Infinity Son Adam Silvera (classic books for 12 year olds .txt) 📖

into a clinical trial to test him with hydra blood. The idea was, their blood contained their essence, so it would transfer all the properties that allow those serpents to heal themselves and regrow their multiple heads.

I was the only one home when my father choked to death on his blood.

I am grown.

FourOrdinary

BRIGHTON

I cage myself in the room until I can trust myself not to go off on anyone. The door is locked, and I ignore Ma when she calls me out for breakfast. I’m starving, but I’m done eating toasted tortillas with refried beans and avocado without Dad. It’s an easy enough dish, one that Dad learned to prepare to better connect with Ma’s Puerto Rican side, and his were so crispy. I’m just not ready to pretend Ma’s are the same. I’m especially not ready to have family breakfast in the living room and talk about how this is our first birthday without him. It’s too much.

It’s better in here, anyway. Dad once said our bedroom is just a celestial shrine with beds. Years ago, when the Spell Walkers were more embraced by the public, they licensed their image to help bring in money, and I was lucky enough to get my hands on them before manufacturers stopped making them. By the window is a poster of Maribelle and her parents, Aurora and Lestor Lucero. Limited-edition Funko Pops of the original Spell Walkers—Bautista de León, Sera Córdova, the Luceros, Finola Simone-Chambers, and Konrad Chambers. The playing cards I used to bring to school before we graduated. Key chains with the Spell Walker sigil—a constellation of a being who is taking a step, with the brightest of stars lighting up their fists, feet, and heart. There’s nothing official for the new wave of Spell Walkers, but I do have these framed art prints of them hanging above my desk, one signed by Wesley Young as a perk for donating to a campaign to fund supplies for one of their hidden havens.

I’m the one who should be famous today. Not some twenty-one-year-old who’s probably going to write a memoir about this gap year when she traveled the country taste-testing food.

A few hours later, I drag myself out of bed and get everything ready for the meet-up. I threw down money on custom glow-in-the-dark gel bands for my Brightsiders, notepads with my logo to encourage everyone else to take interest in the celestials around them, and a few T-shirts. There’s this local YouTuber, Lore, who always sells out on their swag whenever they host meet-ups. I told Emil I would call the day a win if I make back at least sixty percent of my money this afternoon, but I’m counting on a stronger profit and will hype myself up hard later when I hit it.

I leave the room so Emil can come in and get dressed. He’s stretched across the couch and reading a graphic novel, and Ma has the news on, but her eyes are distant.

“We got to go soon,” I say.

“You done torturing yourself?” Emil asks.

I scratch my chin, then realize that’s what Dad always did with his beard whenever he was upset. I cut it out. I turn to the news.

“. . . we’re waiting on Senator Iron’s statement on the death of an unidentified specter in the middle of the night,” the Channel One anchorwoman says.

Emil turns away from his book. “She died?”

Viewer discretion is advised before the clip comes on. It’s not the woman from the block party, but instead a man standing on the edge of a roof. This specter also has white phoenix fire, but unlike the woman from last night, both his arms are blazing, and the flames stretch like massive wings—wings that are holding their own against the pummeling winds. The man looks hesitant, but he jumps anyway and takes flight, rising higher and higher until one arm snaps clean off his shoulder. He howls in agony and panic while plummeting like a bird shot out of the sky.

The anchorwoman returns before the station can show the impact. “Medical officials arrived to the scene to find the specter near death, expecting a recovery, as his arm was growing back, but he died minutes later.”

“He regrew his arm?” Emil stares at the ceiling as if answers can be found there. “Song-rooks are the only phoenixes who can regenerate body parts like that, but it takes hours. And their fire is violet, not white.”

“Guess there’s another phoenix out there that can,” I say. I’m not up on phoenixes like Emil is, but he wasn’t exactly acing all his coursework on creatures either. “Not the first time blood alchemy failed someone.”

We’re quiet.

The alchemists who were working on Dad didn’t exactly promise a full recovery, but they sure were arrogant about how brilliant they were for developing a potion with the regenerative properties of a hydra’s blood and introducing it into the systems of sick people. I wonder how much more time we would’ve had with him if we’d let him waste away without their help.

The anchorwoman cuts to Senator Iron, and Ma groans as she raises the volume.

New York’s senior senator, Edward Iron, has a full head of dark hair, pale skin that’s gone a few rounds with Botox, thick glasses, and a suit that probably costs more than our rent. “Last night’s specter incidents, hours apart in our city, are disturbing signals of the crisis our country hasn’t escaped. If elected president, Congresswoman Sunstar will create more opportunities and freedom for her people, when we need stricter regulations to avoid the horrors many woke up to this morning. My opponents campaigned against me, claiming this was only a conflict with specters, not celestials, but the Blackout sadly proved me right about how dangerous the Spell Walkers are. . . .” Senator Iron closes his eyes, takes a moment, and nods. “We’re working around the clock to locate and apprehend the Spell Walkers.”

The station cuts back to the anchorwoman. “As you can see, Senator Iron remains troubled