It is dangerous, this face, this boy. And not simply because he’s a mystic, though that is danger enough.
He already has a hold on me. I’m not sure if it’s attraction or fear. Or both.
The mystic looks calm. If I didn’t know better, I would never guess that he’s just been in a fight. He’s wearing a red T-shirt and a pair of jeans, and a blue jacket made out of sweatshirt material. He radiates health—and because of that, he stands out here, among other mystics who have had their powers drained.
Typically, those who’ve had their energy removed have a sickly look about them that I’ve noted in pictures and learned about in school, and occasionally seen in person. They’re drained, of course, to protect us against another revolt like the Mother’s Day Conflagration. Without their energy, they can’t hurt anyone, and the people who live in the Aeries are safe.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“Java River,” he says, pointing to the wall where the name is painted.
“I know that,” I say, longing for my lost cloak. I’d hide myself in its folds. No one seems to be paying me much attention, but I feel as though all eyes are on me. On us. Maybe I’m just paranoid. “But where are we?” I motion to the window. To what is outside.
He leans back. “Oh. We’re near the Magnificent Block,” he says casually.
I feel my eyes widen. “We’re near the Block?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Near. Not in. Don’t worry, you’re safe.” He looks at me strangely. “Where did you think we were?”
I can’t answer his question, though I certainly didn’t think we were so close to the Block. I expected the surrounding area to be a little more … run-down, and surprisingly, it’s not. The people here look a lot like me. They look—well, normal.
“This is one of the few joints we’re allowed in outside the Block,” he says. “It’s not legal per se … but the owners here are pretty decent. All the other restaurants and stores have checkpoint scanners when you enter to keep out the mystics.”
“Even the drained ones?”
He nods.
“Is that why you brought me here?”
“Sure. Also, I like the coffee.”
I look around. Java River’s customers seem to come from every walk of life: there are girls and boys my own age who don’t seem evil in the least. A group of sandy-haired young men in the window are laughing and playing cards. And at the far end of the long room are a half-dozen oldsters, sipping coffee and watching TV and arguing with each other about what they see there.
Yes, their complexions are wan; their skin is paper-thin. They look weak, fundamentally tired as a result of the drainings. But these people aren’t the menacing individuals I’ve been warned about my entire life—the deviants and drained mystics who supposedly line every street in the Magnificent Block. That is what we were taught at Florence Academy. What I was taught by my parents.
It doesn’t seem fair—if they’re drained, why can’t they go anywhere they want?
The boy seems to be reading my mind. “Not what you expected?”
“No, not exactly.”
The waitress comes with our coffee and sets the mugs down in front of us. The boy immediately takes a sip, but I stir mine with a spoon, waiting for it to cool.
We sit like this for a few minutes. I should be going. It’s late, and I still need to find Thomas. And yet, something about this mystic is compelling me to stay here.
I clear my throat. “Thank you for saving me. And for … my arm.”
The unspoken words are: for using your power to heal me.
I don’t say them out loud, for fear of who might be listening. Rebel mystics are illegal. These are the people my father hunts down on a daily basis. If he knew I was in the Depths, sitting directly across from a fully empowered mystic …
“You’re welcome.”
He leans forward. His irises are speckled with lighter shades of blue around the edges. He sips his coffee.
“My name is Aria,” I say to break the silence.
“Like from an opera.” His voice is so soft I can barely hear it.
“Well, yes, actually. My mother’s a big fan.”
“Any one in particular?”
I squint. “Why, do you know opera?”
“You assume I don’t?”
“Well, it’s just that—”
“I’m a mystic, so obviously it’s impossible for me to have even an ounce of culture.” His voice is tired, tinged with bitterness. “What do they teach you up there?” He points at the ceiling, but I know he means the Aeries.
“Listen, that was rude of me. I’m sure you’re cultured, of course you are. I’ve just had a bad couple of weeks, and now a really strange night. I’m sorry.” I take a big gulp of coffee. “So, um, which is your favorite?”
