by Adam Silvera
I offer a quick thanks—that’s the best I got.
“Where’s my brother?”
I might have to deck him if he’s out in the hallway bragging into some camera about this Reaper’s Blood business.
For a moment, Dr. Bowes looks as if someone has come around the corner and surprised her. She composes herself and says, “Don’t be alarmed.”
“Too late. What’s wrong?”
“I understand Brighton drank a potion tonight,” Dr. Bowes says. “Traffic increases in all our facilities during the appearance of every prime constellation as people pursue specter conversion. Believe me, we’re already bracing ourselves for the Cloaked Phantom next weekend. My alchemy courses while pursuing my PhD couldn’t have prepared me for this new, dangerous trend of people experimenting with multiple essences. The results have been disastrous. There have been so many reports of people combusting, others eaten alive from within, limbs falling off.”
I absolutely didn’t need her to paint this picture of Brighton’s legs and arms falling off, like rotted teeth out of a mouth, while he screams and dies in a fiery blaze, but there’s no shaking that out of my head.
“It’s very tricky,” she says. “But I assure you my team and I are doing our best to stabilize him.”
“You can’t guarantee that.” I’m shaking. It’s like all the promises the doctors and alchemists fed us about saving Dad. “The elixir was created by Luna Marnette herself. It’s next level. She’s responsible for the Blood Casters and all these other hybrid specters. She was going to use this potion to live forever.”
“Immortality is impossible,” Dr. Bowes says.
“I bet you think stealing blood from ghosts is impossible too, but here we are.”
Dr. Bowes is stone-faced as she absorbs all of this. “You’re all fighting a battle beyond our comprehension, aren’t you?”
I don’t answer her. “Can I please see Brighton?”
She helps me out of bed, and I’m dizzy. I settle into the wheelchair she’s insisting I use. Good call. She guides me to another room four doors down.
Inside, Brighton is in bed with his eyes closed, but this isn’t some peaceful sleep. He’s the palest I’ve ever seen him. There are IVs injected into his arms, delivering clear, light blue and dark red fluids into his veins. There’s a ventilator helping him breathe, and it’s nicer than the one we had at home for Dad. I know that I should feel relieved, but it’s actually freaking me out that Brighton’s condition must be so severe that he needs the best equipment available.
I get out of the wheelchair, holding his hand and fighting back tears.
“He’s stable at the moment,” Dr. Bowes says.
“Our dad died from blood poisoning.”
“I’m aware,” Dr. Bowes says.
How much do strangers know about me? I feel uncomfortable, like cameras are following me everywhere I go.
“The hydra essence turned on him,” I say. “Won’t it kill Brighton too?”
“We’re working to purify the blood before an infection can spread, but considering there are three foreign essences working against his system, the chances of Brighton’s body failing are higher than most. But you all came to the right place; I’ve treated many specter aspirants before. You won’t believe how many people try to get powers without hiring an alchemist. It’s like when my husband tattooed himself as a teenager to save a buck. It didn’t turn out well.” Dr. Bowes looks sheepish as she realizes that she’s gone and made this about herself. “I promise I will do everything I can to make sure your brother goes home with you.”
She’s too confident. If Ma were here right now, she would go off on Dr. Bowes for not giving it to us straight.
I hope Brighton lives, even if it means reliving all the heartache we went through watching Dad in pain.
“How much time do you think he has?”
“It’s too early to tell, but I would prepare for a few months if we can’t successfully purify his blood.”
Months—and that’s if we’re extremely lucky. “What if we could cancel out the essences? Do you think that will stop his sickness?”
“It’s a popular theory, but no one has ever been able to eradicate a specter’s powers. Once creature blood is fused into a person, those abilities become as permanent as a celestial’s. Enforcers have means to temporarily dampen powers, of course, but even that takes considerable resources. I’m afraid that there is no known cure for specters presently.”
Brighton always says that something being unlikely doesn’t make it impossible. I hope I get to hear him say it again.
I squeeze his hand. There are no stars in the sky right now to pray to, but the moment they’re back I’m counting on each and every one of them to guide him back to health.
“Dr. Bowes, can you make sure your son won’t say anything about us being here? I want Brighton to get as much assistance from you and your team as possible. I’m happy to, I don’t know, autograph something for your son if we can count on some privacy.”
Dr. Bowes shakes her head. “That’s not necessary . . . but if you don’t mind, I’m sure it’ll make his day. He dreams of becoming a Spell Walker when he grows up.”
There should be concern in her voice, not pride. I don’t know what powers Dr. Bowes or her son have, but I hope he grows out of his Spell Walker hype before he finds himself in a battle that can kill him. Everything can change so quickly. Check out Brighton. One moment he was saving my life, and in the next, he was doing the unthinkable because staying on the sidelines wasn’t enough.
Nightmares may be terrifying, but dreams are dangerous.
Five
Iron Manor
NESS
It’s been a while since I’ve been in a town car.
