Infinity Reaper by Adam Silvera (new books to read .TXT) 📕

The first tab is a YouTube video of Bautista being interviewed remotely by an anchorwoman on CNN explaining his intentions with the Spell Walkers. I’ve seen broadcasts of him throughout the years, and even though this video is a repeat, it’s the first time I’m seeing life in him since discovering our link. His head is buzzed and he’s not rocking any facial hair. He’s comfortable in front of the camera, and his charisma really sells him as the hero millions once celebrated.

Last fall it was announced that a movie about Bautista’s life was in the works, and fans—Brighton included—were very vocal about which actors they believed could actually match his charm. But the studio canceled the project after the Blackout to distance themselves from the Spell Walkers. Brighton was pissed that the movie wasn’t happening, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s been sliding into the DMs of producers trying to sell the rights to our story.

There’s an article with links to Bautista’s public killstreaks. I hold my breath while clicking into a grainy video of Bautista battling a hydra specter with two heads and four arms. The specter charges Bautista with an infinity-ender dagger, but Bautista is faster, shoulder rolling toward an ax that’s laid out on the street. He scoops it up, sets it ablaze with golden flames, and swings it so quickly that I see one head decapitated before I close the video; I trust the second head came clean off too.

I groan into my hands.

“What’s the matter?” Wyatt asks.

“I come from killers, and I’m an idiot if I think I’m going to get out of this war without following in their footsteps.”

“It’s inevitable in our line of work, no?”

I tell him all about how the Spell Walkers have argued this point too, and even though they’re also interested in avoiding fatalities, I have no clue if they’ve killed before and what the circumstances were. Maribelle burnt Anklin Prince alive, and she’s gunning for June’s blood. And then there’s Brighton, who, ever since we first got pulled into the orbit of the Spell Walkers, has told me that killing to save the world is different.

“I don’t believe heroes should have body counts.”

“Then I’m not a hero in your books,” Wyatt says.

That catches me off guard. “Really? But you don’t even battle.”

“Again, it’s in our line of work. Three years ago, I was visiting the States to investigate a farm in Colorado that was stealing phoenix eggs for breeding. It happened to be the night of the Future Watcher, that lovely little prime constellation that aids celestials with all forms of foresight. My mum and dad had seen it years before, so they stayed in to prep while Nox and I flew atop the Chalk Cliffs to stargaze. Unfortunately, a psychic had sold us out to an alchemist and specter aspirant on the hunt for a phoenix, and we were ambushed.”

Wyatt looks even more horrified than when he was telling me about the history of cruelty Nox suffered from his former companion.

“You don’t have to talk about this. I’m not judging you,” I say.

“No, no. It’s important. It was a firsthand experience dealing with one’s violent desperation to become a specter. Paired beautifully with another great American problem—being held at wandpoint. The alchemist trapped Nox in an electric net that shocked him the more he resisted. I had one opportunity to snatch the wand and I took it. I cast spells, and while I didn’t intend to kill them, kill them I did.” Wyatt stares out the open window, fixed on the sky. “It was self-defense, but that’s a lot to take on at seventeen. It took about a year of therapy before I accepted that I’m not like those predators. My hope for you, sweet Emil, is that you’re kind to yourself if you ever have to kill for those you love. I can’t imagine you’ll feel alive if you have the opportunity to save them and don’t take it.”

After a sleep troubled with haunting nightmares of Bautista’s heroics, I settle into the meditation room shortly after dawn, more determined than ever to make sure my life doesn’t echo his. Brighton isn’t trying this time, only observing with Prudencia, and he’s managing a pretty neutral attitude about it, I got to say. Maribelle is eager to give retrocycling another go. She sits cross-legged in front of me as Wyatt and Tala remind us that the goal is to find Sera and Bautista on their last day alive.

“Understood,” Maribelle says.

“How are you feeling?” I ask her.

Maribelle glares as if I have some nerve to say anything to her.

I could offer her a lifetime of apologies, and it wouldn’t matter as long as Atlas is dead. Instead of bothering her anymore, I close my eyes and take deep breaths to mentally prepare for this next attempt to the past.

“Trust in your instincts again,” Tala says in a hushed voice. “Remember the history, breathe it, and fly back to it.”

I hear Maribelle’s flames burst to life, and I ignite too. I haven’t used the Dayrose salve since two nights ago, but thankfully my power is significantly less painful than before. I’m able to build Bautista’s life, beginning with his voice, which I know better now from those broadcasts, and I search and search for a way into his last day. I feel stuck, like my legs are buried in sand, and I think about how desperately I want to figure out those ingredients so I don’t have to be trapped in this war.

Everything becomes blurry as muffled voices surface. A younger Bautista flickers against a darkness, screaming as he finds his hand on fire, telling someone that he doesn’t want to be a weapon. I’ve been asked before if I ever experienced any flashbacks to lives I didn’t live, and now I can say I have. For several moments I forget my own face and name and history. I’m brought