Specters trade their lives for power, and I pray my brother never mistakes this tragedy for a miracle.
TwoHeroes
EMIL
The specter hurls a stream of white fire through the air, its flames spreading like wings and screeching like a phoenix.
“Bro, she’s a specter,” Brighton says.
“Probably got her power from a halo phoenix or—”
I shut up as Maribelle Lucero gracefully spins away from the flames and torpedoes directly into the specter. Maribelle’s young—I’m going to guess our age, though Brighton can no doubt list off every Spell Walker’s age and favorite color—with light brown skin and dark braided hair that whips like a rope as she lays into the specter with right hooks. Atlas Haas’s blond hair is windblown as he hovers over the tents, doing his best to keep the fire at bay with gales shooting out of his palms. It’s a losing battle. The fire spreads toward apartment buildings on one side and a run-down bar on the other, residents and patrons vacating as quickly as possible.
My heart hammers—get out of here, get out of here, get out of here, get out of here.
“Bright, we got to bounce.”
“Then go.”
I’m a millisecond away from snatching the camera and hurling it like a football when the bar explodes with a deafening roar. The blast catches Atlas off guard, and he flips out of the air and crashes into a parked motorcycle. We take cover under a bodega awning as bricks rain from the sky. The waves of heat remind me of baking flan in our late abuelita’s tiny kitchen except magnified by a thousand.
Maribelle rushes to Atlas’s aid, and the specter casts white fire again.
“Maribelle, watch out!” Brighton shouts.
She spins, but the fire drives her into a car door with sickening force, as if she’s been shoved by someone with powerhouse strength.
“No,” Brighton breathes.
Most of the patrons and residents cleared out already, like geniuses with A-plus survival skills. A short woman with stars for eyes busts open a fire hydrant and guides the water into the roaming flames, but the job is too big for her. A crowd cheers on the fight. A few feet away, a pale guy with dark blond hair under his hoodie is recording the whole brawl on a phone that has a yellow wolf on the case. He doesn’t look freaked out. Probably not his first time witnessing a battle, but he’s also not staring in wide-eyed wonder like Brighton, who catches thrills from filming.
Atlas struggles to his feet. The specter is bent over, taking deep breaths as she charges up another blast of white fire, its screech weaker this time. She extends her arm to attack but stops short when a gem-grenade the size of my fist rolls toward her. The citrine blasts apart in thick shards, and currents of electricity strike the specter. She collapses, writhing in pain.
I might throw up, maybe even piss myself. Seeing people attacked online is one thing, but it’s different in person. Maribelle is sweating and limping toward Atlas. She has one hand pressed against the center of her vest, which seems to have absorbed most of the blow.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” Brighton shouts, like whenever he gets an aced exam back or wins a game. He rushes off toward Maribelle and Atlas.
I’m dizzy and frozen for seconds that run like minutes before I finally follow Brighton. I try to tune out the specter’s screams, but I can’t help but wonder about her life and everything that led up to this moment. I snap out of it. Sirens blare through the streets as ambulances, fire trucks, and metallic-gold enforcer tanks seal off the corner of one block. I run to Brighton, my back to the demolished bar still blazing with white and orange fire, casting stretched-out and terrifying shadows across the street.
Brighton is kneeling beside Maribelle and Atlas as they catch their breath. “You guys were amazing,” he says, still filming. “I’m a huge fan.”
Maribelle pays him no mind, only tensing up as enforcers exit the tanks. “We got to go,” she groans.
“Yeah, they’re not going to like that you used a grenade,” Atlas says.
“I could’ve thrown snowballs and those bastards would still accuse me of turning the streets into a war zone,” Maribelle says.
Brighton’s phone is at the ready. “Mind if I get a quick picture with you two?”
“Bright, dude, let them go,” I say.
“Right, right.”
Four enforcers shout for everyone to freeze as they approach with wands. I don’t move a single muscle. It’s not uncommon for celestials to sign up to become enforcers, but the majority of people on the force don’t have powers of their own, so they’re trained to cast attacks at the first sign of danger. Too many celestials have been stunned and met untimely deaths because of hotheaded enforcers.
“Don’t move,” I tell Brighton.
I watch all the enforcers, wishing I was also geared up in their bronze helmets and sea-green power-proof vests. My breathing speeds up, and my legs tremble, and I’m terrified the enforcers will mistake my shaking for an ability I don’t have.
In the middle of the street, an enforcer trains her wand at the specter as another secures her with gauntlets and shackles to render her temporarily powerless.
Atlas’s back is turned to the enforcers, and he has a wordless exchange with Maribelle that makes me nervous. She takes a deep breath and nods, and her eyes burn like sailing comets
