Infinity Son

by Adam Silvera

  The station cuts back to the anchorwoman. “As you can see, Senator Iron remains troubled discussing the Blackout after losing his son, Eduardo, who was on a class trip in the Nightlocke Conservatory when the Spell Walkers demolished the building with their powers, taking the lives of six hundred and thirteen people this past January.”

  I stand by the theories I voiced on YouTube about how someone else must’ve framed the Spell Walkers for the Blackout to move their own agenda.

  But what do I know? Go ask a valedictorian.

  As for Eduardo Iron, I’m not dropping tears for him. When he was alive, all he did was bad-mouth and bully celestials and incite more violence. There are better people to mourn.

  We get it together and head out. When we reach the park’s entrance, Prudencia is waiting for us. This day has finally brought me something good.

  Prudencia Mendez is glowing in a knotted T-shirt, navy shorts, boots that make her look like an archaeologist, and her late mother’s watch, which doesn’t work but never leaves her wrist. Her black hair is pulled up in a long ponytail. When I go in for a hug, her brown eyes narrow and she shoves me.

  “I almost didn’t come, but then I wouldn’t be able to hit you,” Prudencia says. “You idiots could’ve died.”

  “We were fine,” I say.

  “We’re not fireproof,” Emil says.

  I glare at that traitor. “Prudencia, even you have to admit I was brave to record that power brawl like a true journalist.”

  “Not a journalist. You’re being a fanboy who doesn’t care about his life or his brother’s.” There’s no lightness in her voice. “Your life isn’t worth fifteen minutes of fame, Brighton.”

  “Tell me about it. My video hasn’t even reached a hundred thousand views yet.”

  “That’s a new record for you,” Emil says. “Wasn’t that long ago when you were celebrating one thousand views.”

  “Dreams grow,” I say.

  “Last night was a nightmare,” Prudencia says. “One I know well. Losing my parents to wand violence was already too much, and if you can’t promise me that you’ll leave the next time there’s chaos, then I don’t want you in my life.”

  I’m not going to be responsible for breaking her heart.

  “I promise,” I say.

  “Same,” Emil says.

  Prudencia lets out a deep breath and hugs Emil, then me. I relax into her hug, which seems longer than the one she shared with Emil—probably something to do with our whole will-we-or-won’t-we thing we’ve had going on since meeting in high school.

  The timing has always sucked. I dated my first and only girlfriend, Nina, through freshman and sophomore year, then broke that up after finally admitting to myself I saw Nina more as a friend and Prudencia as more than that. Before I could express anything, Prudencia started flirting with our classmate Dominic. Definitely didn’t help that of all people Prudencia could’ve dated, she linked up with a celestial who could travel through shadows. For weeks after, I was nonstop calling Dominic a snob for not agreeing to be on my series, and I’ll never admit this out loud, not even to Emil, but my recent buzz cut may have had something to do with modeling it after Dominic’s hair. Their downfall was a combo of Prudencia’s aunt being as intolerant as they come, and Dominic’s parents only wanting him dating other celestials to preserve their bloodline, as if he was trying to be some young dad. Secret-keeping got to them, and they broke up.

  I’ve still got a few days before I go; maybe Prudencia and I can click into place before then. Find a way to make it work across the country.

  We get deeper into Whisper Fields, named so in honor of Gunnar Whisper, a late-bloomer celestial who took charge in the Undying Battle of Fountain Stone against gangs of necromancers. The textbooks of course credit the win to ordinary soldiers who fought off those ghost-raising maniacs with wands, gem-grenades, and gauntlets—all man-made by celestials, though people are quick to forget that—but I’m not shy about making sure anyone and everyone knows about Gunnar’s glory and how proud I am to share Bronx roots with this hero who truly saved the day. The statue is erected by the lake where Gunnar first came into his power of clairvoyance at twenty-three years old, and I always feel this electricity in the air whenever I’m near it, like maybe I’m moments away from discovering I’m a celestial too, who will one day have a park named after me, or that Prudencia and I will take a step into a cooler future together.

