Infinity Son(23)

Twelve


Fire-Wing


EMIL

Ten minutes into my journey, I ignore everyone’s calls and speed up before they figure out what I’m up to. I’ll reach out later when I’m somewhere safe. I round the corner to my building and rush up the steps. I bump into my fifteen-year-old neighbor and knock the trash bag out of her hand.

“Watch it, you—” Her eyes widen.

“Sorry,” I say, picking up her trash bag.

“Hi.” That’s a first. “I need a picture with you!”

“I have to go, sorry.”

Everyone thinks my life is so damn cool right now. They don’t have to live it.

I’m nervous when I enter the apartment. Whenever someone finds out they’re special in movies, they return home and find upturned furniture, scattered papers, and broken glass. But all is good up in here. I’m the only piece that feels out of place. I grab a duffel bag and resist throwing any mementos inside, just clothes. I cast one last look at the bedroom where I grew up and wonder if anywhere else will ever feel like home again. I fight back tears and leave my bedroom before I talk myself into staying and endangering everyone.

The door opens, and I freeze, expecting the worst. Brighton walks in, panting, and locks the door behind him.

“You ran,” Brighton says, setting down his backpack.

“You left Ma and Prudencia?”

“To rent a death-trap scooter and chase you down. Where do you think you’re going?”

“If enforcers swing through, I can’t be here. I don’t know what’s happening to me, but this phoenix fire business is my mystery to solve, and I can’t risk you getting hurt while I figure it out.”

Brighton shakes his head. “Too damn bad. Wherever you go, I go. It’s us against the world. The Reys of Light.”

“You have to protect Ma,” I say. “You’re all she’s going to have left.”

Someone knocks on the door.

“Probably the neighbor,” I say.

“Stay back.” Brighton looks through the peephole.

I stay put even though I’m the one who can set someone on fire, but fear strikes hard at the possibility of enforcers waiting for me in the hallway for damaging public property and endangering passengers during the brawl.

“No way,” Brighton says.

My heart races. I’m about to make a run for it to the fire escape until Brighton smiles.

“It’s Atlas.”

“I can hear you talking. Open up, it’s urgent,” Atlas calls from the hallway.

A Spell Walker is here—this unreal day keeps topping itself.

Brighton opens up, and Atlas lets himself in. He’s wearing his power-proof vest again and appears incredibly nervous. He looks over Brighton’s shoulder and locks eyes with me. “You already packed a bag. Great. We have to get out of here now,” Atlas says. “People are coming for you.”

“Go where? Who’s coming?” I ask.

“Taking you to base.”

“I’m going with him,” Brighton says.

“Absolutely not,” Atlas says.

“Then I’m not going with you.” If the Spell Walkers are offering me refuge, I want protection for my people too. If not, maybe we can all escape to another country where specters aren’t public enemy number one.

“Do you have powers?” Atlas asks Brighton.

“No. I would’ve totally helped you the other night if I did,” Brighton says.

“What?”

“When you fought off that specter. Remember? I was the one who asked to take a photo with you,” Brighton says, though Atlas cocks his head in confusion. “It’s okay. There was a lot going on, and you meet a lot of people. I’m a huge fan. I loved when you fought off those traffickers and rescued that psychic from her father. I have your Funko Pop and—”

“Stay here and play with your toys,” Atlas says. “Emil, come with me. Leave your brother out of this.”

I stare at Brighton. It’s his call if he wants to follow me or not. Brighton holds out his fist, and I do the same, fist-bumping and whistling. We stand together.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Atlas says. “There’s no time to pack. Let’s go.” He rushes out the apartment, immediately returning and locking the door behind him. “Blood Caster is outside. Is there another exit?”

“Blood Caster?”

“Another exit! Come on!”

“Fire escape.”

I lead the way as the front door flies off its hinges and in walks Atlas. Again. The Atlases stare at each other. The new one is wearing a solid black T-shirt underneath his power-proof vest, and a scar peeks out of his sleeve. The shadows under his eyes are darker than I remember.

The new Atlas stares at the other. “What the hell?”

“That’s an imposter,” the first says. “Probably has shifter blood.”

“That’s you and you know it!” The new Atlas stares at his twin. “You got my freckles all wrong. Not enough on the forehead and none on the neck.” He smiles. “You also can’t do this.” He lifts his hand, and a funnel of high-pressured wind blasts into the first Atlas’s chest, flipping him over the couch. “Come with me,” he says to us.