He stares right at me, and I can see him soften a little. Then the right corner of his mouth twitches just a little, and he breaks into an enormous grin. “I was just teasing you, mostly. I hate opera.” He puts his hand over his heart. “I’ve got more of a rocker’s soul.”
He laughs as though he’s really enjoying himself, and his entire face lights up. I start laughing, too—in fact, I can’t stop. It feels so good. I can’t remember the last time I laughed like this.
“A rocker, huh?” I repeat with a bit of an eye roll, but he knows he’s got me. I can see it in his eyes. “So … what do you play?”
He gives a quick nod. “Guitar.”
“I love music,” I say, trying to focus on anything—the floor, the table, my coffee—except how he smells, like smoke and sweat and salt from the canals. “My parents gave me tons of lessons when I was a kid—piano, flute, oboe—but I was never any good.”
The mystic raises an eyebrow and looks amused. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Oh?”
He looks me up and down, and I feel practically naked; the intensity of his gaze is so strong I can actually feel my stomach churn.
“I’d imagine you’re the kind of girl who is good at everything you do.”
I know he means it as a compliment, but it makes me think of the overdose. Of failing so completely. Losing my memories to Stic and disappointing my family and Thomas. The scene with Gretchen at the plummet party and the upcoming election.
I shake my head. “Not everything.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m bad at tons of things.” He offers me a smile while tracing the edge of his coffee mug with a fingertip. It’s strange to see his fingers looking so normal when I know what they can do.
“Like what?”
“School,” he says. “I was never good at math. Or science. Or anything, really. That’s why I dropped out.”
I gasp instinctively. “You dropped out of school?”
He chuckles. “There are more important things, you know. At least to some people.”
“I suppose,” I say tentatively. “So what’s important to you, then?”
The boy looks thoughtful for a moment. “Friends. Family.”
“That’s good,” I say, then immediately wonder why it matters to me that we share the same values. It’s not like I’ll ever see him again.
“And equality,” he says, then picks up his mug and takes a long sip. I wonder if that was supposed to be a stab at me. Surely he knows who I am, who my parents are? There’s no way a rebel mystic—or anyone from the Depths—could possibly support the Roses and the Fosters. We’ve been despised by mystics in the Depths for ages—not that we ever really minded, as long as things stayed the same.
I avert my eyes. He must find me despicable, with my wealth and good fortune. Which is disappointing because … because why? I glance back at him and I can hear my own heartbeat. Deep down, I know why. I just don’t want to admit it.
I like him.
My throat feels dry and scratchy. I’m engaged. I can’t like him. I don’t even know his name. Thomas’s face flashes before me: the richness of his eyes, the honey color of his skin. What am I doing he
re?
“Aria?”
I look up. “Yeah?”
“Are you okay?”
No! I want to yell, but it’s not his fault this conversation is the most comfortable one I’ve had in ages, that simply looking at him relaxes me. “Are you going to tell me your name?”
He scratches his head, confused, as though he’d been expecting a much more intense question. “Sure. It’s Hunter.”
I expect him to say more, but he doesn’t. “So … what else do I need to know about you? We’re practically strangers.”
Something about the question strikes a chord in him. The muscles around his mouth tense; his posture becomes rigid. The boy I’ve been talking to suddenly morphs into something harder, colder. He takes out his wallet, removing a few bills and placing them on the table. “No offense,” Hunter says, “but it’s best if things remain that way.”
Then he takes out his phone and punches a few buttons, texting someone.
“Seriously?” I’m confused by the sudden change in tone—one moment we’re laughing, the next he’s distant, leaving? “I was just attacked. You saved my life. We don’t have to be friends or anything, but you don’t have to be so … so …”
“Rude?” He looks up, the pure blue of his eyes still startling. “Look, Aria. You seem like a nice girl, but as long as you’re safe, my work is done. My friend Turk is coming to pick you up and take you home. Wait for him here.” He narrows his eyes. “Don’t come back here, okay? You’re safer in the Aeries. Where your sort belongs.”
