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.
There’s a grunt from behind the couch and up comes someone else—a boy whose face and body keep stretching and shrinking and changing skin tones. The Spell Walker gear fades in a dull gray light, replaced with a basic tee and jeans. In seconds the shape-shifter has a new face—still pale but longer, with a crooked nose and one eye that’s twice as large as the other. I don’t know if this is who he is or another impersonation, but my stomach tightens as he withdraws a wand from his waistband and shoots a black light at Atlas.
Atlas rolls out of harm’s way, and the black light explodes against a family photo, leaving nothing but ash. I’ve heard wands are only as powerful as the celestials who gave their blood to make them. I don’t ever want to cross paths with the celestial who is walking around with that kind of power—or with the alchemist who was willing to weaponize it for others. The shape-shifter blasts the window open, and the bang and shattering shock my senses as he takes off down the fire escape.
“We’re here to take you to our haven,” Atlas says.
“Who’s we?” I ask.
“Maribelle is in the car, and Iris is guarding the entrance.”
“It’s actually you!” Brighton says. “We met the other night.”
“You asked for a picture.” Atlas nods. “In the middle of a fight, Brighton,” he adds with a grin.
“You know my name?”
“We did our research after that brawl went viral. Cool YouTube videos.”
“Shut up,” Brighton says with wide eyes, and I know he’s breaths away from asking Atlas which videos are his favorite.
Atlas claps his hands. “If the shape-shifter made a move for you, there’s a chance that other Blood Casters won’t be far off either. You won’t be able to come back here, so pack whatever valuables you can in the next minute.”
I stand still as Brighton rushes to our room.
I can’t believe the impostor was a Blood Caster—a specter with shifter blood. He must’ve been trying to recruit me. Nah, he would’ve worn his face if this was a recruiting mission. This was tricking and kidnapping. Who knows what would’ve happened to Brighton if we had followed him. Maybe he would’ve been turned into a specter too, or held hostage unless I agreed to become a Blood Caster. Or worse.
Brighton returns with one of his rolling suitcases for his flight tomorrow and a duffel bag of his own, the sleeve of a hoodie falling out as he shoves his laptop and chargers inside. “I’m good, I think.”
What’s going to happen to the rest of our stuff? Will enforcers storm in? It’s wild how much money got dropped on collectible figurines and video games and books, and how none of that matters now that our safety has been threatened. Atlas leads the way out of the apartment and down the stairs, with Brighton keeping close like a second shadow. I’m the last to leave the apartment, and I lock the door behind me. I run down the stairs, reliving these fond memories of going outside to play and hanging out with friends. Now I’m running away from home with my brother and one of the most powerful Spell Walkers.
Guarding the lobby door is a short young woman with dark brown skin, shaved hair that’s dyed bright green, and a power-proof vest—Iris Simone-Chambers, the small but mighty leader of the Spell Walkers. “What took so long?”
“The shape-shifting Blood Caster interfered,” Atlas says. “He fled.”
Before I can introduce myself, I spot a crowd outside the building. There are half a dozen signs, but I can only make out two:
Move over, Spell Walkers! Fire-Wing is here!
Burn yourself with that phoenix fire!
“You’re going to be okay,” Iris says.
I feel like a celebrity as I step outside the building with Iris and Atlas acting as my bodyguards. I’ve never wanted to be famous; that’s Brighton’s dream. I’m the guy behind the camera, and I’m down with that anonymity. Some people in the crowd are chanting “Fire-Wing!” and want pictures while others are calling me an abomination. I don’t get how it’s possible to feel like my life is in danger when I’m being protected by Iris, who can lift a car over her head and whose skin is spellwork-resistant, and Atlas, who can suspend people with his winds, but I don’t feel safe at all.
A car horn honks, and Maribelle Lucero leans out of the driver’s-side window of the Jeep, yelling at us to hurry up.
