Mystic City

by Theo Lawrence

  “You’ve heard of Ezra Brooks, obviously,” Hunter says.

  “Who?”

  Hunter’s jaw goes slack. “Well, you know about the Conflagration, don’t you?”

  I think back to what I learned at Florence Academy. “Of course. It was an attack on the city. Now it is a day of mourning, when we remember the hundreds of lives that were lost because of the mystic bomb.”

  “Ezra Brooks died in the Conflagration. He was the representative the mystics had chosen to run in the election against your family and the Fosters’ man. Ezra tried to convince the city to pay for renovations to restore the Block to its former glory. When he died, the government abandoned that plan and made it the only place mystics were legally allowed to live—the most undesirable part of all Manhattan.”

  “Undesirable? But there’s solid ground here,” I say. “There’s nothing like this in the Aeries.”

  “True. But think how much hotter it is down here than all the way up there. Nobody who doesn’t have to would want to live in the Depths. Besides, there isn’t that much land.”

  I look around. It seems sad that all this is hidden, but I suppose it does make sense. “And this Ezra Brooks … he was a mystic?”

  “Yes. He was a great man, actually,” Hunter tells me as we walk past a grouping of shacks, their windows open and bare, their roofs missing shingles and patches of paint.

  I think of the campaign posters I saw on the way to Lyrica’s house. “Was he related to Violet Brooks?”

  “Sure was,” Hunter says. “She’s his daughter.”

  I stop. There’s a window up ahead with light streaming out; I can see a family—a young man and woman and a child—sitting at a table, eating dinner.

  “Nonmystics weren’t the only people who died during the explosion, you know,” Hunter says. “We lost a lot of people ourselves—innocents who did nothing wrong.

  “After the Conflagration the city started the mystic drainings and forced us all to live in the Block.” Hunter stops, seeing me staring at the family. “That’s the Terradills, Elly and Nic. They have a baby around five months old. Nic owns a gondola with a few other men, and that’s how he makes a living.”

  “Are you friends with them?” I ask.

  Hunter considers this. “Friends? Not really. But everyone in the Block knows everyone else. It’s a pretty tight-knit community.”

  As we walk, Hunter points out the homes of other mystic families, most of whom either own gondolas and make their money independently or work in the Depths for the government, operating water taxis, disposing of garbage, performing building maintenance, and doing other mundane jobs. The way he talks about them makes it seem like he knows them all intimately.

  “The farther in the house is—closer to the Great Lawn—the more money a family has.” He eyes my clutch and my shoes. “Of course, that’s relative. It’s not even close to, you know, how much money people have in the Aeries.”

  I try to smile—Hunter is skirting the issue that my family is one of the reasons why all these people suffer, why they all live in such horrid conditions without enough money or food. I suddenly feel sick to my stomach.

  “And where do you live?” I ask to change the subject. “Up ahead, where the noise is?” The sounds—music, and commotion, and children screaming playfully—have grown louder as we’ve worked our way deeper into the Block.

  Hunter doesn’t answer. “Come on,” he says. “There’s a POD only a few hundred yards that way, just outside the Block.”

  “Wait,” I say at the same time that he goes to grab my hand. Our fingers touch and my hand buzzes with energy.

  He pulls away. “Sorry. I forget how dangerous my touch can be to you—I’m not used to dealing with …”

  “Nonmystics?”

  Hunter cracks a grin. “I was going to say girls. But yeah, sure. Nonmystics.”

  I feel myself blush—thank God it’s dark and he can’t see. “Well, don’t be sorry. Be careful.” For the first time in a long while, I feel relaxed, despite being in this strange, dangerous part of the city. It might have something to do with what Lyrica told me, but I also know it has a lot to do with Hunter, with how he puts me at ease. “I’m not ready to go home just yet.”

  Hunter’s face brightens. “Really?”

  Just then, we hear what sounds like a miniature rocket blast in the sky. “Where is all that noise coming from?”

  “The carnival,” Hunter says. “It doesn’t happen often, but it’s a great time. Everybody lets their hair down and forgets their worries. For a night, anyway.”

  “What’s a carnival?”

  Hunter looks shocked. “Seriously? Well, come on. We can’t let you leave the Block without having a bit of fun.”

  The carnival is the liveliest thing I’ve ever seen. It’s sort of like a plummet party, only instead of celebrating destruction, everyone here seems to be celebrating life.

  Hunter leads me through a labyrinth of booths with mystics inside them selling their wares—tiny trinkets and dolls and wooden shoes, rows of buns and muffins and candies and chocolates, dresses made of thin material that waves in the wind, and hats, gloves, belts, and more.

