by Adam Silvera
Orton grins. “I’m superior to celestials.” His eyes are suddenly consumed by a glowing eclipse before returning to normal. “Superior to other specters too.”
This is a rare opportunity. This is what I need to revive my channel—a special kind of profile. “I’ve never interviewed a specter before,” I say.
“Don’t give him a voice,” Prudencia says. “He’s part of our country’s problem.”
“You don’t know my story,” Orton says.
I ready my camera. “Tell it to me. I want to know all about what drew you to blood alchemy, how you decided on which creature, where you found a reputable alchemist, and when you got your powers.”
“That all?” Orton asks.
“We’re not doing interviews,” James cuts in. He’s shorter than Orton, and apart from his firm tone, I get sidekick vibes from him.
“Just give me ten minutes. Fifteen tops,” I say.
Prudencia gets in my face. “There are so few specters who do good with their powers. Stop trying to shine a light on someone who’s clearly corrupt.”
“I just want to have a better understanding,” I say.
“No, you want guidance on how to pull this off yourself.”
I stand tall even though I’m rocked by her accusation. “My father died from blood alchemy. I wouldn’t ever do this to myself. Even if I did, though—Bautista was a specter, and he formed our city’s greatest group of heroes. Why does everyone conveniently forget that?”
Prudencia points at Orton. “He’s a potions dealer, Brighton. Not a hero.”
“I have feelings, by the way,” Orton says.
“So did the creature you harmed.” Emil speaks up with his eyes cast to the ground.
Orton pays him no mind. “I’m making dreams come true.”
Prudencia’s fist clenches. “You need to get your life straight. Bye.”
She storms away, and even though this could be huge for me, I follow.
“You should’ve had my back, Brighton,” she says.
“I wanted an interview.”
“You are so obsessed, and—”
“I want to understand the psyche of anyone risking their lives for powers when blood alchemy is such a killer, especially after that happened with my father—”
“Guys, guys,” Emil interrupts, looking even more panicked than when he saw the enforcers. “The specter is following us.”
Seven
Gold and Gray
EMIL
This is one of those rare times I wish I had powers. Instead of rushing down into the subway, I could teleport away with Brighton and Prudencia. I’d even be good with a defensive power like shield generation to protect us. I can’t believe there’s a chance we’re going to be attacked, and we have no clue what powers to expect from Orton. Is he going to strike like a basilisk? Light us up like a phoenix? Paralyze us with illusions like a wraith?
“Let’s go, let’s go,” I say as the train arrives and we squeeze into the packed car.
The doors close behind us before Orton and James can enter. Orton grins as the train begins pulling away.
I catch my breath and stare down Brighton. “Can you not buddy up with the egomaniac next time?”
“He was fine until you both went off on him,” Brighton says.
“Don’t turn this around on us,” Prudencia says.
“I document people’s lives, and his story could’ve been eye-opening!”
Brighton stays shut when he realizes their arguing is catching the attention of other passengers on the train. Someone at the opposite end of the car is standing on the bench with his phone aimed at us. I’m about to tell them to cool it when the connecting doors open and Orton and James walk in.
My heart is pounding. This is impossible, the train was taking off.
“Don’t look, but they’re here,” I say. Like an idiot Brighton turns around. “What did I say?”
“How did he even get here?” Prudencia asks.
“Doesn’t matter now,” Brighton says. “Stay calm, they can’t do anything. Too many people here.”
I don’t believe that. He’s followed us this long—he doesn’t care. If we can get off this train and get home, I won’t ever leave my bedroom again. I don’t want to be some damn statistic of victims killed by chaotic specters. I’m so pissed at Brighton, but as Orton shoves passengers aside, Brighton’s hero complex kicks in and he guards me and Prudencia.
“Didn’t get a chance to say bye,” Orton says.
Prudencia shakes her head. “You feel good about yourself?”
“Prudencia, stop,” I say. Sure, there are some people who would rather go down fighting, but I’m in the business of staying alive.
“Your friend wanted to know my story,” Orton says. “I was tired of being everyone’s punching bag, so I became a god.”
“This is not what we’re here for.” James tugs Orton’s arm.
“Celestials are born with the gleam, but taking in power is a truer show of strength. These other punks try and die.” Orton’s fist tightens. “I’m beyond the others too.”
Orton might be running his mouth about how superior he is, but you don’t need that much power to take down three teens without any of our own. Passengers clear back as I finally crack into a full panic, begging for help, but only a few people shout at Orton to leave us alone while others get out their phones to record. Maybe if I was their favorite show that was about to get canceled they would care more, but instead I’m about to become a headline they’ll glimpse before moving on.
It’s wild how even though I’ve been shot at by enforcers, the terror squeezes harder now. I was a third party to that power brawl, the kind of nameless and faceless person who bleeds into crowds and either becomes a casualty or someone with a story of how he survived. But now I’m a target.
“Back up,” Brighton says.
Orton gets in Brighton’s face, noses touching.
I split them up because no one steps to my brother like that. I sucked at biology, but even I know hearts aren’t supposed to beat this fast, this hard. “You win. You’re a god. We’ll shut up.”
