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

no sure answers, but we’re thrown into a frenzy as we suit up and head for the cars. Iris tries convincing Ness to come along, but he simply tells her that the only way he’s going to the cemetery to face Luna is if he’s a dead body they can bury.

I can’t find Brighton for a see-you-later when we head out, and it turns out it’s because he’s been sitting in the far backseat all along.

“Get out,” Iris says as she takes the driver’s seat.

“No. If Luna is actually going to be there then I can film her, and we can finally pin her to her crimes.”

“It’s too dangerous,” I say. “Please, Bright, sit this one out.”

“You guys are going to have to drag me out, and that’s time better spent getting to the cemetery,” Brighton says.

“I hope the stars are with us,” Iris says.

Maribelle, Atlas, and Wesley get in, and we take off. Prudencia isn’t here to watch his back either.

The Spell Walkers are hoping to use the Crowned Dreamer for that much-needed power boost to get us through this night. They’ll have an advantage over the Blood Casters too, since their gleam is natural, which makes me lucky to be on the right side. But as we pull in and park, my chest is so tight. There’s no preparing for these impossibilities.

Older Cemetery is so damn winter-cold that everyone’s breath is clouding the air around us as we continue searching for the Blood Casters. This darkness is too much for a city boy; I need streetlights the deeper I go across the field, past unmarked graves, but all we have to guide us are the brightening stars of the Crowned Dreamer, whose shape is becoming clearer every night. If we don’t stop the gang, Luna will be closer to remaking the world. And if there’s any possibility for a power-binding potion, who knows if it’ll be enough to work on Luna once she drinks the Reaper’s Blood.

“We should invest in coats,” Wesley says.

I cast a fire-orb for warmth and light. What I swore were branches snapping underneath my feet have actually been a trail of thin blackened bones that lead into a tree. Brighton follows the trail with his camera.

“Bright, look alive.”

“Documenting,” Brighton says.

“You really shouldn’t be here.”

“Neither should you.”

“I don’t want to be,” I say. “But it’s different and you know it.”

“I messed up, and I’m going to make this right. Showing more initiative than your favorite shape-shifter, who’s lounging at Nova and probably sweet-talking his way to get some Netflix going.”

I’m not going to get pissed at someone who doesn’t want to fight because they want to live. I get it.

“If he didn’t want powers, he shouldn’t have signed up for them,” Brighton presses.

I’m about to beg him to cut the hero act and turn around and leave when Iris signals to us to shut up. She crouches behind the statue of a headless hydra. Even though wintry winds are doubling down, I clasp my hands and crush the fire-orb, my fingers instantly cold again, so it won’t give us away.

Down a hill, the three Blood Casters are spread out like a pyramid with dark ropes connecting them, and they’re surrounded by a dozen acolytes in ceremonial robes. They’re all protecting a short man with deathly white skin and hair as gray as storm clouds. The alchemist, Anklin Prince, is standing between two graves while holding a metallic urn with a stone rim. I can’t make out the golden glyphs emblazoned on the base, but they’re burning bright as Anklin chants.

Across from Anklin is none other than Luna Marnette. She’s never out in the open. If Ness wasn’t detained at Nova, I would’ve sworn he was posing as her. But this must be legit. Her face is gaunt, and she’s staring intently at the urn. Her tangled silver hair reaches down to her waist, and there are three sheathed daggers hanging from her belt. She’s wearing laced gloves that twinkle under the moonlight. I don’t know the sound of her voice or her eye color, but I already feel so haunted by her. Ness said that she doesn’t need power to be powerful, and I get it.

I shiver as the cold strikes again. I guess messing with the dead must be responsible for these chills.

“Keep your distance, okay?” I whisper.

Brighton shakes his head. “You do your job and I’ll do mine.”

He’s going to get us killed, I know it.

We’re all huddled together, doing our best not to be seen by Luna’s people.

“We got to get that urn,” Atlas says. “Wesley, that’s all you.”

“We have no idea what those ropes do,” Iris says.

“It’s probably ceremonial,” Maribelle says. “Wesley can be in and out and we should take advantage while we still have the element of surprise—”

A bone snaps behind us and someone shouts, “SPELL WALKERS!”

An acolyte.

Atlas blasts him off his feet.

Spellwork explodes around us, blowing apart the statue’s body. Everything we planned in the car has already gone to hell, but we’ll do whatever it takes to stop Luna from capturing her parents’ ghosts. Two acolytes chase me, and the cold air is filling my lungs like the times I would run from the train station to my building during winter just so I could get inside somewhere warm. Bolts of electric blue light sail past my shoulder and blow up around my feet. I jump behind a tree that shakes after a spell shoots through it. I pop out and nail an acolyte in the ankle with a fire-dart, and the other trips over him.

I keep it moving, relieved to find Brighton crouched behind some bushes that must belong to someone who was rich as hell in life. The Blood Casters have got me straight scared with how still they are. Why aren’t Stanton or Dione or June dropping the rope to fight? It’s got to be more than ceremony. In a blur, Wesley charges toward the triad of specters and leaps into the air, but