Infinity Son(10)

Yo, it’s like everything I found attractive about Charlie has been sucked away: his English accent is no longer music to my ears, his green eyes are not worth poetry, and dude needs to make a decision between growing out his beard or shaving because stubble is not the look.

“No one should harm innocent creatures for any reason,” I say defensively, but I’m unable to look him in the eye. “You’re also super underestimating the gray suns. Every time they’re reborn they come back with stronger fire and sharper instincts. Gray suns are good for a fight, but they aren’t weapons. They’re so . . . good-hearted, and they rescue wounded travelers in the wild and protect all animals and creatures.”

“These thugs killed them anyway,” Charlie says. “Why?”

I stare at the gritty photo of Keon Máximo, the alchemist who transformed into the very first specter. Keon’s piercing slate eyes are gazing to his left as he bites down on his thin bottom lip, and his ashy blond hair flows underneath his hooded cape.

Before I can try to answer, a voice behind me says, “Keon Máximo is responsible for this chaos.” Kirk Bennett is in his early thirties, and he’s got a brilliant mind. I wish he could take me under his wing. My eyes are drawn to the bright blue sky swimmers tattooed on his pale wrist as he continues to speak emphatically with his hands. “No one knows Keon’s motive, but historians believe the explanation to be simple—he wanted power.”

“You lot lucked out when this man stepped in,” Charlie says.

He points at the picture of Bautista de León: buzz cut, brown eyes, a shadow of a beard, and the original Spell Walker power-proof vest, which has the insignia sprayed on the chest like graffiti.

“His history is complicated because unfortunately we don’t possess direct answers,” Kirk says. “Some believe Bautista to be a hero, because while he was alive, he kept the threat of specters in check. Others point to the fact that by nature, as a specter himself, he couldn’t be a hero and was simply someone eliminating the competition so he could rule the city. Whether or not there’s any truth to Bautista sourcing his powers from a gray sun phoenix who had already been cut by a hunter’s infinity-ender, communities are still outraged that he perpetuated the cycle of creatures being killed for one person’s benefit.”

“They don’t even get all the powers,” Charlie says. “These men were never reborn, yeah?”

Kirk shakes his head. “Thankfully not. Phoenixes resurrect at different rates, of course, but no specter with their blood has ever reappeared. It would be a tragedy for phoenixes everywhere if their resurrection proved successful among humans.” He looks up at me with his thick frames. “Shouldn’t you be clocking in?”

“I thought you were working,” Charlie says to me.

“Have a great day,” I say, just to be on my professional flow, but I keep my eyes low as I head out.

Working up here in the Sunroom is the dream, but I go down the next set of stairs and walk inside the gift shop, where I actually make my money. One afternoon when I was visiting the Sunroom as a guest, sketching the suspended phoenixes, Kirk complimented my art, and I expressed how much I wanted to be a tour guide here one day. Kirk returned shortly with an application. I thought it was to work with him, but nope, just an opening in the gift shop. Wasn’t what I wanted, but it was a foot in the door.

My coworker, Sergei, is working the cash register. My anxiety spikes as he side-eyes me, and I pick at my cuticles before clocking in and taking over the register so he can handle some business in the office. The shop is busier than usual, thanks to some kid’s birthday gathering, but I knock out the line in minutes and get everything back in shape.

We only carry phoenix merchandise, and if I was better off, I’d be cashing my checks and giving them right back to the museum to buy these prints all done by local artists. I tidy up the ash-tempest plush dolls and restock the common ivories, which are top sellers even though they’re more snow white than they should be. I’m taking inventory with a faux-phoenix feather pen when Kirk walks in.

Kirk is short, with a thick beard that reminds me of Dad, and he’s always dressed in an oversized suit. I wonder if he’s hiding his body too, or if he doesn’t know how to shop for himself. None of it is my business, and this is the same kind of nonsense that invites people to comment on my own body.

You’re like a skeleton.

You need to eat more.

You look sick.

You’re so gaunt.

Normally whenever Kirk swings through the gift shop, he checks in on how his nonfiction book about one of his expeditions is selling—never well—but I know today is different.

“I’m sorry for giving that guy a tour,” I immediately spit out, since he’s no doubt here to remind me of my place. “I couldn’t beat the combo of him being interested in phoenixes and looking like that. If I’d known he was such an idiot about blood alchemy, I would’ve backed off.”

“Other countries have their own corruptive figures, but nothing in recent memory in the way of Keon, or even devastations like our Blackout, for that matter. They don’t understand how tense it’s gotten here in the States.” Kirk opens his folder, turning past pages of sealed crates and guard services. “I still don’t have an opening for you in the Sunroom, but I could use some assistance on a project that might bring in enough money to refresh our exhibits.”