Orton grins and reaches out for a handshake. “Truce.”
I notice two deep, fresh scars around his forearm, almost surgical, even cleaner. I reach out to shake his hand because I’m scared, okay?
Orton withdraws his hand. “You were about to use your powers,” he says.
I shake my head. “What, no. We don’t have powers, don’t worry about—”
I shut up, but the damage is done. The specter’s grin is dark, and I screwed up. I should’ve lied because the truth wasn’t doing it for Orton, who swears we should be bowing before him.
Orton grabs my arm and flings me toward the train door, and my head bangs against the pole; that’s going to swell in no time. I fall face-first into a puddle of someone’s cold coffee, and my spit drips onto the floor. I inhale a deep breath as I try getting up, but the air has been knocked out of me. Everything is spinning as I wheeze, my eyes welling with tears. A hand touches my shoulder, and I flinch, thinking it’s Orton grabbing me again, but it’s Prudencia asking if I’m okay.
Chaos erupts throughout the train.
Brighton leaps at Orton because that’s how stupid we are for each other, but he somehow flies through the specter’s body as if he’s nothing but a projection. That doesn’t make sense. Phasing through solid objects is a celestial’s power, and specters haven’t been successful with stealing their abilities.
I stand, my back aching, and I wish someone on the train would give more of a damn instead of filming us get tossed around. Prudencia lifts her hand like she’s about to backslap Orton, but he kicks her square in the stomach, and she topples into me.
“You okay?” I ask.
Prudencia points at Brighton. He picks himself up, his face red and beat, and he clocks the specter from behind. Orton spins, grabs Brighton by the throat, and drags him. Orton is phasing himself through the door, looking to thro
w Brighton off the train.
“BRIGHTON!”
I shiver as my temperature is rising, fever-warm. My teeth ache, my head is pounding, my throat is raw, my bloody lip is swelling, and I’m too young for heartburn, but I have no other words to describe this heat in my chest. My vision blurs like I’m walking through a cloud of steam, and a growl within me crescendos into a melodic roar, and then everything clears away. I have no idea how hard I’ve been hit—maybe adrenaline is preventing me from feeling it in full force. But seeing my brother about to be thrown onto the tracks by that maniac hits me with this fear that if I don’t get to him quickly enough, the next time I see him he’ll be dead on the train tracks, unrecognizable. It’s a fear like never before.
My fist is on fire.
The flames are gold and gray, alive and heavy, and they bite with a heat that puts summer to shame, but my skin isn’t melting. I’m okay—somehow. The glow catches everyone’s attention, and they freeze in place, even the specter who steps back and stares in awe.
Brighton’s breathing is rough, and even with his very life at stake, I catch surprise in his eyes. He snaps out of it and elbows Orton in the stomach, breaking free from his grip. White fire runs up Orton’s arm, like we saw on the other specters this week—this is gang work, no doubt—and he lunges. I take a fighter’s stance to defend myself. I have to survive long enough for the train to finish pulling into the next station, then we can all run off and find help. Even though I’m scrawny and haven’t won many fights, desperation kicks in, and I swing at the specter. Fire flies from my fist, small and fast, six burning darts that screech as they strike the specter in his shoulder and stomach. Orton is blasted off his feet, and just as I think he’s going to slam into the door, he phases beyond it and lands flat on the platform.
Passengers cheer, and I’m frozen.
I didn’t just . . .
I didn’t kill Orton, right?
Bad dude or not, a life is a life, and I’m not about stealing anyone’s. That isn’t up to me just because I have powers.
How? How the hell do I have powers? Just . . . What? This isn’t some trick.
My fist is a torch with gold and gray flames, burning in all its confusing glory. I shake my hand and blow on it like a candle. The flames cool down and vanish.
Everyone is safe. Brighton and Prudencia stare at me like I’m a stranger who fell out of the sky to save the day.
I taste blood again. My body aches like a gang stomped me out, not just a single specter. There’s zero joy in cold showers, but I’m ready to sink into one of those steel bathtubs filled to the brim with ice; Brighton probably feels the same. The way my flesh stings reminds me of a few years ago when Brighton and I were cooking up an anniversary breakfast for our parents, and I grabbed the frying pan with my bare hand before it had a chance to cool down.
The doors open. We step off the train while passengers continue filming. They need to stop, because enforcers aren’t going to give a damn that this was all self-defense. I don’t know how I’m going to live with myself if I killed Orton. Wisps of smoke trail into the air from Orton’s chest, which is slowly rising.
He’s alive.
I’m so relieved I could cry. But nerves strike again as an enforcer approaches, his metallic wand aimed at my chest.
“Everyone get on the ground.” The enforcer’s eyes shift between us.
I so badly want to explain that I have no idea how this happened, but instead I sink to my knees with Brighton, Prudencia, and James.
“He attacked us,” Prudencia says.
The enforcer hovers over Orton. Just as he reaches for the gauntlet on his belt, Orton’s eyes open, flooded by shadow, and he swings up with a fist of phoenix fire and clocks the enforcer in the jaw. The enforcer shoots into the air and crashes back down. A pair of enforcers charge our way, blasting bolts of lightning at Orton from their wands.
