Infinity Son (Infinity Cycle #1)(4)

Brighton’s phone is at the ready. “Mind if I get a quick picture with you two?”

“Bright, dude, let them go,” I say.

“Right, right.”

Four enforcers shout for everyone to freeze as they approach with wands. I don’t move a single muscle. It’s not uncommon for celestials to sign up to become enforcers, but the majority of people on the force don’t have powers of their own, so they’re trained to cast attacks at the first sign of danger. Too many celestials have been stunned and met untimely deaths because of hotheaded enforcers.

“Don’t move,” I tell Brighton.

I watch all the enforcers, wishing I was also geared up in their bronze helmets and sea-green power-proof vests. My breathing speeds up, and my legs tremble, and I’m terrified the enforcers will mistake my shaking for an ability I don’t have.

In the middle of the street, an enforcer trains her wand at the specter as another secures her with gauntlets and shackles to render her temporarily powerless.

Atlas’s back is turned to the enforcers, and he has a wordless exchange with Maribelle that makes me nervous. She takes a deep breath and nods, and her eyes burn like sailing comets while Atlas’s swirl like billions of stars caught in a black hole. Atlas rolls to the side while Maribelle levitates. A gust of wind knocks me and Brighton into a car as spellwork explodes around us, loud like firecrackers. I make sure Brighton is all good before checking out the action from underneath the car. Enforcers are swept off their feet, wands rolling away from them. Strong winds lift Atlas, and he grabs Maribelle out of the air. They fly over an apartment building and out of reach of the spells being shot their way.

“Emil, let’s go. Get up. Come on.” Brighton crouches as he runs in the opposite direction of the enforcers. Now that the Spell Walkers are gone, he finally wants to leave. Of course.

I was never the sort of kid who ran in the halls, talked during class, or crossed the street when it wasn’t my light, because I hate getting in trouble, but right now it’s as if I’m possessed by the bravest of ghosts as I pound the pavement, zigzagging away from the enforcers in case they take another shot at me. If it weren’t for Brighton bouncing, I would’ve hung tight, my face kissing concrete and arms outstretched in the hopes that the enforcers would realize I’m not dangerous. Being associated with the Spell Walkers after the Blackout is a gamble we can’t afford to take.

Couple blocks later, we hop on a bus that’s headed home. We take advantage of how empty the back is, stretching out. We’re drenched in sweat, and I desperately want a gallon of water to drink and pour over myself.

“You okay?” I ask, while massaging the elbow I landed on and trying to breathe past the sharp pain from my rib cage.

Brighton’s arms are scraped up from the fall, but he doesn’t seem bothered. “That was a rush! We got to meet the ultimate power couple!” He sounds like he’s bottled all the joy in the world, and I really wish I had some to drown out my panic. “Atlas even used his winds on us. I hope the camera caught that.” He stares at me. “Where’s my tripod?”

“Oh, I don’t know, I left it behind somewhere between the specter burning the street down and enforcers shooting at us. I can run back and get it.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Brighton says.

“That wasn’t a real offer.”

Brighton rewinds the footage. “The ad money I should be able to make off this video will pay for another one.”

“How can you think about your video right now? Enforcers shot at us, and Maribelle almost killed someone.”

“No one would’ve blamed her if she had. That specter was raising hell.”

I don’t know the specter’s name or anything about her life to argue that there’s a good bone in her body, but I still didn’t like seeing her on the ground with a wand aimed at her. Who knows if the enforcers will lock her up in the Bounds with everyone else who has powers or make her disappear completely.

I’m not about where this conversation is headed. This isn’t over something stupid, like Brighton wearing my shirt because he needs to rock something new for a video or me borrowing his bike without checking in.

My phone buzzes. It’s Prudencia texting to wish us a happy birthday; for the first time ever, we’ve missed celebrating our midnight minute. Eighteen is off to a rough start. Dad would’ve been disappointed. I’m so tight that Brighton’s not going to catch me throwing out a fist bump and acting like everything’s good.

“Why are you mad?” Brighton asks, taking his eyes off his camera. “Because I would’ve been fine with that specter dying? The Spell Walkers save more lives than they take, but if they have to kill, I trust they’re taking the right lives.”

I don’t want to engage—I’m one of those angry criers, and Brighton is straight pissing me off—but I can’t shut up. “We don’t get to decide which are the right lives to take.”

“Ever since the Blackout, the game isn’t what it used to be,” Brighton says. “I’m not going to get mad at good people killing bad people.”

Truly tempted to get off the bus and walk home alone. “It’s not a game.”

“You know what I mean. People die in wars, that’s inevitable.” Brighton leans forward and nudges my knee. “If we had powers, we could’ve helped them. The Reys of Light, right?”