“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?”