Luna wasn’t comfortable with the Blood Casters traveling in packs unless we were protecting her or there was a very urgent reason. That way, if one of us got caught, the others could complete the mission. Stanton travels through sewers. Dione leaps from rooftop to rooftop. June teleports short distances, usually only appearing long enough for someone to wonder if they’re seeing things. And I always blended in on public transportation, an experience I was denied growing up because my fame was growing in political circles. But the Senator keeps his team together. Jax is driving, and Zenon is vision-hopping through the eyes of other drivers to determine the safest path, as well as to make sure we’re not being followed. The partition is down as the Senator and Bishop discuss the news that’s just come in about a brawl between the Spell Walkers and Blood Casters at a church.
“Which church?” the Senator asks Bishop, who’s reading the update off his tablet.
“The Alpha Church of New Life,” I say with a smirk, even though I know this isn’t good news.
Bishop confirms with a nod.
“What do you know?” the Senator asks.
“That while you were busy with me, Luna was becoming the most powerful person on this planet,” I say.
The Senator taps the panel between us, a sign that he’s nervous, even though his expression won’t betray him. These are the details I pay attention to when I have to impersonate someone. I’m already plotting on when I can pose as him to stage my escape.
“Any casualties?” he asks.
“A dead hydra and a few idiot acolytes,” Bishop says.
No mention of the phoenix or Emil. Maybe they did get away. Luna has always sworn that the key to success was merging the three essences, but maybe she’s taking her chances on just the blood from the ghosts and hydra. It would still be tricky, but she’ll definitely be killable if we ever cross paths again.
“Very well,” the Senator says to Bishop. “You’ll make a statement in the morning while I meet with some donors.”
Business as usual. As if the son who is supposed to be dead because of a plan he engineered isn’t going to be alive and well in his home. I wonder if he’ll lock me up in the manor’s panic room.
We’re driving through my old neighborh
ood, Whitestone, which sits at the top of Queens, and it’s even more painfully residential than I remember. I’ve seen so much life and color since working the field as a Blood Caster that the sight of these houses makes me feel like my life is reversing. I’ve gotten used to seeing kids out so late that they’re either ignoring their curfew or their parents don’t care. I’ve passed teens in parks where they’re huddled together, sharing a joint, as if the smell won’t stick to their clothes. By the time I was old enough to test any sort of freedom like that, my mother had already been killed and the Senator’s career was rising, so he insisted on my protection. Maybe this entire time he was always keeping me alive so he could one day martyrize me.
I feel sick as I see the familiar laurel hedges that hide the estate. The gate opens and we drive around the small fountain of my grandfather Burgundy Iron, who turned his fear of celestials into fortunes when he invented the first power-proof vests and manufactured them for the government. The manor is three stories high and grayer than Grandpa’s fountain. I truly hate it here.
“Where am I staying?” I ask as I push open the front door.
“Your room, of course,” the Senator says.
Not much has changed as I enter my old home. Same rug over the cork-colored hardwood floor. Same living room reserved for friends of the Senator but never my own. Same sunroom where Mom used to eat pitahaya while reading some nonfiction book. Same dining area that started feeling more like a boardroom given how often the Senator was having his campaign staff over. Same creak on the seventh step of the stairs. Same portraits of outspoken political figures lining the hallway as I pass the Senator’s office and open the door to my bedroom.
Most of the room has stayed the same. All the walls are white except for one that I had wallpapered with black diamonds. The green curtains are open, and I can see that the Crowned Dreamer has vanished from the sky. My colorful candles line the built-in bookcase that’s stacked with biographies of politicians who rewrote history to fool me and millions of others into thinking all celestials are dangerous. I stop in front of my desk and stare at the pictures that don’t belong.
Back in mid-February, one month after the world thought I died, I came across this article about grieving parents who had lost children of their own. This one mother spiraled because she was already pregnant with another child and she no longer trusted herself to keep them alive. These young parents raised funds so fewer children would have to die from the type of cancer that claimed theirs. The one that gripped me the most was the father who refused to remove a single sock or toy or juice cup from his daughter’s room to preserve her memory. I’d wondered if the Senator would leave my room untouched. But he didn’t.
Sometime in April, the Senator did a walkthrough of my bedroom for Wolf News. He had planted all these framed pictures of us together: the night he was elected senator; our fancy sailing trip through the Caribbean Sea while visiting the Dominican Republic, a trip that was planned for Mom to spend time with her distant relatives; and day one of eighth grade, which I should’ve realized was a publicity stunt since it was the first time Mom wasn’t around to take me to school. The Senator lingered the longest around the picture of us waving together in our tailored suits on the steps of a courthouse in the Bronx, moments after he announced that he was running for president.
“Eduardo is the reason I believe I can lead our great nation,” the Senator had said to the reporter. “Especially after losing Esmeralda.”
Then he took this ridiculous long silence that editors deemed worthy of keeping in the final cut.
