?”
“Nothing happened,” I say.
“So Carolina is alive. That’s a really good start. There’s hope for her.”
Prudencia is watching Emil, and I think we’re both questioning if there’s hope for him.
“This doesn’t look normal,” I say. The heat radiating off Emil and Maribelle is intense. “Should we wake them up?”
