Infinity Son (Infinity Cycle #1)(55)

“We should invest in coats,” Wesley says.

I cast a fire-orb for warmth and light. What I swore were branches snapping underneath my feet have actually been a trail of thin blackened bones that lead into a tree. Brighton follows the trail with his camera.

“Bright, look alive.”

“Documenting,” Brighton says.

“You really shouldn’t be here.”

“Neither should you.”

“I don’t want to be,” I say. “But it’s different and you know it.”

“I messed up, and I’m going to make this right. Showing more initiative than your favorite shape-shifter, who’s lounging at Nova and probably sweet-talking his way to get some Netflix going.”

I’m not going to get pissed at someone who doesn’t want to fight because they want to live. I get it.

“If he didn’t want powers, he shouldn’t have signed up for them,” Brighton presses.

I’m about to beg him to cut the hero act and turn around and leave when Iris signals to us to shut up. She crouches behind the statue of a headless hydra. Even though wintry winds are doubling down, I clasp my hands and crush the fire-orb, my fingers instantly cold again, so it won’t give us away.

Down a hill, the three Blood Casters are spread out like a pyramid with dark ropes connecting them, and they’re surrounded by a dozen acolytes in ceremonial robes. They’re all protecting a short man with deathly white skin and hair as gray as storm clouds. The alchemist, Anklin Prince, is standing between two graves while holding a metallic urn with a stone rim. I can’t make out the golden glyphs emblazoned on the base, but they’re burning bright as Anklin chants.

Across from Anklin is none other than Luna Marnette. She’s never out in the open. If Ness wasn’t detained at Nova, I would’ve sworn he was posing as her. But this must be legit. Her face is gaunt, and she’s staring intently at the urn. Her tangled silver hair reaches down to her waist, and there are three sheathed daggers hanging from her belt. She’s wearing laced gloves that twinkle under the moonlight. I don’t know the sound of her voice or her eye color, but I already feel so haunted by her. Ness said that she doesn’t need power to be powerful, and I get it.

I shiver as the cold strikes again. I guess messing with the dead must be responsible for these chills.

“Keep your distance, okay?” I whisper.

Brighton shakes his head. “You do your job and I’ll do mine.”

He’s going to get us killed, I know it.

We’re all huddled together, doing our best not to be seen by Luna’s people.

“We got to get that urn,” Atlas says. “Wesley, that’s all you.”

“We have no idea what those ropes do,” Iris says.

“It’s probably ceremonial,” Maribelle says. “Wesley can be in and out and we should take advantage while we still have the element of surprise—”

A bone snaps behind us and someone shouts, “SPELL WALKERS!”

An acolyte.

Atlas blasts him off his feet.

Spellwork explodes around us, blowing apart the statue’s body. Everything we planned in the car has already gone to hell, but we’ll do whatever it takes to stop Luna from capturing her parents’ ghosts. Two acolytes chase me, and the cold air is filling my lungs like the times I would run from the train station to my building during winter just so I could get inside somewhere warm. Bolts of electric blue light sail past my shoulder and blow up around my feet. I jump behind a tree that shakes after a spell shoots through it. I pop out and nail an acolyte in the ankle with a fire-dart, and the other trips over him.

I keep it moving, relieved to find Brighton crouched behind some bushes that must belong to someone who was rich as hell in life. The Blood Casters have got me straight scared with how still they are. Why aren’t Stanton or Dione or June dropping the rope to fight? It’s got to be more than ceremony. In a blur, Wesley charges toward the triad of specters and leaps into the air, but once he crosses the rope, a radiant gold force field rebounds him. Wesley flips through the air, and his back bangs against a massive headstone.

Wesley falls face-first into the dirt, the stillest I’ve ever seen him.

“Wesley!” Leaves swirl around Atlas, and he punches the air, his winds carrying six acolytes off their feet and collapsing all around.

We run to Wesley and flip him over. Atlas shakes him, but his eyes remain closed.

“Is he breathing?” I ask.

Atlas nods when he feels a pulse. “We got to get him to Eva.”

I look back and forth between the Blood Casters and Wesley. “Let’s get him out of here.”

Spellwork continues unloading around us. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the sound or the idea that someone is trying to shoot me. Can’t imagine Luna wants me as a weapon. You don’t go around snapping swords in half that you intend to stab someone with later.

“Iris!”

She fights her way back to us, hurling acolytes left and right. Every time a spell hits her, she stumbles, but none are strong enough to pierce her skin. Her eyes widen when she sees Wesley. “Tell me he’s not dead.”

“Not yet. We got to get him to Eva.”

“I should’ve let her come along, I’m so stupid—”

“No time for a guilt trip,” Atlas interrupts. “I’m going to knock out everyone, and you get Wesley to the car.”