When we move for the car, a figure I’d hoped I’d never see in person slides out of a sewer grate on his stomach and slithers onto the street with the smoothness of a water snake. His blond hair and clothes are dripping wet, and he smells of waste. Dark green veins branch across his pale skin. His eyes are burning eclipses before shifting to yellow pupils that shrink into slits. I nearly trip over myself trying to get away from Stanton, the Blood Caster with basilisk blood whose face can be found on so many Wanted posters for his gang-related crimes. Stanton opens his mouth and emits a spray that smells like rotted animal carcass. Blood rushes to my head and I’m so dizzy and we all fall to our knees. My heart is beating slowly. I’m nothing but prey as Stanton grips my throat and drags me through the street.
Fighting Stanton at the top of my game would’ve been impossible enough, and all I can do now is kick at the air and tap Stanton’s wrist for mercy. I have no idea where he’s taking me. I try casting fire, but nothing. Just as I’m ready to give up, Stanton roars in pain and releases his hold. He rips a dagger out from his stomach and drops it on the ground while applying pressure to his wound. Through the haze I see Maribelle floating toward Stanton. When she reaches him, she unleashes a furious cycle of kicks against his chest until he falls.
She scoops up her dagger by its pearl handle and eyes the bloody blade that is bubbling in red acid. “You ruined my father’s blade,” Maribelle tells Stanton, as if he threw it at himself. She helps me to my feet as Iris approaches.
Iris sways and rights herself. “Get him in the car.”
“Ace idea, Captain. What would we do without your brilliant commands?”
“Now’s not the time—get out of the way!”
Iris shoves us, and we fly a foot into the air, slam down, and roll against the curb. I pay no mind to the scrapes and aches when I see Iris is bent over as acid eats away at her shoulder—she took the hit for us. Stanton pounces, scoring punches and kicks on Iris. She tries fighting back with her good arm, but his reflexes are swift.
“Get to the car,” Maribelle says as she runs over to fight Stanton.
Atlas assists Brighton into the back of the Jeep with our luggage before flying over to us. Gusts of wind carry Stanton into the air as Atlas pins him against the wall, shouting for everyone to escape. I stay to help Iris.
“I said get to the car,” Maribelle snaps.
“I’m here to save you, Emil,” Iris groans.
“You did, you did.”
We get to the car, and Brighton and I sit in the far back behind Maribelle and Iris. Maribelle reaches over and slams on the horn. Atlas releases his hold on Stanton, letting him crash to the ground, and glides over and jumps straight into the driver’s seat. I can’t believe we’re moments away from escape.
“Hang tight, Iris. We’ll get you to Eva,” Atlas says as he starts the car. “What the . . .”
A girl with big eyes and dark silver hair and moon-white skin is rising out of the ground. She’s barefoot, drenched in sweat, and wearing a heavy sweater that trails above her knees, nearly concealing her black shorts.
“Move out of the way,” Atlas shouts out the window. The girl doesn’t budge. “Fine.” He steps out of the car, and wind picks up around her. Trash swirls through her. She’s untouchable.
“It’s her,” Maribelle whispers. “It’s her! It’s her!”
“Who?” Brighton asks.
“The celestial from the Blackout, the one from the surveillance tape.” Maribelle grabs Iris’s knee. “The one who must know what really happened to our parents!” She goes for the door, but Iris binds her with her unaffected arm. Even though it doesn’t look as if Iris is placing a lot of effort into restraining Maribelle, she can’t escape. “What are you doing? Let me go!”
“Drive!” Iris shouts.
“Don’t you dare, Atlas!”
Atlas is torn, then looks out the window before kicking into gear and speeding off. “Stanton is recovering, Mari, I’m sorry.”
The girl doesn’t move out of the way, and she phases through the car as if she’s nothing but wind.
“Please, please, this might be our only chance to see what she knows!” Maribelle’s eyes fill with more and more tears the farther we get from the block. “She could clear our parents’ names!”
Iris groans in pain. “I know you have no problem watching me die, but we have two rescues who’ve survived not one but two fights against specters today. It’s imperative that we get them to Nova.”
“What’s Nova?” Brighton asks.
“Our headquarters,” Iris says. “We have a lot to catch you up on, Emil.”