Infinity Son (Infinity Cycle #1)(9)

I reach the forked path where one stairwell leads downstairs and the other up, which during orientation I learned was intentional out of respect for the long-standing war between hydras and phoenixes, who seem magnetized to eliminate each other. The Hydra House downstairs starts off pretty innocent, with illustrations of hydras being tamed by fishermen to catch fish and ward off bigger sea animals, but it gets progressively scarier the deeper you venture. The last room shows footage of a territorial fight between a hydra horde and a cycle of phoenixes. I was speechless and heartbroken when I first saw the clip of a massive, seven-headed hydra biting phoenixes out of the sky and swallowing them whole.

Another room I haven’t returned to since.

I race up the spiral steps to my happy place, the Sunroom. Above the entrance is a stained-glass window of an egg and phoenix connected by a ring of fire. For our thirteenth birthday, Ma brought us to this exhibit. Brighton was into it just fine, but he got impatient quick as I stopped to read every card—I wasn’t a fast reader then, and I’m still not today—and I posed for pictures in front of every display in case I never got to come back.

The Sunroom has it all: flutes that mimic the music of a phoenix cry to train and communicate; wooden and iron crossbows shaped like wings; fans made from green and blue feathers; ceremonial candlesticks for believers praying to phoenix fire for renewal when loved ones pass; eggshells ranging in size and color and texture; an hourglass with ashes inside; clay masks with massive beaks and leather jackets with feathered sleeves, close to the ones still worn by the Halo Knights today; dried tears fossilized; a row of ender-blades with bone hilts that are charred black and serrated blades as yellow as the hydra blood they’ve been cruelly forged from, designed to snuff out a phoenix and keep it from ever resurrecting.

“Excuse me,” someone says in an English accent, which is no doubt my favorite accent. My chest tightens. I turn to find a young, beautiful guy with pale and freckled skin, stubble, messy red hair, and the kind of New York T-shirt someone only wears if they’re a tourist or lost a bet. He points at my name tag. “You work here, yeah?”

“Yup.” My face warms up and I wish I could turn invisible to hide my blushing cheeks. “You need help?”

“What time are the group tours?”

“Start of every hour.”

The guy checks his watch. “I have a show to catch at half eleven. Would you mind giving me a brief tour? Promise I won’t ask too many questions.”

With a voice like that, I want to hear all his questions. I got ten minutes before my shift officially starts, and man, I have no problem working a little earlier to hang out with him. “I could show you around. You with anyone else?”

“No.” He extends his hand, which I eagerly shake. “Charlie.”

I shouldn’t be doing this. I’m far from a know-it-all like Brighton, who always has answers, but this is one of the rare times when I have tons myself. I fight back against the thought that my fitted jeans and favorite brown boots from Goodwill don’t make me look as good as I usually swear they do. I don’t even care that Charlie doesn’t appear to live here—that’s what FaceTime is for.

“So what do you want to know?”

“I didn’t realize there are so many phoenixes,” Charlie says, running his hand through his hair like I’ve seen countless models do online.

“Tons of phoenixes,” I say, while wondering if I would compare the green in Charlie’s eyes to emeralds or trees in spring. I’m fantasizing about staying up late with Charlie on the phone to hear more of his voice when I remember I’m supposed to be doing the talking here, like a tour guide who has his act together. “Check this out.” I point at the suspended phoenix models above us. “There are dozens of breeds, and the curator, Kirk Bennett, highlighted some of the more popular ones for our guests. Walking through here with the phoenixes above me is one of my favorite things.”

“Can you tell me about them?” Charlie asks.

“My favorite things?” I don’t know where to start.

“The phoenixes,” Charlie says with a smile.

I’m suddenly extra warm, but I’m not standing underneath the sunbeams filtering through the skylight. I recover, pointing at each phoenix like a star and telling their stories like a constellation: the crowned elders, who are born old; sky swimmers, who live underneath water and can set an ocean on fire with their cerulean flames; century phoenixes, who only spawn every hundred years; obsidians with their glittering black feathers and eyes so dark I once thought they’d been hollowed out; breath spawns, who dive into battle like missiles and explode against their enemies, resurrecting moments later in fields of ash; blaze tempests, who conjure the fiercest storms with massive wings, three times as large as their tiny bodies. I stop to catch my breath after telling him about the sun swallowers, who breathe the hottest fire, but also burn out fastest of any breed.

“Amazing,” Charlie says. He wanders over to the replica of one of history’s most famous phoenixes. The gray sun phoenix is propped on a bronze perch. It has pearl eyes, a gray belly, dark tail, yellow wings, and a gold crown. In front of the model are pictures of the specters Keon Máximo and Bautista de León. “Sort something out for me. I read about the queen slayers that used to claw dragons in the eyes—now that’s a real phoenix! Why did these men bother with the gray suns?”