  Mystics pass me with plates of fried dough, their hands covered in powdered sugar. “Look!” I point to a tank full of water, where a young mystic is sitting, waiting to be dunked. He’s soaking wet, which makes me think he’s already been submerged. A few feet away, a group of kids are lined up, throwing tiny balls at the lever on the tank and hoping they’ll sink him again.

  “Looks cold,” Hunter says, rubbing his arms. “Want one?” He motions to a booth full of stuffed animals, the kind my mother would never allow me to have when I was younger: teddy bears with bows around their necks, plush giraffes and monkeys and other exotic animals you’d find in a zoo.

  “Sure,” I say. “Only I don’t have any credit here, and I’m almost out of coins—”

  Hunter scoffs. “Aria, you can’t just buy one of these.”

  “You can’t?”

  “Nope.” He motions to the woman behind the booth, who nods and hands over five plastic rings, all in different colors. They look like cheap, oversized bracelets. Light from the carnival brightens his face. “You gotta win ’em.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yup.” Hunter flexes his biceps. “Here, hold these.” He hands me four of the rings and keeps one for himself. “Now stand back and watch a master at work.”

  Hunter eyes the row of empty soda bottles. Each one is worth a certain number of points—the more points you get by tossing a ring over the bottle, the nicer a stuffed animal you win.

  He rolls his neck, then flicks his wrist: the ring soars out of his hand and hits the soda bottle in the middle with a clink, failing to land around its neck, then tumbling to the ground.

  “Oh no!” Hunter looks at me sheepishly. “That wasn’t my fault, you know. It was a bad ring.”

  The mystic behind the booth laughs. “Of course,” I say. “Factory defect.” I slide a blue ring off my wrist. “Here, try this one.”

  “Thanks.” Hunter eyes the center bottle, worth a thousand points—the top prize. “I’m coming for you.” He reaches back, tosses the ring. There’s too much strength behind his throw—the ring smacks the bottle, then lands next to the previous one on the ground.

  “I swear I’m good at this!” Hunter cries. I start to giggle, and he does, too. “Really.”

  “I believe you. But how about you let me give it a try.”

  Hunter cocks his head. “Oh?”

  I take a green ring off my wrist. “Watch and learn.”

  I eye that same central bottle and rotate my wrist back and forth, practicing. Not too heavy a throw, but not too light, either. I swing my arm back, then release—the ring sails into the air and drops directly onto the bottle.

  “Oh my gosh! I won!” I jump up and down, and Hunter wraps his arms around me. Immediately, I freeze, stiff as a board, and Hunter pulls away, embarrassed.
/>   “Sorry.”

  “That’s okay,” I say. “Um, don’t worry about it.”

  Hunter picks the fallen rings up off the ground, and I hand back the two we didn’t use. The mystic behind the booth blinks at me. “Which one, miss?”

  I’m studying the selection of stuffed animals when, out of the corner of my eye, I see a little girl—no more than seven or eight—standing a few feet away, staring longingly at an orange giraffe. Her face and hands are dirty, and the beige material of her dress is worn.

  “That one,” I say, pointing to the giraffe. The mystic hands it to me.

  Hunter gives the giraffe a pat. “Good choice, Aria. He looks very healthy.”

  The little girl is staring at me, and I walk over to her. “What’s your name?”

  She’s silent.

  “It’s okay,” Hunter says, as if he knows the girl—which, actually, he probably does. “You can tell Aria. She’s my friend.”

  “Julia,” the girl says in a small voice.

  I hold out the giraffe. “Well, Julia, I won this for you.”

  She gives the hint of a smile. “Really?”

  “Absolutely.” I watch as she reaches tentatively for the stuffed animal. “Will you give him a good home?”

  Julia nods emphatically. “Yes. I promise.”

  Hunter wipes some of the dirt from Julia’s face. “You should probably get back to your mom now, right? I bet she’s looking for you.”

  Julia looks from Hunter to me. “Thank you.” She runs off into the crowd, the stuffed animal cradled in her arms.

  “That was really nice of you,” Hunter says. The way he’s looking at me is so intense that I can feel myself blushing.

  “It was no big deal.” I look away. “What’s that?” I point to a large, whirring machine that seems to be producing batches of pink fluff.

  “Cotton candy,” Hunter says, elbowing me playfully. “Want some?”

  “No, it looks horrible!”

  “Are you kidding? It’s delicious!” he yells, and takes my hand again. The jolt is less surprising this time, more manageable. I wonder if he is doing anything with his body to make it this way or if I’m getting used to him.

