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 thro
w 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. I shake my hand and blow on it like a candle. The flames cool down and vanish.
Everyone is safe. Brighton and Prudencia stare at me like I’m a stranger who fell out of the sky to save the day.
I taste blood again. My body aches like a gang stomped me out, not just a single specter. There’s zero joy in cold showers, but I’m ready to sink into one of those steel bathtubs filled to the brim with ice; Brighton probably feels the same. The way my flesh stings reminds me of a few years ago when Brighton and I were cooking up an anniversary breakfast for our parents, and I grabbed the frying pan with my bare hand before it had a chance to cool down.
The doors open. We step off the train while passengers continue filming. They need to stop, because enforcers aren’t going to give a damn that this was all self-defense. I don’t know how I’m going to live with myself if I killed Orton. Wisps of smoke trail into the air from Orton’s chest, which is slowly rising.
He’s alive.
I’m so relieved I could cry. But nerves strike again as an enforcer approaches, his metallic wand aimed at my chest.
“Everyone get on the ground.” The enforcer’s eyes shift between us.
I so badly want to explain that I have no idea how this happened, but instead I sink to my knees with Brighton, Prudencia, and James.
“He attacked us,” Prudencia says.
The enforcer hovers over Orton. Just as he reaches for the gauntlet on his belt, Orton’s eyes open, flooded by shadow, and he swings up with a fist of phoenix fire and clocks the enforcer in the jaw. The enforcer shoots into the air and crashes back down. A pair of enforcers charge our way, blasting bolts of lightning at Orton from their wands.
I get up and run with Prudencia, Brighton, and James. As we rush up the flight of steps, a phone falls out of James’s pocket. I recognize the yellow wolf on the case. Even in the flurry, I remember someone else with the same case recording the power brawl during the awakening of the Crowned Dreamer.
James scoops up his phone and runs away like I’m about to come for his life. I chase him up the steps, just wanting to piece together this puzzle. We reach the turnstile, and James ducks into a crowd, shoving people out of his way. I keep my eyes on the exit, but James doesn’t pop back up. Completely out of sight.
That is new. No one has ever been scared of me before. I’ve never had a fist of fire either.
“I think he was there the night of the block party,” I say, catching my breath.
Brighton shakes his head. His eyes are red, like he’s about to cry, which I’ve never been good at handling without being quiet and awkward. “You have powers.”
“I guess. I don’t know.” I lead the way out of the subway before the enforcers or Orton can catch up to us. “Our bloodline came through just in time.”