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 wheel 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
Prisoner
NESS
Who am I going to be? The Senator’s prisoner out in the world or one who’s locked up in the Bounds?
We’re below deck when the Senator invites me to get some air at the front of the ship to think over the big decision ahead of me. Between him punching me in the nose, getting shot with a stunning spell by enforcers hours ago, and the boat speeding toward the island, my balance is especially off as I go up the narrow stairway and step out onto the stern.
There are two men fully dressed in black outfits guarding the stairway, and neither pays me any attention, even though we know each other good and well. The Senator’s head of security, Jax Jann, has always reminded me of an Olympian swimmer with his stretched torso and long arms and legs. He has