Infinity Son (Infinity Cycle #1)(3)

The figures in the air break out of shadow and into the moonlight, the Spell Walker emblem on their power-proof vests glistening like the constellation that inspired their name.

“Maribelle and Atlas!” Brighton shouts, pumping his free fist.

What has this woman done that she’s got the Spell Walkers chasing her? As her arm lights up again in white flames, I get a clear look at the woman’s eyes. There are no astral bodies swirling within like a celestial’s. They’re dark except for one burning ring of orange. An eclipse—the mark of a specter. Now I know why the Spell Walkers are after her. I don’t always agree with their violent, vigilante methods, but the Spell Walkers seem to be the only handful of heroes brave enough to admit that specters need to be stopped before they drive creatures to extinction and ruin the world. I hope every last specter gets locked up. Stealing blood from creatures to hook yourself up with powers, just because you weren’t born a celestial, is a heartbreaking crime. Regular fire-casting is scary enough, but we’re not about to hang around here if this specter is burning up with phoenix fire. I’m about to drag Brighton away, but I’m haunted by the glint in his eye. We know damn well how risky it is for someone to consume creature blood.

Specters trade their lives for power, and I pray my brother never mistakes this tragedy for a miracle.





Two


Heroes


EMIL

The specter hurls a stream of white fire through the air, its flames spreading like wings and screeching like a phoenix.

“Bro, she’s a specter,” Brighton says.

“Probably got her power from a halo phoenix or—”

I shut up as Maribelle Lucero gracefully spins away from the flames and torpedoes directly into the specter. Maribelle’s young—I’m going to guess our age, though Brighton can no doubt list off every Spell Walker’s age and favorite color—with light brown skin and dark braided hair that whips like a rope as she lays into the specter with right hooks. Atlas Haas’s blond hair is windblown as he hovers over the tents, doing his best to keep the fire at bay with gales shooting out of his palms. It’s a losing battle. The fire spreads toward apartment buildings on one side and a run-down bar on the other, residents and patrons vacating as quickly as possible.

My heart hammers—get out of here, get out of here, get out of here, get out of here.

“Bright, we got to bounce.”

“Then go.”

I’m a millisecond away from snatching the camera and hurling it like a football when the bar explodes with a deafening roar. The blast catches Atlas off guard, and he flips out of the air and crashes into a parked motorcycle. We take cover under a bodega awning as bricks rain from the sky. The waves of heat remind me of baking flan in our late abuelita’s tiny kitchen except magnified by a thousand.

Maribelle rushes to Atlas’s aid, and the specter casts white fire again.

“Maribelle, watch out!” Brighton shouts.

She spins, but the fire drives her into a car door with sickening force, as if she’s been shoved by someone with powerhouse strength.

“No,” Brighton breathes.

Most of the patrons and residents cleared out already, like geniuses with A-plus survival skills. A short woman with stars for eyes busts open a fire hydrant and guides the water into the roaming flames, but the job is too big for her. A crowd cheers on the fight. A few feet away, a pale guy with dark blond hair under his hoodie is recording the whole brawl on a phone that has a yellow wolf on the case. He doesn’t look freaked out. Probably not his first time witnessing a battle, but he’s also not staring in wide-eyed wonder like Brighton, who catches thrills from filming.

Atlas struggles to his feet. The specter is bent over, taking deep breaths as she charges up another blast of white fire, its screech weaker this time. She extends her arm to attack but stops short when a gem-grenade the size of my fist rolls toward her. The citrine blasts apart in thick shards, and currents of electricity strike the specter. She collapses, writhing in pain.

I might throw up, maybe even piss myself. Seeing people attacked online is one thing, but it’s different in person. Maribelle is sweating and limping toward Atlas. She has one hand pressed against the center of her vest, which seems to have absorbed most of the blow.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Brighton shouts, like whenever he gets an aced exam back or wins a game. He rushes off toward Maribelle and Atlas.

I’m dizzy and frozen for seconds that run like minutes before I finally follow Brighton. I try to tune out the specter’s screams, but I can’t help but wonder about her life and everything that led up to this moment. I snap out of it. Sirens blare through the streets as ambulances, fire trucks, and metallic-gold enforcer tanks seal off the corner of one block. I run to Brighton, my back to the demolished bar still blazing with white and orange fire, casting stretched-out and terrifying shadows across the street.

Brighton is kneeling beside Maribelle and Atlas as they catch their breath. “You guys were amazing,” he says, still filming. “I’m a huge fan.”

Maribelle pays him no mind, only tensing up as enforcers exit the tanks. “We got to go,” she groans.

“Yeah, they’re not going to like that you used a grenade,” Atlas says.

“I could’ve thrown snowballs and those bastards would still accuse me of turning the streets into a war zone,” Maribelle says.