Infinity Son by Adam Silvera (some good books to read .TXT) 📕

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 throw 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.