by Adam Silvera
I spend the next couple hours in the library before hunger gets the best of me. I link up with Brighton and Prudencia to feel a little less alone, and when we get to the cafeteria, Ma is eating by herself. Her back is turned to me; I could walk away and not hurt her feelings. Seeing her hunched over whatever the hell she’s eating reminds me so much of when Dad passed, and she would have to force-feed herself.
Everything is terrifying, so I go straight to my mother like I always have in the home she didn’t have to invite me into.
She looks up at me with the reddest of eyes. “Emil.”
There’s that part of me that’s aching to hug her, to forgive her, but I’m frozen.
“My Emilio, I’m so sorry. My heart has never hurt more than seeing that look on your face. . . . I never wanted to put you through that.”
“You should’ve told me,” I say.
“Us,” Brighton says.
“Of course,” Ma says. “We took too long to tell you boys the truth. Part of me wishes I’d kept up the lie, so I wouldn’t have the memory of your betrayed faces. But it seemed too important. I will tell you anything you want to know.”
I have so many questions, but I’ve lived through enough truth with my family that it can wait. “I need some real talk first. I know everyone is counting on me becoming a soldier. It’s been really impossible to hype myself up enough to fill Bautista’s shoes, even though I want to live in a better world like everyone else here. But I know I’m not strong enough to create it.”
“You’ve done it before!” Brighton says. “Sort of.”
I’m not Keon or Bautista, and I don’t know them any better than anyone else who’s researched them online. “They both got killed, Bright. This isn’t some video game where I’ll respawn as your brother if I die. Are you going to feel good about pushing me into this fight if I end up dying?”
Brighton doesn’t hesitate. “I would hate myself forever. But are you going to feel good about walking away from all of this?”
“I would hate myself forever,” I echo. “I know too many names and faces and stories to not help. I might be a specter, but I’m a lot like the celestials who also didn’t choose to have powers. I want to focus on this cure and reverse the damage Keon and the Blood Casters have created.”
Brighton grins. “We’re going to get you through this. I’ll film your training so we can review everything together. I’ll tell you when you’re not giving it your all so you don’t get wrecked on the battlefield.”
“Battlefield,” Prudencia breathes. “Hell of a word.”
“Different times,” Brighton says.
“Ma?” She’s been quiet.
“No parent wants to watch their child walk into battle,” Ma says with my hand in hers, and I fight the impulse to rip it away. “I wish I could lift the world off your shoulders, Emilio, but I will support you however I can. If you want to stay, we stay. If you want to leave, we leave.”
No one can make this decision for me. We hang tight in silence for a little while longer so I can give myself a few more breaths before I change my life even more. We assemble together and march to the brewing chamber. The Spell Walkers are gathered, and all eyes are on us. My phoenix fire has nothing to do with how powerful I feel in this moment. All credit goes to my own little army standing with me.
“I’ll become one of you.”
Seventeen
Training
EMIL
The Spell Walkers are no joke when it comes to getting me in shape for the streets.
Atlas coaches me on how to call for my power, and it’s harder than the pull-ups Iris has me doing with my scrawny arms during our intense workouts. Whenever I manage to summon the heavy phoenix fire, I’m supposed to try and get some hits on Wesley, which—come on—hitting a regular moving target is hard enough. Learning how to swing bones with Maribelle is off to a rough start when she has to readjust my thumb so I form a proper fist. Brighton is hyping me up from behind the camera, but there’s no way this footage will make me look like a hero to anyone.
Day by day, the Spell Walkers have got to realize they’re investing in the wrong person. But they’re not giving up on me. The bruises are building up after three days of Maribelle going in on me, and I avoid Ma whenever I have to ice them so she doesn’t know how much pain I’m in. On our fifth day of training I’m just as stunned as anyone when my balance improves, my focus tightens, and the flames feel lighter. Throwing projectile shots is so much more complicated than hitting targets in video games, and when I stop aiming for where Wesley is and start anticipating where he’ll be next, I finally hit him in his power-proof vest.