  But as I approach Gunnar’s bronze monument today, there’s this dread unlike I’ve ever had before. I expected to find dozens of Brightsiders waiting for me underneath the shade provided by Gunnar’s salute, but I can only make out . . . one, two, three, four, five, six . . . seven. Seven people.

  “No one showed,” I say.

  “There are fans literally waving at you,” Emil says.

  “Seven people.”

  “It’s still early.”

  “And train traffic,” Prudencia says.

  “Got any more excuses?” I point at the blue skies. “Should we blame the weather too?” I put on a smile and wave back at my fans. “Let’s knock this out.”

  I chat with the six Brightsiders—turns out the seventh person is a friend tagging along—about their favorite videos. I grow more and more self-conscious as Emil films, my original vision for the video with big crowds surrounding me completely collapsing. Someone of Lore’s caliber—a successful YouTuber—would never have to learn their fans’ names or have lengthy conversations outside the comments sections, because of their high demand. I bottle those ugly feelings and put on a grateful face as a couple more people trickle in for quick hellos before the hour is up, and I’m left lounging by the lake with Prudencia and Emil, using the unsold T-shirts as a pillow.

  “I know it’s not what you wanted,” Prudencia says, dipping her feet in the water. “But you made their days.”

  “I’m a failure on every level. I had the superior video, and it didn’t go viral. I mean, come on, I was deep in the action. And now this meet-up was a bust, and . . . whatever.”

  I shut up because complaining isn’t a good look in front of Prudencia; I’ll be a punk in front of Emil later. I gather all the swag and beeline toward the exit. Celestials are bravely playing beam-disc, which is basically Frisbee with someone’s conjured energy, but I’m not in the mood to watch other people show off their powers, so I keep it moving.

  Hours pass, and I become more tightly wound, waiting for something extraordinary to happen. During my shower. When I’m changing. While we eat dinner with Ma at Emil’s favorite vegan diner in Brooklyn. After we get home, I spend time alone on the roof, staring up at the faint outline of the Crowned Dreamer, barely noticing when Emil climbs up the fire escape.

  “You good?” Emil asks, tossing me my hoodie.

  I’m freezing, but I can’t bring myself to put it on. “It’s not going to happen, is it?”

  “No, but it’s okay. You’re already a hero because of all the stories you’re telling with Celestials of New York.”

  “More like a sidekick,” I say. “Aren’t you bummed we’re not going to be the people’s champions?”

  “We don’t have to be chosen ones or whatever to do good.”

  We sit in silence as I pray to the Crowned Dreamer to change my life. But when midnight hits, I turn my back on the stars. We go down the fire escape, through our window, and straight into bed, where we fall asleep, as painfully ordinary as we’ve been the last eighteen years.

  Five

  A Cycle of Phoenixes

  EMIL

  The train’s air conditioner shutting down sucks in this September heat, but for once the train is getting me to the Museum of Natural Creatures early enough that I can linger a little before my shift begins. My back is sweating by the time I enter the cool indoors. It’s all good—my body is hidden thanks to the baggy work polo I ordered one size larger. I check my bag through security and throw on my name tag, stealing a second to marvel at the massive coal-black fossils of a primordial
dragon suspended from the starlit ceiling. It sucks that I’ll never get to see a dragon in my lifetime, but it’s probably for the best they’re all extinct so we don’t have to worry about alchemists getting their hands on dragon blood. The way people are hunting down living creatures for power, it won’t be surprising if they’re all history soon.

  I cut through the Ever-Changing Chamber, which doesn’t live up to its name anymore due to the museum’s budget being slashed, so I’m still caught up on July’s rotation of shifter art. I completely avoid the dark and chilly Hall of Basilisks, because no thanks. I had to brave it on my first day, and that was enough. I have not been about that serpent life since our sixth-grade field trip to the zoo, when this blind basilisk lunged at the barrier hoping to swallow me whole with its fanged mouth.

  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?”

  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. Othe
rs 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.