Page 72 of Infinity Son (Infinity Cycle 1)

Ness drags me. “Stay close, firefly. I’m going to get you out of here,” he whispers.

There’s an uneasiness in my stomach. I don’t want to trust him, but hope ignites again when he relaxes his grip around my arm and his thumb brushes circles against my skin.

“Please, please get me out of here.”

I don’t care if begging makes me look stupid if he plays me again; I’ll do whatever it takes to not be locked up in some cell or killed.

Stanton calls after Ness. “You passed the office.”

Ness turns to me. “You said it was past this room. You lying, Emil?” Then quietly, he adds, “Make Stanton pay for everything he did to you and your brother.”

I wait and listen to the song thrumming within me, fight past the pain that flares when I reach for the fire, and when Stanton is close enough, I hold up my hands and shoot fire-darts into his chest.

“Run!”

My wrists are still tied, but Ness carries the chains, and this is it, we’re running up the steps. I guide us through the museum, leading us all the way to the Sunroom, where enforcers will be better equipped to protect us. My chest aches from using my power, my heart is speeding and my legs aren’t strong enough, but adrenaline drives me through into the gala where countless guests are dressed up in outfits that are so fancy I’d probably punch a wall if I found out how much they cost. Spellwork explodes behind us, charge after charge. Winds lift us into the air, and Atlas is standing by the balcony, struggling to carry us over until he succeeds.

“He’s good,” I say, nodding at Ness. “I think.”

“You look like hell,” Atlas says.

“I’ll be better now. Luna is downstairs and has the egg. Are you alone? Maribelle here?”

“She’s here, and we’re not alone.”

Wesley is dashing into acolytes while Iris guides patrons to a safe escape. Maribelle is locked in combat, and Prudencia telekinetically snaps the suspended phoenixes down from the ceiling so they rain down on the people pursuing her.

And there’s Brighton. He isn’t holding a camera. He’s armed with a wand.

Thirty-Six

Winds

MARIBELLE

Where is she?

The gala g

uests are taking forever to clear the room, too busy tripping over each other’s dress hems, and making it hard for me to track down June. There’s no way she’s sitting this one out. Luna’s life’s work is dependent on this phoenix.

Once I get my hands on her, I won’t let her go.

I’m not messing around as I lay out acolytes left and right. I flip out of the way so an oncoming spell slams into an acolyte trying to sneak up on me with a dagger. One acolyte boldly swings at me, so I duck and rise with a scissor kick, breaking her nose. I carry another into the air and drop him through a display of different phoenix eggs. I’m sure someone is filming this, and it’s all going to be used against me, but the world needs to know that someone as deadly and deathly as June exists. A barrage of spells presses me into a corner, hiding behind the stage with the massive screen intended to air the phoenix’s birth. I peek, and the acolytes are rounding the stage any moment, and I can’t float high enough to get above the screen to escape back to the other side. I’m about to call for Atlas or Wesley when I hear grunts and screams. I check for the damage with a pounding heart and see Brighton standing proudly with his wand outstretched.

“There she is,” Brighton says, pointing his wand across the museum.

June.

I don’t take my eyes off her as I call for Wesley. He appears by my side in moments. “June is at two o’clock. Grab her and don’t let go.”

He dashes away up the wall, and I take off into a hard run so she sees me coming, long enough to distract her. Atlas calls for me to watch my back, but that’s what he and the others are here for. Glass shatters behind me, and I don’t care, the target is June. Wesley’s blur shoots down from the wall behind June, and he collides into her, his arms tightly wrapped around her as they roll across the floor. June’s eyes glow as she tries escaping his grip, but it’s no use.

“You’re finished,” I say as I grab her by the throat.

“Maribelle,” Wesley says with concern.

“Go!”

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