I slide the picture off my desk and directly into my empty trash can, hating how I probably got my actor bones from the Senator. Thinking about acting reminds me of the picture I actually have been missing since I’ve been gone. I scan around for it since it’s no longer on my bedside table, but it’s not in here. The picture was of me and Mom on opening night of my first school play. I was dressed as the grandson of this dragon tamer and Mom was kissing the top of my head. The Senator wasn’t around because of some last-minute fundraiser. I was upset back then because he didn’t show up, but I’m pissed now because he completely removed a great physical memory of that night.
I head for the door right as the Senator and Jax come down the hallway. Jax shoves me back into the room, and I almost fall.
“Control your lackey,” I say.
“Jax doesn’t need control. He cooperates,” the Senator says. “You need to follow his lead.”
“You need to give me back my picture of me and Mom.”
The Senator stops to consider this and then chuckles. “The one of you from some play? I wasn’t in it, so we had it trashed.”
“You had no right.”
“Dead men have no possessions, and you were supposed to be one. If you wanted that picture so badly, you could’ve come back to life for that occasion.” The Senator claps. “Well then, I have private matters to discuss with Bishop and must alert select others about your return. If you need anything from the kitchens, Jax will have it sent up for you, and he’ll escort you to the bathroom as needed.”
“For my protection?” I ask mockingly.
“For my campaign’s protection,” the Senator says. “Welcome home, Eduardo. Have a good night.”
Jax telekinetically closes the door in my face.
In all my nightmares of the Senator discovering I’m alive, I never thought I would return here. Dead within the day always seemed more likely. There’s still time for that if I don’t cooperate.
I sit on my bed, exhausted. I’d forgotten how comfortable it was. I’ve come a long way from sleeping on stiff mattresses, couches, subway benches, and even the floor of that supplies closet when I manipulated Emil and the Spell Walkers into taking me hostage. This would all feel a little easier if Emil were here with me. If we could talk about our own lives instead of how to save everyone else’s.
But my life here won’t be easy. He’s going to keep me disconnected. There’s never been a TV in my room, and the Senator certainly won’t give me one now so he can continue controlling the narrative. Still, there’s one narrative he can’t control: he’ll never fool me again into thinking this luxurious house isn’t a prison. Except with traditional jails, the prisoners are expected to keep their heads low and behave while they serve their time. Here at home, the Senator is going to corrupt me further.
Six
Like Father, Like Son
BRIGHTON
I wake up with a tube down my throat and wires in my arms, and I freak out.
Emil calls for help and nurses rush in, instructing me to relax and let their machines help me breathe a little longer. But Emil crying makes me want to panic even more, so I stare out the window instead. The blackness of the sky has been replaced with bright oranges and pinks and blues. The sun is rising. Has it been a few hours since I fainted? I’m guessing so since Ma would be by my side too if it’d been any longer than that.
When I’m calming down, I can’t help but think about this one time when Dad woke up in his hospital room alone. He was so scared, which felt backward. Children aren’t the ones who are supposed to tuck their parents back into bed after they’ve had a nightmare, or check their closets to make sure basilisks aren’t nesting in there. Dad explained that his fear was about dying alone, and that struck all of us. Since that moment, we always made sure someone was there when Dad woke up, even if that meant we missed class, work, birthdays, Emil’s tutoring sessions, and my extracurricular clubs.
I lucked out having Emil here to keep me company. Even luckier that he’s alive. But I’m definitely logging away that Prudencia isn’t here.
An hour later, a nurse returns to stop the intubation. My throat feels dry and swollen when he removes the tube, but I’m able to breathe okay. A practitioner, Dr. Bowes, checks my temperature, tests my senses, and assesses my energy levels. I’m burning up, and Emil presses a cold towel against my forehead. I used to be on the outside looking in whenever I watched Dad tr
y and stay strong as nurses poked and prodded him. But the grass isn’t greener on the other side with Emil watching me suffer. I’m getting hotter and hotter. This happened to Emil when his powers first appeared. That could be a good thing, except for the fact that it was also what happened to Dad on and off before he died. Emil helps me remove my shirt, but it’s not making enough of a difference.
The question I’m building up the nerve to ask is making me nauseous and so nervous that I’m shaking. “I’m dying, right?”
Dr. Bowes’s solemn expression says it all. “It appears your body is rejecting the elixir you consumed. We believe you may have a few more months ahead of you.”
I don’t get it—I glowed after drinking the Reaper’s Blood. That has to mean something. “But the elixir was mixed and consumed when the Crowned Dreamer was at its zenith.”
“Blood alchemy for specters has been around for decades, but there are no surefire methods,” she says.
Even with all of Luna’s calculations, the elixir could’ve turned on her too. If I spared her from everything I’m going through, I hope she suffered from my spell before dying. There are worse legacies I could have.
“We’re preparing some more tests to run and afterward we can explore some alternative practices to cleanse your blood,” Dr. Bowes says. “Do you need anything else for the time being, Brighton?”
“I need a minute.”
Dr. Bowes says something before leaving, but I don’t hear her because I’m too busy sorting through my own thoughts about how the elixir backfired.
