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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 thick eyebrows and red hair that’s pulled into a ponytail. He’s the most impressive telekinetic I’ve ever seen; there’s no way any assassin will ever land a shot on the Senator as long as he’s around. The other, Zenon Ramsey, has dark blond hair that completely covers his eyes, which lulls people into thinking he’s not paying attention when in reality he’s watching more than most. He has the rare ability to see things through other people’s perspectives—literally. I’ve heard it only works on people in a short distance, but that’s all he needs to be a security guard for a two-mile radius.
The Senator has always employed celestials to protect our family, and having celestial bodyguards when he’s actively campaigning against the community always felt like a special sort of magic trick until I learned how well they were being paid to keep him alive. That’s more than I can say for being a Blood Caster who was working to make Luna immortal. What is shocking to me is how Jax and Zenon regarded me like I wasn’t supposed to have been blown to smithereens at the Nightlocke Conservatory.
How many others know that the Senator tried to have his own son killed so he could paint the Spell Walkers as dangers to society?
Even if there was some way I could take down Jax and Zenon and get away on a life raft, a piercing screech high above in the sky tells me that I wouldn’t get very far. A phoenix that is four times the size of an eagle swoops down toward the river, its crystal-blue belly skimming the surface as it searches for any intruders or escapees. This phoenix with drenched indigo feathers is a sky swimmer, which I can identify because the Senator once returned home from a hunting trip with the head of one; it might still be mounted in his office at the manor.
“Quite a sight,” the Senator says as he follows me to the bow of the ship.
At first I think he’s talking about the sky swimmer, but he’s staring straight ahead at our destination. The New York Bounds is a collection of small stone castles, huddled together like someone pushed all the rooks of a chessboard together. The towers are windowless, designed that way so inmates will be disconnected from the stars, dampening their abilities. Solitary confinement is the cruelest punishment, burying celestials so deep underground that it’s as if all the stars have vanished from the universe.
I’ve seen this up front.
The Senator brought me here after my mother was killed.
We toured the Bounds so I could understand the creative measures that the prison’s correctional architects had to put in place to seal away their powerful inmates. On one level, there were two men floating inside tanks of water, with only their heads above the surface so they could breathe and eat; their waste was their own problem. The fire caster couldn’t summon his gleam at all, and if the lightning striker wanted to make a move, well, that was his life to take. On another level, electric traps were installed around the edges of a cell to prevent a woman who could melt herself into a puddle from escaping. Her neighbor was a man who could camouflage himself against any surface, so the engineers installed sprinklers that sprayed paint of different colors to always keep track of him.
The last person we visited that day was a convict in solitary confinement. He’d been imprisoned for using his heating powers to boil the blood of his family. The screams echoing through the corridors had me so nervous that I had stayed hidden behind my then-bodyguard, Logan Hesse. But when the security guard opened the cell, I realized I had no reason to be scared. The inmate’s hands and ankles and waist were bound by iron chains. He had no fight in him as we observed him like some animal in a zoo. The next day, the celestial was found dead in his cell, with red handprints burned onto his pale face. When the Senator told me the news, he mocked the dead man with an impression of his suicide. I laughed so hard before returning to schoolwork.
I hate who I was.
The boat docks at the pier.
The island is known for having its traps, like sand basilisks waiting to swallow people whole, but when the Senator steps onto the beach before me, I trust that he knows more than I do right now. I’m weighing in my head if I’m ready for this steep climb with jagged rocks up to the prison when an older man walks out from a cluster of trees. The flashlight guiding his path illuminates his features and I recognize him instantly.
He runs this island.
Barrett Bishop is very pale, as if he only ever comes out at night. I last saw him the morning of the Blackout, and there are now more wrinkles around his eyes, and graying hair that stops at his shoulders. He’s dragging the maroon jacket for his three-piece suit because he doesn’t care about appearances as much as the Senator. The contrast has worked for them this election cycle. The Senator is the put-together candidate who is best qualified to serve as president, but Bishop’s everyman vibes paired with his experience as the chief architect of the Bounds have made him a dream choice for vice president. Their supporters cheer him on at every rally, even when he says the most dangerous things.
“Edward,” Bishop says in
a hoarse voice, regarding the Senator. Then his icy-blue eyes turn to me. “You brought your ghost.”
“I did indeed,” the Senator says.
Bishop directs the flashlight toward my eyes, toying around with me like I’m some bored cat, before turning it off. “What are we doing with the ghost? Burying him deep in the Bounds?”
“It’s his choice,” the Senator says.
The little light spots fade, and Bishop’s grin suggests he wants to make me his personal prisoner. If I were locked up, leaving me in a cell to regret all my wrongs would be punishment enough. But the correctional architects who hate gleamcraft have to show their dominance. They have to prove to all of us, everywhere, that our powers can be beaten by ordinary means. They have dark imaginations and enough hate to go home at night without feeling absolutely inhuman.
I once had that hate too.
Following our visit to the Bounds, the Senator asked me how I would’ve punished the man who killed my mother if we’d ever tracked him down. The celestial had cast an illusion and tricked Mom into believing he was her friend before gutting her. I spent all day thinking over the question and during dinner I told the Senator that I would chain the celestial to a chair, bring in his family, and kill them all in front of him. No illusions. Only reality.
“We can’t murder people,” the Senator had said.
But that’s clearly a lie. He organized my death and pinned it on innocent celestials. The truth is that he can’t be caught with blood on his hands.
So what’s my move?
