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 try 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.
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.