He stands. Simply looking at him makes my heart beat faster. I want him to stay, but there is nothing that ties him to me. We really are strangers. The thought makes my insides ache.
“Goodbye, Aria,” he says, and though he’s determined, I can tell he’s pained.
I sit still, frozen with sadness. Even though he’s telling me goodbye, the way he says my name feels like the warmest hello I’ve ever received.
It’s only as he’s leaving that I see a tiny tattoo in the center of his left wrist.
In the shape of a starburst.
“Wait!” I slide out of the booth too quickly and fall onto the floor—and now everyone is looking right at me.
“Miss?” someone asks. “Are you okay?”
I get up, shake myself off, and hurry outside. I look around frantically but the streets are practically empty. How did I let him go again?
I try to calm my breathing. I wasn’t hallucinating—there was a boy on my balcony last night, and it wasn’t someone who’d been invited to the party.
It was Hunter. He’s saved me twice in two nights.
I stand for a few moments underneath the JAVA RIVER awning, hoping he’ll return. Then I feel silly for waiting. I’m Aria Rose. I live in the Aeries, and I’m engaged.
Thomas. He’s the one I’m supposed to see tonight, and I haven’t thought of him once since I saw Hunter.
When I realize Hunter’s not returning, I go back inside—my table hasn’t been cleared. Behind the cash register, an old woman with grayish skin harrumphs at me, her hair knotted into a bird’s nest on top of her head. I sit down to wait for Turk.
Why did Hunter save me in the first place if he didn’t want anything to do with me? Without thinking, I stare into my coffee mug and down the scalding liquid in one gulp. I wince. My throat, and my heart, are on fire.
• V •
With a name like Turk, I’m not sure what to expect. This is what I get:
A boy with copper skin and egg-shaped eyes, hair fashioned into a Mohawk, the sides sheared close to his scalp, the top ablaze with color, morphing from black at the roots to bright platinum near the tips. Silver piercings run through his earlobes and his right eyebrow. His clothes are tight and black, long pants and a sleeveless shirt exposing hills and heaps of muscle. His arms are colored from wrist to armpit with tattoos: fire-breathing dragons and dangerous-looking swords, nearly naked women and strange mythological creatures.
He has the same healthy coloring as Hunter—another rebel. His legs straddle a white motorcycle with chrome wheels and black accents on the seat. I’ve only seen a motorcycle on the Internet and never would have guessed how big they are. He spots me through the window and beckons me outside.
On the street, the hot summer air makes me feel like I’m in a sauna. Turk holds out a sleek silver helmet and cocks his head. “You gonna get on?”
He must be kidding. “Absolutely not.”
“So you’re just gonna hang out here?”
Good point. I have to get back to the Aeries, and I can’t afford a gondola—the rest of my money was hidden in my cloak.
Turk extends the helmet a second time. “You seem like a reasonable girl, Aria. Let me get you home in one piece. I’d say you’re a bit out of your league.”
“How does this thing work?” I ask skeptically, eyeing the cycle. The engine is nearly twice the size of my head, the exhaust pipes polished to a shine. “It looks too big for most of the streets.”
Turk laughs. “Let’s just say this sucker is … enhanced.” He winks. “For your riding pleasure.”
“Okay,” I say, grabbing the helmet and slipping it on. I go to climb on the cycle but there’s only one seat—and he’s on it.
Turk slaps one of his thighs. “Step on up, sweetheart.”
I raise my eyebrows. Turk matches my expression.
I groan. “Don’t do anything funny.”
“Nope,” Turk says, offering me his hand. “Nothing funny about this at all.”
He hoists me up and I settle between his legs. He presses a button and a sleek pair of handlebars extend from a slot in the front of the bike.
