There’s a question forming on Prudencia’s lips as she begins inspecting mine in the flashes of streetlight. “You didn’t . . . Brighton, you didn’t . . .”
“Someone had to be brave,” I say.
Prudencia looks like she might slap me. “Stop confusing recklessness with courage! That elixir can kill you!”
I’m not going to let anyone talk to me like I’m some idiot, not even Pru. I know similar elixirs have been tested on people. As soon as the Crowned Dreamer rose on my eighteenth birthday, September 1, the Spell Walkers started tracking specters who were exhibiting powers from multiple creatures—a clear first. Emil’s powers manifested when we were fighting one.
“It worked for the other specters,” I say.
Prudencia’s gaze is uncomfortable. “Do you mean other specters like Orton, who literally burned to death on his own fire? Brighton, your father died because his blood couldn’t handle the hydra essence in him—”
“I know why my father died!”
“Then why are you playing with fire like this? This behavior is why Iris didn’t want you out on the battlefield! You think you’re so tough, but Emil is one of the strongest gleamcrafters on our side, and look at him!”
“Imagine what I’ll be able to do once my powers kick in. Cast fire, walk through walls, regrow limbs, race through the streets. Fly! Maybe I’ll be able to possess people too and—”
“The stars be damned, possessing people isn’t helping you look good. These powers aren’t yours to have. That elixir was created for Luna with her parents’ blood. There might be negative side effects. You’re so irresponsible—”
“I don’t remember you giving Emil any of these talks!”
“Emil didn’t choose to become a specter, and he is actively working to figure out how to bind these powers, whereas you’ve thrown yourself into a dangerous combination of gleam, one that might kill you.”
I stay true to what I told Emil.
I would rather die powerless than watch him doing everything I can’t.
We pull into a parking lot, and Iris brakes so hard I have to steady Emil’s neck.
The Aldebaran Center for Gleam Care is bright red and shaped like a ring. Out the window I see Wesley is at the entrance, sweating and taking deep breaths as he speaks with three practitioners. The practitioners rush to us, their midnight-blue cloaks swaying, and they gently carry Emil out of the car and onto a stretcher. I swear a couple of them are admiring him, like he’s some celebrity. The thing is, Emil has become a celebrity, especially to celestials, ever since he went viral multiple times. He’s lucky we’re not in a regular hospital, where the workers might handcuff him until enforcers could arrive to lock him up in the Bounds.
Footsteps drop behind me out of nowhere—it’s Maribelle landing. She’s caught the eye of the female practitioner, who glares at her, which isn’t uncommon. Maribelle’s mother, Aurora, was the one caught on camera bombing the Nightlocke Conservatory, and since then, celestials have had a harder time living in peace. Still, with the way the practitioner is looking at her, you’d think Maribelle blew up the conservatory herself. The practitioner looks away, assessing everyone. Iris, Wesley, and Prudencia are already pretty beat—bleeding, dirty, bruising. I got off good, no one touched me; it’s like I’ve got phasing powers already. I was careful and more alert because being taken hostage by the Blood Casters one time was more than enough for me.
I catch up to the practitioners who are handling Emil right as the elevator doors are closing.
“Family only,” one practitioner says.
“He’s my brother.”
Damn right he’s quiet. If they know him, they should know me. Emil’s only been featured on my YouTube channel multiple times.
They’ll all know me soon enough.
The elevator rises to the top level, the fourteenth floor. The lights in the hallway are warm and bright, and it reminds me of being onstage delivering my salutatorian speech. I stumble, dizzy, but right myself. The practitioners w
heel Emil into a private room with white walls, wide windows, and most notably, a ceiling that is shuttered open, which is standard in most Gleam Cares so the night sky can heal and strengthen celestials—and specters too, but to a lesser degree.
This practitioner is taking his sweet, sweet time cutting open Emil’s power-proof vest. I shout at him to hurry the hell up, that Emil was stabbed with an infinity-ender blade. Emil is white in the face, and I stay close, holding his hand, even when someone asks me to give them space because my brother has to know that I’m here with him. Eva Nafisi could save Emil’s life in moments, but the Spell Walkers never bring her out into battle because losing the healer would be a great loss for us and a great gain for our many enemies. I’m relieved when the female practitioner reveals a moderate healing ability of her own. Her power isn’t as colorful as Eva’s, which glows like a rainbow, but the muted red lights are helping replenish Emil’s blood. Slowly, but surely. The only thing is she doesn’t seem to be strong enough to fully seal the cut. They might have to give him old-fashioned stitches.
I wish Emil and I could heal each other, power to power.
All this blood is making me light-headed. I should sit, have some water, but this reminds me too much of Dad dying. Emil didn’t want to fight, but I pushed him. The room spins when I think about Emil dying. He deserves to live; come on, this is someone who cares so much about making sure we don’t abandon a dead phoenix. The lights fixed on the wall are growing dimmer. I don’t feel the Crowned Dreamer working to make me more powerful, to keep me upright. My grip loosens around Emil’s hand and I stumble backward.
I once asked Dad what it felt like living with his blood poisoning. He said it was all over the place: body shivers, flushing skin, dizziness, vicious heartbeats. Sometimes his breath would shorten, like mine now, getting cut in half, then those halves cut in half, and the closest I can compare anything to this suffocation is when I had anxiety attacks over exams, or even worse, the ones when Dad would return home from hospital appointments with shorter life sentences.
I collapse, looking up at the fading Crowned Dreamer from the floor, and as my eyes close, I have that blood-and-bones feeling that the Reaper’s Blood isn’t going to make me immortal—it’s going to poison me to death.
Two