Infinity Reaper by Adam Silvera (best new books to read txt) 📗

would pass peacefully in his sleep with all of us surrounding him. I wasn’t ready to be alone with him when it all happened so violently. One minute he was telling me why he no longer loved his favorite book and the next he was gripping it so hard that he tore the cover. I kneeled before him and he grabbed my hand and his eyes went wide and—”

“Brighton, stop, just stop—”

“—he spat blood all over me and he was crying and it smelled and I begged him to hold it together and then his hand went limp. His head bumped into mine so hard, and my reflexes shoved him back and his eyes stared back at me and never blinked again. I screamed for him to wake up even though I knew he was gone.”

I’m panting.

This is the first time I’ve gotten this off my chest. It’s the kind of relief that reminds me of taking off my backpack, which was always loaded with textbooks. There are still so many more details when I play Dad’s death back in my head, but Emil doesn’t need any more. He’s already crying hard, like it’s Dad’s funeral all over again.

“I don’t want to die with you thinking this only happened because I’m power-hungry,” I say as he stares me down like I’ve committed the most unforgivable act. “I drank the Reaper’s Blood because I thought those powers would protect me in this terrifying world where one day you’re healthy and the next day you’re dying.” My throat is strained, and my voice lowers to a whisper. “Whenever I die, I hope you’re not around. You’ll be scarred so badly you’ll remember it in every lifetime.”

SevenThe Journal

EMIL

Believe me, I invited Brighton multiple times in the past to open up about Dad’s death, and I get that he was trying to protect me, but I never in a million lifetimes would’ve thought that he would weaponize those graphic details against me.

I’m down the hall and back in my own room, face-planted into my pillow, while Prudencia massages my shoulder to comfort me. I’m crying really damn hard, eyes stinging, and I wouldn’t have thrown down money on having any more tears left, but I’ve got plenty flowing because I can’t get this picture out of my head of Dad crying and crashing into Brighton. I don’t know how Brighton wasn’t in therapy every week. Even I was in counseling, and I didn’t experience everything he went through.

“That wasn’t fair of him,” Prudencia says.

I didn’t put her through everything Brighton told me. She loved my dad too and doesn’t need these visuals. “Brighton’s been carrying this on his shoulders alone for months,” I say as I roll over to my side, and my latest wound aches. “I get why he couldn’t keep it together.”

“He was wrong to share it in an outburst, when you were least expecting it.”

I’m not denying that.

I keep trying to focus on the good memories of Dad, like when he rented a car and drove us all to the Poconos for a surprise family vacation, or when we marathoned these nature specials about phoenixes in the wild, just the two of us. But all I can think about is what must’ve been going through his head during his final moments. Did he want to apologize to Brighton for spitting blood on his face? Was he happy, even a tiny bit, that if he had to go, he was at least with his only biological son?

I’m facing the facts. My parents were only expecting to bring one son home when Brighton was born, but when Dad stepped out of the hospital to get balloons for Ma and discovered me out on a street corner, he brought me back, thinking I was abandoned. He had no idea that I wasn’t a newborn, but instead someone who was reborn in a blaze of fire. None of us knew until a few weeks ago when we pieced it together with the Spell Walkers. I know Dad loved me. But if someone put a wand to his head and asked which son he would’ve wanted with him when he died, it makes sense now more than ever that he would’ve chosen Brighton.

“Hey,” Iris says as she walks in with a phone in one of her bandaged hands. “How are you healing?”

“Getting there,” I say. Movement is one thing, but the infinity-ender blade is built to kill phoenixes and prevent them from resurrecting. The first time I was wounded, my powers were still there, but weaker. I’ll have to see what’s good with them when the time inevitably comes for me to use them again. “How are you doing?”

“Punching through bricks put a strain on my fists, but the salve they put on me should have me demolishing more walls in no time,” Iris says.

“Thanks for getting us out of there,” Prudencia says. “It was getting close.”

Iris nods. “What’s the deal with Brighton?”

I’m not sure how to answer that in the grand scheme of things. “I don’t know.”

“Well, you need to talk to your mother. Carolina keeps threatening to hop on a bus from Philadelphia to get back here if one of you don’t call her.”

“I’m not telling her about the Reaper’s Blood,” I say.

“Your family, your business,” Iris says. “We haven’t told your mother we’re camped out in Gleam Care, but our plan is to have Eva and Carolina arrive tomorrow afternoon. Wesley will hopefully have figured out our next haven by then.”

“More hiding,” I say.

“Feel free to take your chances back at your apartment. Let me know if the Blood Casters come knocking on your door again.”

I first joined the Spell Walkers after Ness, posing as Atlas, surprised me at home to lure me back to Luna. But thankfully the real Atlas showed up and saved me and Brighton. There’s no world where we can ever live there again without freaking out every minute, worrying that the Blood Casters, or anyone else