Turk leans forward, his arms wrapping around me when he grabs the bars. “Ready?” he asks, lips close to my ear, his breath warm and sweet.
“Sure,” I say.
“Just tell me where to go,” he says.
I whisper my directions as Turk pushes a tiny button and we erupt in flames.
Turk’s bike really is enhanced. Magical, even.
We tip forward on the narrow streets, so drastically I have no idea how gravity is functioning, so fast there’s no time to be sick, veering left, then right, skipping over broken concrete and garbage and shattered bottles, building after building bleeding into each other as we pass.
We whirl and zoom past a fleet of gondolas tied up for the night, sleeping in the black water, their prows knotted to posts along the sidewalks. The cycle is narrow enough to creep over a stone bridge, nimble enough to take hairpin turns in alleyways.
Our only exchange is the way our bodies move with the bike, how Turk’s arms are snug around me. I close my eyes and imagine he is someone else.
And then we stop.
The handlebars retract and Turk leaps off the motorcycle, landing with both feet firmly on the ground. I slide less gracefully off the side and remove my helmet—my hair is wet, matted to my forehead. I scrape my fingers through it as Turk watches me.
“What?” I say.
“Nothing. Nice to meet you, Aria.”
He’s about to remount when I stop him. “Wait,” I say, my hand on his arm. “I need to ask you something.”
“About?”
“Hunter.” He smiles knowingly, and the look on his face tells me he’s been expecting this. “I know you two are friends,” I say, “and …”
“You don’t know anything about him?”
“Exactly.”
“There’s not much to know.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Turk shrugs. “Hunter’s a mysterious guy. If he wants to tell you something, he’ll tell you. If he doesn’t, he won’t.” Turk cradles the helmet he lent me under one of his arms. “But do yourself a favor. Just let things be. Forget about him.”
Forget. Something I am quite good at, apparently.
“Well, I appreciate the ride, at least,” I say softly.
“The pleasure was all mine,” Turk says. He straddles the motorcycle,
places the helmet in his lap so he can use both hands, and starts the engine. “Be careful. You know what you’re doing?”
I glance at the POD a few steps away. His question makes it clear that he knows I gave him directions to Thomas’s apartment building and not my own. Granted, we live on opposite sides of the city, so it wouldn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out I’m heading in the wrong direction. But at least Turk isn’t trying to stop me from going.
“I’m fine. Thanks.” I point to the helmet. “Aren’t you going to wear that?” I yell over the roar of the cycle.
Turk only smirks. “Of course not.” He points to his Mohawk, which has somehow remained unharmed despite our travels. “I don’t want to mess up my hair.”
Then he’s gone, leaving behind a cloud of fast-fading sparks.
Thomas is surprised to see me. Which kind of figures, since it is around midnight.
“Aria?” He shoots an irritated glance at the manservant who ushered me in.
“They announced Ms. Rose on the intercom, sir. I assumed you had arranged to meet her.” He reminds me of my father’s man, Bartholomew—same white hair, same bland features.
“I did no such thing, Devlin,” Thomas says. His hair is messy tonight, without any gel. I like it more this way. “You should know better.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Devlin says, bowing his head.
Thomas is far from properly dressed—he’s wearing a pair of linen pajama pants. His shirt is unbuttoned, and he hides his chest by crossing his arms. It’s not the kind of chest that should be hidden: broad shoulders and sculpted pectorals lightly dusted with hair. His stomach is tight and flat. Thomas is more muscular than I imagined, more athletic.
I must be staring, because he reaches over, lifting my chin with his fingers so I’m looking at his face instead of his abdomen.
“What are you doing here, Aria?” He sounds almost unhappy.
“I—I wanted to see you.” Which is partly true, but not for the reasons I’m implying. I’m thankful for the cool air in his apartment after being outside in the deadly heat, but my pants and shirt are wet with sweat, and now I’m beginning to shiver.
Mystic City Page 5