“Burn that footage,” Emil says as the man storms away with lightning jumping between his palms.

“No kidding.”

My videos won’t ever be used to build any cases against celestials, I swear my life on it.

Four young men by the lake catch my attention. Two are circling each other with their fists like they’re about to fight. Another is filming on his phone while the last is laughing and holding a cooler.

“Check it out.”

“I know they’re not about to watch these two guys go in on each other,” Prudencia says. She charges over. “Hey, enough!”

“I’m going to turn you into ashes,” the freckled teen says.

Gleamcrafter . . .

I drag Prudencia back before she gets hurt. The Crowned Dreamer season is truly stirring some trouble if we’re about to witness our second power brawl in one week.

“Not if I blow you away first,” says the boy whose muscles are flexing out his gym wear.

Freckles opens his mouth and squints his eyes, but no fire appears. I wonder if Gym-Rat is maybe burning from the inside out, but he holds his fist up to the sky and spins it around as if expecting a tornado to swing through. The guy with the cooler holds his stomach, laughing, and I think the only thing funny here is his awful man bun. The young men continuing to battle with no powers isn’t hilarious, it’s confusing.

Emil cautiously approaches. “What’s happening?”

I shrug. “Maybe they’re filming some movie and adding effects later?” My favorite indie movies lately have celestial actors using their real powers, but Hollywood largely prefers special effects since it’s safer for sets.

“They don’t seem to care that we’re in their line of vision,” Prudencia says.

Freckles and Gym-Rat sweat as they gesture at each other some more. It’s one of the most bizarre things I’ve ever seen. Reminds me of when Emil and I used to wrestle each other with imaginary powers, but we were kids. These two are too old to be playing pretend. They sway back and forth and rapidly blink before steadying themselves.

“You’re okay!” Freckles fist-bumps Gym-Rat. “That felt so real!”

“I hurled you over the trees,” Gym-Rat says with a laugh.

As they walk away, Man-Bun shouts after them to tell their friends.

“What was that all about?” I ask.

The other guy stops filming and puts away his phone. “Business.”

“What business?” Emil asks.

He turns and does a double take at Emil, then stares in silence.

“It’s called Brew,” Man-Bun says. He reaches into his cooler and pulls out a vial containing a light gold liquid that looks like champagne. I’ve never heard of it. “We use illusionist blood to create hallucinatory potions so the drinker can experience what it’s like to have powers. Not cheap, but it feels extremely real. Helps people blow off steam.”

I’ve done some virtual reality where you can play as a celestial, but I never forget it’s a game. This sounds more convincing. “How much for that bottle?” I don’t have a lot of cash on me or a lot of money in general, but I have to get in on this.

“Three hundred.”

The soaring possibilities in my chest are crashing. I’m still at a loss after not selling my swag at the meet-up, and my videos aren’t getting enough traffic to make solid money off my ads. “I could do two hundred if you let me run to an ATM.”

“Are we doing discounts, James?” Man-Bun asks.

“No discounts, Orton.”

Orton puts the potion back into the cooler.

“Wait.”

Emil tries dragging me away. “You don’t have the money. We’re going home.”

I ignore him. “I run an account called Celestials of New York. Have you heard of it?” They’re glaring at me like I asked for the meaning of life. “I profile people about their stories and powers, and I can help you spread the word about Brew. We can do a trade. You give me a potion, and I give you publicity. Is this your blood you’re using?”

Orton grins. “I’m superior to celestials.” His eyes are suddenly consumed by a glowing eclipse before returning to normal. “Superior to other specters too.”

This is a rare opportunity. This is what I need to revive my channel—a special kind of profile. “I’ve never interviewed a specter before,” I say.

“Don’t give him a voice,” Prudencia says. “He’s part of our country’s problem.”

“You don’t know my story,” Orton says.

I ready my camera. “Tell it to me. I want to know all about what drew you to blood alchemy, how you decided on which creature, where you found a reputable alchemist, and when you got your powers.”

“That all?” Orton asks.

“We’re not doing interviews,” James cuts in. He’s shorter than Orton, and apart from his firm tone, I get sidekick vibes from him.

“Just give me ten minutes. Fifteen tops,” I say.

Prudencia gets in my face. “There are so few specters who do good with their powers. Stop trying to shine a light on someone who’s clearly corrupt.”

“I just want to have a better understanding,” I say.

“No, you want guidance on how to pull this off yourself.”

I stand tall even though I’m rocked by her accusation. “My father died from blood alchemy. I wouldn’t ever do this to myself. Even if I did, though—Bautista was a specter, and he formed our city’s greatest group of heroes. Why does everyone conveniently forget that?”

Prudencia points at Orton. “He’s a potions dealer, Brighton. Not a hero.”

“I have feelings, by the way,” Orton says.

“So did the creature you harmed.” Emil speaks up with his eyes cast to the ground.

Orton pays him no mind. “I’m making dreams come true.”

Prudencia’s fist clenches. “You need to get your life straight. Bye.”

She storms away, and even though this could be huge for me, I follow.

“You should’ve had my back, Brighton,” she says.

“I wanted an interview.”

“You are so obsessed, and—”

“I want to understand the psyche of anyone risking their lives for powers when blood alchemy is such a killer, especially after that happened with my father—”

“Guys, guys,” Emil interrupts, looking even more panicked than when he saw the enforcers. “The specter is following us.”

Seven

Gold and Gray

EMIL

This is one of those rare times I wish I had powers. Instead of rushing down into the subway, I could teleport away with Brighton and Prudencia. I’d even be good with a defensive power like shield generation to protect us. I can’t believe there’s a chance we’re going to be attacked, and we have no clue what powers to expect from Orton. Is he going to strike like a basilisk? Light us up like a phoenix? Paralyze us with illusions like a wraith?

“Let’s go, let’s go,” I say as the train arrives and we squeeze into the packed car.

The doors close behind us before Orton and James can enter. Orton grins as the train begins pulling away.