On our seventh day of training, the Spell Walkers prepare a trial run for me. All our sessions have been private, but this time Iris has invited everyone in the building to spectate, and man, there must be sixty people here who are counting on me to help save them.
“Your objective is to rescue the fallen celestial,” Iris says. There’s a dummy on the other side of the gym. “And bring them home.”
“That’s it?”
“Let the trial begin,” Iris says, and the lights dim.
All eyes are on me as I fight through Atlas’s winds to reach the dummy, like I’m caught in a storm. I’ve never stopped to think about what weather conditions I might have to face when I’m out on a mission, and it’s a new element of fear that strikes me. Right before I reach the dummy, a strong breeze starts whizzing past me, over and over. Wesley is running circles around me, and before I can stop him, he barrels into me with his shoulder. I’m knocked back into the wall with no mat to catch me. Everyone in the bleachers groans as I try picking myself up. Wesley charges again, and I cross my arms over my chest, bracing myself for another hit as my phoenix fire ignites and forms wings. He crashes into me, but this time he’s the one propelled backward. He rolls across the floor, and the crowd cheers.
I stare at my hands—my fiery wings don’t fly, but they work as a shield.
I need all this to end, so I grab the dummy’s leg before Wesley recovers. The dummy is heavier than I expected, and my arms and sides are still beyond sore from all the training. Maribelle floats out of the shadows and kicks me dead in the chin; I have no idea how my teeth aren’t raining out of my mouth. She lands and kicks me in the rib cage so hard, like I owe her money or something.
“I quit, I quit,” I cough out.
I’m not a fighter, I’m owning that.
Maribelle helps me up, and her head tilts. “We don’t get to quit.”
She twists my arm and flips me over her shoulder. The air is knocked out of me so hard I fight for my next breath. No matter how many times I’ve seen that move done in action movies, I wasn’t prepared for how much it would feel like my arm was almost ripped out of its socket or how my back feels like it could’ve been shattered.
I crouch on one knee and gesture for a time-out. “I need two minutes.”
“Not a chance in hell,” Maribelle says.
“Give me a break!”
“Would you ask the Blood Casters for a time-out? Do you think the enforcers will give you a chance to recover? Your opponents want you weak. Prove them wrong.”
Maribelle levitates and torpedoes toward me. I avoid her with a shoulder roll like she taught me. I crouch on one knee and cast fire, knocking her out of the air. She’s groaning, but I can’t check up on her; I have to focus on the mission. I’m dragging the dummy across the floor when dodgeballs throw me off my feet. Iris launches another dodgeball, and I hurl fire-darts until I’ve blasted them all apart, shreds of rubber falling between us. I drag the dummy by its legs and collapse when I cross the finish line, panting hard as people shout “Fire-Wing!” over and over.
Everyone in this room is counting on me to be this hero. Fire-Wing.
I hope they never find out that my past life is the reason they all need rescuing.
It’s been odd as all hell watching Brighton edit clips of me, but the next afternoon, the Spell Walkers hav
e approved of what he’s calling his masterpiece, and it goes live on Celestials of New York. It’s basically a two-minute montage of everything I’ve been up to lately. There’s an epic score that crescendos during the original clip of me on the train when my power first surfaced, then slows down when I’m getting my ass kicked during training, and picks up again as I pass my trial. It’s cool, yeah, but I doubt people will have sympathy for a specter since I can’t exactly prove to the world that I was reborn into all of this. Everyone will accuse me of bringing this onto myself.
Brighton is hyped as the views skyrocket. For every ten good comments, there’s someone hoping I’m set on fire and fed to a hydra. I have to stop reading—even the supportive ones—because there’s enough pressure already. I’ve been meaning to begin one-on-one counseling with Eva like Ma has, but between training and deciphering Bautista and Sera’s notes with Prudencia, I can’t find the time. Too many people are counting on me. Myself included. Figuring out a cure is the only way I can piece my life back together.