I get up and run with Prudencia, Brighton, and James. As we rush up the flight of steps, a phone falls out of James’s pocket. I recognize the yellow wolf on the case. Even in the flurry, I remember someone else with the same case recording the power brawl during the awakening of the Crowned Dreamer.
James scoops up his phone and runs away like I’m about to come for his life. I chase him up the steps, just wanting to piece together this puzzle. We reach the turnstile, and James ducks into a crowd, shoving people out of his way. I keep my eyes on the exit, but James doesn’t pop back up. Completely out of sight.
That is new. No one has ever been scared of me before. I’ve never had a fist of fire either.
“I think he was there the night of the block party,” I say, catching my breath.
Brighton shakes his head. His eyes are red, like he’s about to cry, which I’ve never been good at handling without being quiet and awkward. “You have powers.”
“I guess. I don’t know.” I lead the way out of the subway before the enforcers or Orton can catch up to us. “Our bloodline came through just in time.”
“Don’t play games with me. We saw your eyes. You’ve been holding out on me.”
I stop at the corner and turn to my brother. “What about my eyes?”
Brighton stares right back. “They burned like a specter’s.”
That’s impossible. “I don’t know what you saw, but I’m not messing with blood alchemy.”
“Your eyes were dark,” Brighton says.
Prudencia rests her hand on Brighton’s shoulder. “Chill out. Some celestial flares are darker than others.” She turns to me. “You’ve never shown any sign of powers before now, right?”
“Can’t imagine literally any scenario where I wouldn’t have mentioned that.”
I don’t know how we’re going to get home from here, maybe a bus, but we’re definitely not hopping back on the train, so I speed-walk forward across the street while the cars wait at the red light. I want to get home, stay low, and figure out what all this means.
“But what about the fire? That was phoenix fire, right?” Brighton asks.
I halt in the middle of the street.
I’m burning up, so hot that I think I’m about to find myself on fire again, maybe my entire body this time. I try reaching for any memory of a celestial who wielded flames like mine, and I come up with nothing. Only specters have that power. That was fire from a gray sun phoenix, no more doubts about it. It’s impossible that phoenix blood could’ve found its way inside of me, but not knowing how I got it is eating me up from the inside like poison. The world is spinning, like days where I don’t feed myself right but ten times worse. I’m falling, and my brother and best friend try catching me as cars honk. I’m blacking out, and the only thing on my mind is how quickly those gold and gray flames will burn everything good in my life to ashes.
Eight
Viral
BRIGHTON
I once pretended I could see the future.
The night before our fourteenth birthday Abuelita put me and Emil to bed and told us stories about her power. Her visions weren’t much to brag about, usually only ever taking her a minute or two into the future. Quick warnings to pick up the pace to catch the train or a heads-up that the phone was about to ring. But every few years a notable vision would break through, like how when she met Abuelito on the subway she foresaw their wedding.
Hours after midnight, I woke up Emil and claimed I had a vision about the owner of our favorite corner bodega getting hurt. Emil tried writing it off as a dream, but I doubled down on my lie, saying it felt different, it felt real. That I inherited the power from Abuelita.
We had snuck out through the fire escape because Emil was game for an adventure back then, especially after I told him that if I had power, then it must mean his power would kick in too if we worked together to save William. We did a mini stakeout and even convinced William to close up early. It was a good lie because, for all Emil knew, we prevented disaster. I felt guilty after we got home, though. No matter how happy he was for me, Emil was getting more and more
frustrated when his own power wasn’t surfacing. I couldn’t lead him on like that any longer, so I came clean. He punched me really hard in the arm for waking him up at three in the morning over a fake vision of a fake crime, but then he laughed it off and said it would’ve been awesome if we really did get powers on our birthday. Better than a chosen one—the chosen two.
Fast-forward to today, and I never saw any of this coming.
This can’t be real.
I try shaking Emil awake in the streets, but nothing. He still has a pulse, but between the burning up, bump on his head, and cut lip, I’ve never seen him in such critical condition, and my own heart is racing harder than when we were fighting for our lives on the train. Drivers are getting out of their cars and pedestrians are calling for help, but we can’t waste time waiting around for an ambulance. Prudencia is quick with hailing a cab, and we carry Emil into the backseat.
“Darden Hospital, now!” I shout with my brother’s head in my lap.
The driver looks hesitant before taking off. “Make sure he doesn’t bleed all over my backseat.”
Prudencia is fighting back tears, but her voice is firm. “We should take him to Gleam Care.”
I’m still in total shock that my brother even qualifies to receive assistance from gleamcraft practitioners. “No one will take care of Emil like Ma will.”
“Emil’s blood may need special treatment, Brighton. Let trained celestials revive him.”
I nod.
“Take us to the Vega Center on the Concourse,” Prudencia instructs.
I’m digging my nails into Emil’s arm. I don’t care if it hurts him; maybe he’ll wake up. “Why didn’t he tell me he did this?”
“Emil wouldn’t willingly become a specter,” Prudencia says. “I don’t know what happened. Maybe he drank the potion without realizing what it was. Emil loves phoenixes too much to steal their essence.”