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Bishop confirms with a nod.
“What do you know?” the Senator asks.
“That while you were busy with me, Luna was becoming the most powerful person on this planet,” I say.
The Senator taps the panel between us, a sign that he’s nervous, even though his expression won’t betray him. These are the details I pay attention to when I have to impersonate someone. I’m already plotting on when I can pose as him to stage my escape.
“Any casualties?” he asks.
“A dead hydra and a few idiot acolytes,” Bishop says.
No mention of the phoenix or Emil. Maybe they did get away. Luna has always sworn that the key to success was merging the three essences, but maybe she’s taking her chances on just the blood from the ghosts and hydra. It would still be tricky, but she’ll definitely be killable if we ever cross paths again.
“Very well,” the Senator says to Bishop. “You’ll make a statement in the morning while I meet with some donors.”
Business as usual. As if the son who is supposed to be dead because of a plan he engineered isn’t going to be alive and well in his home. I wonder if he’ll lock me up in the manor’s panic room.
We’re driving through my old neighborh
ood, Whitestone, which sits at the top of Queens, and it’s even more painfully residential than I remember. I’ve seen so much life and color since working the field as a Blood Caster that the sight of these houses makes me feel like my life is reversing. I’ve gotten used to seeing kids out so late that they’re either ignoring their curfew or their parents don’t care. I’ve passed teens in parks where they’re huddled together, sharing a joint, as if the smell won’t stick to their clothes. By the time I was old enough to test any sort of freedom like that, my mother had already been killed and the Senator’s career was rising, so he insisted on my protection. Maybe this entire time he was always keeping me alive so he could one day martyrize me.
I feel sick as I see the familiar laurel hedges that hide the estate. The gate opens and we drive around the small fountain of my grandfather Burgundy Iron, who turned his fear of celestials into fortunes when he invented the first power-proof vests and manufactured them for the government. The manor is three stories high and grayer than Grandpa’s fountain. I truly hate it here.
“Where am I staying?” I ask as I push open the front door.
“Your room, of course,” the Senator says.
Not much has changed as I enter my old home. Same rug over the cork-colored hardwood floor. Same living room reserved for friends of the Senator but never my own. Same sunroom where Mom used to eat pitahaya while reading some nonfiction book. Same dining area that started feeling more like a boardroom given how often the Senator was having his campaign staff over. Same creak on the seventh step of the stairs. Same portraits of outspoken political figures lining the hallway as I pass the Senator’s office and open the door to my bedroom.
Most of the room has stayed the same. All the walls are white except for one that I had wallpapered with black diamonds. The green curtains are open, and I can see that the Crowned Dreamer has vanished from the sky. My colorful candles line the built-in bookcase that’s stacked with biographies of politicians who rewrote history to fool me and millions of others into thinking all celestials are dangerous. I stop in front of my desk and stare at the pictures that don’t belong.
Back in mid-February, one month after the world thought I died, I came across this article about grieving parents who had lost children of their own. This one mother spiraled because she was already pregnant with another child and she no longer trusted herself to keep them alive. These young parents raised funds so fewer children would have to die from the type of cancer that claimed theirs. The one that gripped me the most was the father who refused to remove a single sock or toy or juice cup from his daughter’s room to preserve her memory. I’d wondered if the Senator would leave my room untouched. But he didn’t.
Sometime in April, the Senator did a walkthrough of my bedroom for Wolf News. He had planted all these framed pictures of us together: the night he was elected senator; our fancy sailing trip through the Caribbean Sea while visiting the Dominican Republic, a trip that was planned for Mom to spend time with her distant relatives; and day one of eighth grade, which I should’ve realized was a publicity stunt since it was the first time Mom wasn’t around to take me to school. The Senator lingered the longest around the picture of us waving together in our tailored suits on the steps of a courthouse in the Bronx, moments after he announced that he was running for president.
“Eduardo is the reason I believe I can lead our great nation,” the Senator had said to the reporter. “Especially after losing Esmeralda.”
Then he took this ridiculous long silence that editors deemed worthy of keeping in the final cut.
I slide the picture off my desk and directly into my empty trash can, hating how I probably got my actor bones from the Senator. Thinking about acting reminds me of the picture I actually have been missing since I’ve been gone. I scan around for it since it’s no longer on my bedside table, but it’s not in here. The picture was of me and Mom on opening night of my first school play. I was dressed as the grandson of this dragon tamer and Mom was kissing the top of my head. The Senator wasn’t around because of some last-minute fundraiser. I was upset back then because he didn’t show up, but I’m pissed now because he completely removed a great physical memory of that night.
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.”
