by Adam Silvera
Emil and I are quiet when we’re alone. He gets me ice chips to chew on, and he’s making me feel guilty with how sad he looks, so I focus on the sky some more. I wonder how many more skies I’ll get to see before I die. If I’ll get to see Ma. Talk things out with Prudencia. If Emil and I—
“Did you mean what you said back at the church?” Emil asks, ending the silence.
I said a lot of things back there, but I realize he’s asking me about what I said before I drank the Reaper’s Blood. How I would rather die like Dad than live powerless. “Just get your I-told-you-so out of the way,” I say.
“Not happening. Everyone ignores their big brother,” Emil says.
“I’m older. I was born first . . . thought I was born first. We don’t actually know.”
“I’ve got two extra lifetimes on you. I win.”
Even though he’s forcing this humor, this is the smoothest conversation we’ve had in weeks. Everything else has been this battle about how best to approach our positions in this war. Strangely enough, the last time it felt this easy talking to Emil was after we found out he was adopted. We had talked about how we were always going to be brothers, no matter what.
“Remember my bully in seventh grade?” I ask. “The one who hated my early YouTube videos?”
“First time I ever hit someone who wasn’t you,” Emil says.
We got into a number of fights with each other growing up, and it was always over something stupid. One time he was practicing his drawing, so he traced a superhero over one of my comic books and left pen marks all over the page. Another time I kept hogging the TV to play an RPG where you get to build your own celestial. But those fights were different from the ones we got into with other people at school or on our block. Watching Emil deck that other kid was something I wish I’d gotten on camera so I could play it on repeat.
“It was incredible,” I say.
“Until he hit me back and punched you too.”
“Hey, we got jumped together. Even back then.”
“Simpler times,” Emil says.
Truly. It’s not that I would trade this gang war for schoolyard smackdowns. I just wish this all turned out differently. That Emil and I could’ve been the powerful Reys of Light like we dreamed about when we were younger.
“I wish I wasn’t your brother,” Emil says.
Somehow, that hits harder than finding out I’m dying.
“No, that came off wrong,” Emil says, red in the face. “Sorry. I wish you were an only child. I love being your brother, Bright, but our brotherhood is what got you involved in this war in the first place. If Dad hadn’t found me on that street corner, you would be safe at home and covering all this action for your Celestials of New York. You wouldn’t be—”
“What, dying? No, but I wouldn’t be happy either.”
“I know, but you never got caught up in any of this until you were living in my shadow. You wouldn’t have felt so competitive or incomplete. I’m just saying, I wish another family found me.”
“No, what you’re saying is you wish I wasn’t involved. Guess what, Infinity Son, I’m the one who stopped Luna, not you. If I hadn’t been there you would be dead and Luna would be immortal. How is that good for anyone? For the world?”
Emil hops out of his seat and kicks it over. “I don’t care about the world! I care about you!”
“This is why I’m the one who should have powers! I could prove that not all specters are bad, that we can trust ordinary people with powers. That we can all be more like Bautista. Be more like you.”
It pains me to use Emil as a shining example, but it’s true. Power didn’t corrupt him, and corruption seems to be the popular narrative about any specter. This country is doing itself a gigantic disservice by assuming everyone will abuse their abilities. Right now, enforcers are the only authorized special-ops unit tasked with taking down gleamcrafters. Some celestials have been hired as enforcers, sure, but the majority are humans who are fighting back with wands, gem-grenades, and other weapons boosted by gleamcraft. But what if we trusted more people with powers? What if we could use creature blood to strengthen soldiers in the military, police officers, bodyguards, and protectors of all kinds? We can’t assume that everything will go wrong just because a select few might abuse that privilege.
“For the hundredth time,” Emil says, shaking. “I don’t want these powers. They are not the solution to my problems.”
“Maybe you would feel differently if you saw Dad die!”
That shuts him up.
We’re both breathing heavily. My cheeks are wet with tears and sweat. My fist is shaking so hard, I could probably punch a wall and not feel a thing. “I always hoped Dad 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.”
Seven
The 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 who wants me dead, will kill us all in our sleep. More havens it is.
Iris dials a number. “Eva, babe. Is Carolina around? I’ll put Emil on the line. . . . Great . . . I love you too.”
It’s beautiful that Iris and Eva, and all the Spell Walkers, have been able to pull off love while existing in the heart of this war we’re fighting. But I don’t know how to factor in romance while trying to survive. Atlas’s death doesn’t make me any more eager to figure it out, but I’m regretting not exploring that energy with Ness when I had the chance. Maybe it would’ve been better to have loved, lost, and all that.
I take the phone from Iris and talk into it. “Ma?”
“My Emilio, what’s going on? Why haven’t you reached out sooner?”
I step out into the hallway and walk toward Brighton’s room. “Sorry, Ma, there’s been so much going on. But Brighton and I are together again.”
“That’s the only reason I haven’t completely lost it. Eva says you all won. You stopped Luna. So it’s all over now.”
“We won,” I say. The greater truth behind that victory is going to break her heart. “But I don’t think it’s over yet. We still have some loose ends to tie up.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t worry. I’m going to take care of everything.”
“Where’s Brighton? I want to talk to him.”
Through the triangular window of Brighton’s door, I see he’s staring at the sky. “He’s resting right now. Have you been able to sleep?”
“No, but Wesley’s wonderful girlfriend, Ruth, has already prepared a bed for me. I can try to sleep now that I’ve heard your voice.”
It helps so much to know that she’s got something good going for her in Philadelphia. “Please rest, Ma. Call us in the morning when you’re on the way.”
“I will. I love you boys so much.”