I’m icing my shoulder while Prudencia and I flip through the dark blue leather journal with a gold fire-orb drawn onto the cover. Bautista writes in the sloppiest cursive, but dude could draw. Underneath sketches of extinguished flames, I make out his note about one of his attempts. He worked with a celestial who could neutralize other people’s powers, but much like the gauntlets that enforcers use, the effect wasn’t permanent. Between the handwriting, the art, and his fears, I wonder how much I’m me because of my own choices and how much has gotten passed down from Bautista like genetics. Maybe my attraction to phoenixes has always been because of my histories as Bautista and Keon.
Prudencia types more notes into her phone. “I’ve never heard of half of these ingredients Sera mentions. Bone tears? Water from the Shade Sea? Cumulus powder? Ghost husk? I can’t tell if she’s a brilliant alchemist or a know-nothing whose visions never helped her out.”
“Bautista really believed in her,” I say. “Why else would he keep being her test subject?” There was one potential cure where Bautista drank a potion mixed with the blood of water-casting celestials to try and put out the fire, but it was another bust. “What if those trials are why I never got Bautista’s or Keon’s memories? Maybe in trying to cancel out everything, all they did was extinguish that power.”
“It’s possible. Everything is just a theory, right?” Prudencia flips back to an entry about the Halo Knights that we dog-eared. It really hammers in how they’re tremendous champions of the sky whose numbers have greatly diminished over the years, but they continue to devote their lives to the welfare of every phoenix breed. “If the Halos hadn’t hated Bautista so much for hosting phoenix powers, they could’ve been helpful.”
“True. But we need to figure out how to stop all specters.”
“And make sure they can’t just re-up on more blood.”
“Totally a task for two people not trained in alchemy.”
The door opens, and Iris enters. I’ve completely lost track of time for our session. Today we’re working on arms and abs, but I can’t imagine I’m ever going to be molded into having a six-pack like Atlas. “Hey, sorry I’m late, we’ve been going through the notes.”
“Training is canceled today,” Iris says. “You’re coming on a mission with me and Maribelle to take down the specter you fought on the train.”
So the enforcers didn’t get their hands on Orton after all.
I dared to be happy for a second, thinking I could use that extra time to nap or chat it up with Eva, but in that breath of daydreaming, Iris had to hit me out of it like one of her brick-crushing punches. “Wait. Why me? What about Atlas and Wesley?”
“They’re caught up with a job in New Jersey. We’re training you to fight outside, not rescue dummies.”
“I know, but I’m still so sore, and I’m only just getting the hang of things.”
“Orton tried to kill you all last time, and we have to stop him now,” Iris says. “I’ve been tracking several leads that can help us find the Blood Casters, and I found his new territory where he’s been selling Brew. We have to figure out Luna’s ultimate goal, and Orton is our best shot for intel.”
Brighton closes his laptop and raises his camera. “I’m going too!”
Iris shakes her head. “Filming videos within Nova is one thing, but we’re not risking your life out in the field.” Brighton tries getting another word in, but Iris holds up her hand. “Emil, meet me in the locker room.”
“She didn’t even give me a chance to explain,” Brighton says.
“It’s Iris’s job to protect us,” Prudencia says.
“It’s my job to build sympathy for gleamcrafters everywhere. Emil’s been getting some positive traction online from celestials and sympathizers. He’s giving them hope. But if we can’t control the narrative, then the greater public will never come to their senses that the Spell Walkers and Emil aren’t terrorists. Look at him, he doesn’t even want to go out now—and people still like him!”
Prudencia lets out a deep breath. “I’ll try to explain to her.”
I drag my feet to the locker room. This is straight-up ridiculous. No matter how much training I’ve been through, I have no business out on the streets. No one would ask a doctor to do a firefighter’s job, but everyone’s cool with sending a museum gift shop employee after the person who tried killing him.
