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.
“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.”