“Love you too.”
We hang up.
I’m going to get Ma the closest-to-normal life that I can, a life that Brighton better get on board with because I’m over all of this chaos and what it’s done to our family. If I can’t save him with the power-binding potion, then Ma is going to know that I did everything in my power to keep her only biological son alive. It’s the least I can do for all the trouble I brought into her life.
I return to my room. Prudencia is resting on my bed, and Iris is picking at one of her bandages.
“Thanks,” I say, giving Iris her phone back.
“Carolina calming down?” Iris asks.
“Yeah, but once she finds out about the Reaper’s Blood, it’s going to set her off. I have to focus on the power-binding potion.”
“Which you were already doing,” she says.
“No, my focus was split because of the Crowned Dreamer. But now that I held up my end of the deal and stopped Luna, I’m giving my full attention to this potion to save Brighton.”
Iris doesn’t argue. “The world thanks you. Well, the whole world isn’t thanking any of us. But you get it.”
“What’s the plan?” Prudencia asks.
“We haven’t been able to figure out what those ingredients in Bautista’s journal mean. I bet he and Sera were close; we just got to finish the job. It’s time we straight-up ask an alchemist to decode everything for us, and fast, so we can save Brighton too.”
Iris scoffs. “Sorry, but you do realize that the majority of senior alchemists in New York swore allegiance to Luna, right? Even some of the younger alchemists who didn’t agree with her still respected her work. It’s unlikely that Luna survived that attack, and once word gets out that you had a hand in killing her, they’re all going to try and make a name for themselves.”
“And what better way to do that than getting us,” Prudencia says.
I can stop fighting all I want, but that won’t stop others from hunting me.
“Then we don’t ask an alchemist,” I say. “Dr. Bowes studied alchemy. She might recognize the ingredients.”
Prudencia considers this for a moment. “After everything with Kirk, we have to be careful. Do we trust her?”
“She hasn’t sold us out,” Iris says. “Yet.”
“Dr. Bowes wouldn’t. She has loved the Spell Walkers her entire life.”
“It’s a start,” Prudencia says, headed for the door. “The journal is in the car.”
I follow her downstairs, and when we get to Iris’s car, she unlocks the trunk with her power. The journal is inside her backpack, and I’m so damn grateful she didn’t leave it behind in Nova when I was busy trying to protect Gravesend. Prudencia hands me the journal, and hope sparks in me, looking at it again. It’s cased in dark blue leather, and there’s an illustrated fire-orb on the cover, gold like the flames Bautista could create. In the elevator back up, I flip through and find the pages with the ingredients we couldn’t translate.
We find Dr. Bowes’s office, and her door is open. She looks up from her computer. “Emil, Prudencia. Come in, please.” We sit on the little yellow sofa she has in her office, and I breathe in the smell of the pink roses beside me. “Fifteenth anniversary last week,” she says when she sees me eyeing them. There’s a picture of Dr. Bowes with her family in Egypt and another of her in a ball pit with her son. She should be home with her son and husband, not working overtime to keep us all alive. “What can I do for you?”
“I hate to ask, but we need your help,” I say.
“And discretion,” Prudencia adds.
Dr. Bowes straightens up. “I’ll do my best.”
“I know we can’t fully eliminate the essence of creatures once they’re introduced into a human’s body, but we’re hoping that if we can lock away all the powers that come with being a specter, they’ll stop eating away at Brighton.” I tap the cover of the journal.
“This belonged to Bautista and Sera Córdova.”
Dr. Bowes eyes the journal like it’s unearthed treasure. “I remember all the murmurings about what an impressive alchemist Sera was. There were even rumors that she and Bautista were romantically involved.”
I’m not going into Bautista’s family tree, especially not where Maribelle and I sit on it. “I don’t know anything about that, but their notes are confusing.”
“There are all these ingredients we can’t translate,” Prudencia says. “We’ve looked through textbooks, online searches. Nothing comes up.”
“Which ingredients?” Dr. Bowes asks.
I read them out: “Ghost husk, cumulus powder, feather-rock, dry-tear, burnt-berry, crimson root, grim-ash, and water from the Shade Sea. Do any of these sound familiar?”
Dr. Bowes shakes her head. “Not a single one.”
“Could they be archaic names?” Prudencia asks.
“Possibly, but I think it’s more likely that these names were invented. Over the years, alchemists have worked to define their legacies with groundbreaking works. Even the great devastation Keon Máximo caused by creating specters is historic,” Dr. Bowes says. I keep a straight face, not owning up to my first life. “Rival alchemists since then have wanted to leave their mark on the world, and some began stealing the formulas of others and framing them as their own. By using code names that only the original alchemist will understand, their work is protected.”
It sucks that we can’t summon Sera’s ghost and ask her to let us in on the secret, but we know good and well that ghosts only speak in howls that make you hopeless and miserable. Not that I need any help in that department.
I close the journal. “So we’re screwed.”
“There’s got to be another way,” Prudencia says.
“What, we just throw a bunch of ingredients in a cauldron and luck into the right combo?”
“Planets aren’t formed in a day,” Dr. Bowes says.
I know she’s using the expression, but unlike planets, this potion isn’t going to create itself. “Smarter minds with legit resources have tried figuring out how to bind someone’s power and come up with nothing. We could spend the rest of our lives experimenting with this formula only to discover Sera was totally off base. This is . . .” I try taking deep breaths, but I’m losing to my anxiety. “This is why I didn’t want to get involved in the first place. This is so much bigger than me, and I can’t deliver the win.” I get up, handing the journal to Prudencia. “I’m done. I was never going to be the next Bautista. Sorry.”
