Infinity Son (Infinity Cycle #1)(31)

I start crying as we fist-bump and whistle, because there’s one light that this storm of a day hasn’t managed to blow out. “You’re not my sidekick. You’re my brother.”





Fifteen


Infinity Son’s Brother


BRIGHTON

No one believed me. I knew we weren’t going to be screwed with some normal life. I called it.

I had that blood-and-bones feeling Emil is always making fun of, but I was right, we’re supposed to be part of this epic fight. Right now, Emil is the only soldier the Spell Walkers are interested in, but I’ll prove to them that I can be a weapon too.

End of the day, everyone knows it should’ve been me—the powers, the past lives. All of it. I’m built for the Spell Walker life, and Emil isn’t. I’m not knocking him. He would also tell anyone that I would pull off gleamcraft better than he ever will.

I’ll prove it when the Crowned Dreamer finally turns me into a celestial.

In the meantime, I really hope we get to stay, but that’s riding on Emil’s decision. But going to Los Angeles for college seems so small now. There’s a country of celestials to save. We can’t turn our backs on them.

I’m not waiting around for Emil and Prudencia to wake up, so I get off my air mattress to walk around Nova and get my mind off the family bombshell. Last night, when Emil and I came down from the roof, we returned to our room and told Ma we needed space because we weren’t ready to talk yet. I don’t think today is the day either, if I’m being honest.

Outside our room is a group of kids who bounce in glee before running off. Word’s out we’re here. In other classrooms and offices, people are waking up, folding away their cots and sleeping bags. I pass a computer lab where a child is crying into a woman’s arms, and I want to know their story. In a Spanish class, there’s a group of girls reading books, and one is hovering several feet in the air, positioned as if she’s lying on the floor. Levitation is obviously a common ability among celestials, but I’m still usually impressed, no different than watching someone bench-press hundreds of pounds without powerhouse strength.

The gym is busy with celestials playing basketball with their powers. A girl dribbles the basketball with no hands. I’m guessing she’s telekinetic, but maybe it’s something else, like an affinity with rubber or air that’s allowing her to control the ball as she bounces it between the legs of her opponent and tries passing it to her partner, only for another girl to appear out of nowhere, intercept the basketball, and disappear as quickly as she came. The teleporter makes her way through the court, several feet at a time, and no one stops her from reaching the hoop and dunking.

These celestials make gleamcraft look like it’s all fun and games. I don’t know what they went through so that they found themselves under Spell Walker protection, but whatever it is, I’d use it as fuel to get out on the streets and create a better world. If my brother has to fight, so should they.

The teleporter spots me. “He’s here!”

The way she disappears and reappears repeatedly reminds me of a video game lagging. Everyone else on the court and bleachers surrounds me too, with wide eyes, talking over each other.

“I can’t believe you fought a specter!”

“You should help us train!”

“I can conjure water. We should be partners!”

“You’re so brave! What was going through your mind?”

Before I can speak, one boy’s eyes narrow. “He doesn’t have powers. He’s just the brother.” He walks away.

“Oh,” the water conjurer says, but he’s nice enough to stay put.

These celestials should recognize me for who I am because I’m not just the brother, I was also out on the front lines fighting specters, and I did it without powers. That was beyond brave. It was one thing for my own subscribers not to hang out with me at Whisper Fields, but being mistaken for Emil is a roller coaster I hope I never have to ride again. People know and love me—check any of my accounts, which I built from the ground up.

“Do you know where I can find Wesley?” I ask.

“Probably the professors’ lounge,” the telekinetic girl says.

The idea that Wesley, who’s one year older than me, would be in a professors’ lounge is hilarious, but I go downstairs and check it out anyway. There are blankets thrown across the couches, but no one underneath. No idea who sleeps in here. I go down the hall, following music, and enter the room to find Wesley poorly playing the flute on a cot, Eva writing in a journal on a piano bench, and Atlas sitting by an outlet while his phone is charging.

Wesley lowers the flute when he sees me. “I swear we’re working.”

“Every revolution needs a soundtrack,” Eva says.

“Every hero needs a break from their warring girlfriends,” Atlas adds.

Eva raises a water bottle like it’s a glass of champagne. “Maybe if Iris and Maribelle hit each other around, they’ll finally stop fighting.”

“You’re the worst pacifist,” Wesley says, and I have to agree. There was nothing peaceful about the way Eva pointed that wand at us. “If I still gambled, my money is on Iris,” he adds.

“No comment,” Atlas says.

“You’re betting on Iris too?” Wesley pushes, but he doesn’t say anything. “Brighton, grab a seat.”