Brighton fixes his camera on me as Prudencia walks over to Iris, who’s lacing up her boots while Maribelle is in the other corner stretching.
There’s gear laid out for me. The gloves are deceptively heavy, with fabric woven around brass knuckles for that extra damage. I haven’t seen the others in elbow pads, but I throw them on because I want as much protection as possible; I’d put on a damn helmet right now if one was lying around. My long white undershirt is made from sun-dust, which feels like wool woven with feathers; it’s the same fire-resistant fabric the Halo Knights wear into battle. I pull on the power-proof Spell Walker vest—midnight blue with the gold constellation spray-painted across the chest.
“You look badass,” Brighton says.
The whole outfit is heavy, and even though I get to keep my jeans and sneakers, I don’t feel like me.
“Get dressed,” Iris says, with Prudencia by her side.
“What? I am.”
Iris points at Brighton and Prudencia. “They’re coming along for a trial run.”
“For real?” Brighton asks.
“You and Prudencia have to stick close. You’ll each be given daggers, and if this goes well, I’ll be training you on how to use gem-grenades for future protection. We leave in three minutes. Suit up fast.”
Brighton spins around, and I can tell he’s expecting to find Spell Walker gear like mine. He puts on a black power-proof vest that has definitely seen some action; a tear from a blade, singed edges from fire, and three holes crossing the stomach from spellwork. I hope whoever wore this before my brother is okay. Once Brighton and Prudencia are dressed, we go down the hall. The whole time, Brighton is filming me as I march to my death.
Ma is shaking by the entrance, and Eva takes Iris into her arms.
“I don’t want you to go,” Ma says.
“Me either,” I say. But I’m only going to get my freedom by serving as a Spell Walker.
“Take care of Emil,” Ma says.
“We’re his sidekicks. We will,” Brighton says.
“As his brother and his best friend. All of you come home to me.”
One group hug and we’re out the door and back in the car that brought me here. We’re on the road, and I can’t believe I’ve gotten myself into this.
Maybe this is how every hero feels before they go into battle.
Eighteen
Burnout
EMIL
On the morning of Dad’s funeral, I refused to get off the train when we reached our stop. Brighton had to hold open the doors while Ma pleaded with me to take her hand, to be the strength she needed to get thro
ugh the ceremony. Passengers saw that we were dressed in black and crying, but their sympathy and patience didn’t last long before people started shouting at me. They didn’t care that I wasn’t ready to face my father in a casket.
I don’t want to get out of this car and fight Orton.
“I’m not ready,” I say to Brighton and Prudencia, who are in the backseat with me.
“We’ll be there with you,” Brighton says.
Maribelle turns around from the driver’s seat. “You’ll be keeping your distance.”
“I don’t have the power to stop Orton,” I say. “I got lucky the first time.”
“We’ve got the element of surprise again,” Iris says. “And you have us too.” Iris’s powerhouse strength and Maribelle’s levitation and agility are a boost, for sure. “The objective isn’t to kill. We need to lay him out so we can question him on Luna’s advancements in alchemy.”
“But if you have to defend yourself, defend yourself,” Maribelle says. “If it’s kill or be killed, light him up.”
“Do everything you can to avoid killing,” Iris adds. But she doesn’t disagree with Maribelle either. This is not the thing I wanted to see them bond over.
I get out of the car, and my legs are trembling as I follow them into an empty warehouse for Eternal Lerna Footwear, this company I hate since they produce shoes made of hydra leather. The lights must be busted, and the sun setting isn’t helping us at all. I’m about to try and conjure a quick flick of fire when shards of glass from broken windows crunch under my boots. I freeze, terrified that Orton is about to pounce out of the shadows and strike me down before I can defend myself with a single lesson I’ve learned. I’d make history as a so-called chosen one who was taken down his first week on the job. But all is okay as Brighton turns on his camera’s light, helping us guide the way. The smell of fresh kicks, rubber, and glue grows stronger as we pass waist-high tables where the factory workers handled business.