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 have 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.