Infinity Son (Infinity Cycle #1)(35)

“I’ll become one of you.”





Seventeen


Training


EMIL

The Spell Walkers are no joke when it comes to getting me in shape for the streets.

Atlas coaches me on how to call for my power, and it’s harder than the pull-ups Iris has me doing with my scrawny arms during our intense workouts. Whenever I manage to summon the heavy phoenix fire, I’m supposed to try and get some hits on Wesley, which—come on—hitting a regular moving target is hard enough. Learning how to swing bones with Maribelle is off to a rough start when she has to readjust my thumb so I form a proper fist. Brighton is hyping me up from behind the camera, but there’s no way this footage will make me look like a hero to anyone.

Day by day, the Spell Walkers have got to realize they’re investing in the wrong person. But they’re not giving up on me. The bruises are building up after three days of Maribelle going in on me, and I avoid Ma whenever I have to ice them so she doesn’t know how much pain I’m in. On our fifth day of training I’m just as stunned as anyone when my balance improves, my focus tightens, and the flames feel lighter. Throwing projectile shots is so much more complicated than hitting targets in video games, and when I stop aiming for where Wesley is and start anticipating where he’ll be next, I finally hit him in his power-proof vest.

On our seventh day of training, the Spell Walkers prepare a trial run for me. All our sessions have been private, but this time Iris has invited everyone in the building to spectate, and man, there must be sixty people here who are counting on me to help save them.

“Your objective is to rescue the fallen celestial,” Iris says. There’s a dummy on the other side of the gym. “And bring them home.”

“That’s it?”

“Let the trial begin,” Iris says, and the lights dim.

All eyes are on me as I fight through Atlas’s winds to reach the dummy, like I’m caught in a storm. I’ve never stopped to think about what weather conditions I might have to face when I’m out on a mission, and it’s a new element of fear that strikes me. Right before I reach the dummy, a strong breeze starts whizzing past me, over and over. Wesley is running circles around me, and before I can stop him, he barrels into me with his shoulder. I’m knocked back into the wall with no mat to catch me. Everyone in the bleachers groans as I try picking myself up. Wesley charges again, and I cross my arms over my chest, bracing myself for another hit as my phoenix fire ignites and forms wings. He crashes into me, but this time he’s the one propelled backward. He rolls across the floor, and the crowd cheers.

I stare at my hands—my fiery wings don’t fly, but they work as a shield.

I need all this to end, so I grab the dummy’s leg before Wesley recovers. The dummy is heavier than I expected, and my arms and sides are still beyond sore from all the training. Maribelle floats out of the shadows and kicks me dead in the chin; I have no idea how my teeth aren’t raining out of my mouth. She lands and kicks me in the rib cage so hard, like I owe her money or something.

“I quit, I quit,” I cough out.

I’m not a fighter, I’m owning that.

Maribelle helps me up, and her head tilts. “We don’t get to quit.”

She twists my arm and flips me over her shoulder. The air is knocked out of me so hard I fight for my next breath. No matter how many times I’ve seen that move done in action movies, I wasn’t prepared for how much it would feel like my arm was almost ripped out of its socket or how my back feels like it could’ve been shattered.

I crouch on one knee and gesture for a time-out. “I need two minutes.”

“Not a chance in hell,” Maribelle says.

“Give me a break!”

“Would you ask the Blood Casters for a time-out? Do you think the enforcers will give you a chance to recover? Your opponents want you weak. Prove them wrong.”

Maribelle levitates and torpedoes toward me. I avoid her with a shoulder roll like she taught me. I crouch on one knee and cast fire, knocking her out of the air. She’s groaning, but I can’t check up on her; I have to focus on the mission. I’m dragging the dummy across the floor when dodgeballs throw me off my feet. Iris launches another dodgeball, and I hurl fire-darts until I’ve blasted them all apart, shreds of rubber falling between us. I drag the dummy by its legs and collapse when I cross the finish line, panting hard as people shout “Fire-Wing!” over and over.

Everyone in this room is counting on me to be this hero. Fire-Wing.

I hope they never find out that my past life is the reason they all need rescuing.

It’s been odd as all hell watching Brighton edit clips of me, but the next afternoon, the Spell Walkers have approved of what he’s calling his masterpiece, and it goes live on Celestials of New York. It’s basically a two-minute montage of everything I’ve been up to lately. There’s an epic score that crescendos during the original clip of me on the train when my power first surfaced, then slows down when I’m getting my ass kicked during training, and picks up again as I pass my trial. It’s cool, yeah, but I doubt people will have sympathy for a specter since I can’t exactly prove to the world that I was reborn into all of this. Everyone will accuse me of bringing this onto myself.

Brighton is hyped as the views skyrocket. For every ten good comments, there’s someone hoping I’m set on fire and fed to a hydra. I have to stop reading—even the supportive ones—because there’s enough pressure already. I’ve been meaning to begin one-on-one counseling with Eva like Ma has, but between training and deciphering Bautista and Sera’s notes with Prudencia, I can’t find the time. Too many people are counting on me. Myself included. Figuring out a cure is the only way I can piece my life back together.