  Everywhere I turn there are more giddy people. It’s the first time I’ve seen drained mystics looking happy. They still look weak, with the pallor I’ve come to realize results from the drainings—even the children have dark circles underneath their eyes, their skin a pale, chalky color. But no one seems to care. They’re all smiling and laughing and chasing each other. There are games set up everywhere, and lights! There are so many lights—it’s like something from a movie, the way blues and greens and purples and reds are captured inside paper lanterns that line the booths, tiny bulbs strung across the trees like at Christmastime.

  “This is the only part of the Block that wasn’t flooded,” Hunter says, “which is why there’s still grass and trees.”

  The grass is mostly green with dried patches of yellow and brown; still, it’s so soft to walk on that I want to slip off my shoes and run across the lawn in my bare feet. “This is nothing like walking in the Aeries,” I shout over the carnival noise.

  The trees here are long and tall, with curving, knotted branches and leaves that spread into a canopy over the Great Lawn. In the distance, water has actually pooled in the middle of some of the lower portions of ground, creating tiny blue-green ponds scattered with lily pads. A long iron bridge covered with moss and tangled ivy covers a grander canal that runs along the far side of the lawn.

  On the horizon are both the city—the foundation of the towering skyscrapers—and clusters of rocks where couples are resting, leaning back and staring at the sky.

  Hunter laughs. “Having fun?” He looks stunning in the light, and for a moment I forget to breathe.

  “Aria? Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” I say, waving him off.

  We’re walking through an aisle of makeshift booths, and then we turn the corner. To his credit, Hunter does a good job of steering me away from the crowds.

  “I think I need to rest for a minute,” I say.

  “Wait.” Hunter takes my hand again. “I know just the place.”

  He leads me away from the carnival, through a cluster of trees and toward what appears to be a miniature mountain. “What is this place?” I ask.

  He grins. “Belvedere Castle. It was built a while ago, in the late nineteenth century. It’s something, isn’t it?”

  The structure before me is practically out of a history book: the façade is made of stones of various shades of gray, and there’s a corner tower with a conical cap. The castle is enormous, rising over the Great Lawn, where the carnival is set up. It is almost hidden in a quarry of rock, with Gothic arched windows and parapet walls that glimmer like watchful eyes. There is something both spooky and majestic about it—a throwback to another time, another century, situated in the heart of the Block; a hidden jewel amid so much despair.

  “It’s falling apart,” Hunter tells me. “Crazy unsafe. But sometimes I like to come here to sit and think.” He glances back at me. “Probably sounds silly to you.”

  “Not at all,” I say.

  We stand still, next to each other, studying the castle for a few moments. “Hunter, there’s something I want to ask you. I’d like to know …”

  “Just spit it out, Aria.” Hunter roughs up his hair and stares at me with his powerful blue eyes. “What is it?”

  “What’s it like to have mystic powers?” I ask.

  “That’s what you want to know?” He looks a bit relieved.

  I think about Lyrica, and Turk, and whoever must have erased the memories from my mind. “Yes,” I say. “I know it’s illegal and all, but I’m curious.”

  Hunter leans back against a tree and shoves his hands into his pockets. “For me … it’s normal, I guess. I’ve never known any other life.”

  “But what’s it like?” I move closer. We’re only a few inches away from one another. “When you healed me, and when you touch me—I feel something. Do you feel it, too?”

  He nods. “Every mystic has a different kind of power. They’re like personalities, I guess. No two are the same. They reach maturity around the age of thirteen.”

  “What’s yours?” I ask. “Healing?”

  “Most mystics can heal,” he says, “that’s just part of our blood. My powers are pretty useless, I guess. I got them when I was twelve—a year earlier than most of my friends. For example, I can walk through walls.”

  “You can walk through walls? Show me!”

  “Oh, so now I’m some sort of freak you can order around for your amusement?”

  His words make me feel awful. “No, that’s not what I meant at all. I’m sorry—”

  “Aria, I’m kidding!” He takes his hands out of his pockets, rubs them together. “Relax. Wanna see me walk through something? No problemo.”

  The tree that Hunter has been leaning on is thick and gray, with scaly bark and branches like claws. The trunk is six feet across, easily three times his size.

  He strolls forward, a fine green glow around his figure. Then, as though there’s no tree there at all, he passes right through it. For a second he goes translucent, almost invisible, and I hear a slight whoosh: and then he’s on the other side, the green glow fading away like the afterimage when you look into and then away from the sun. Magic.

  “That was incredible!”

  “Thank you, thank you,” he says, taking a bow. “I’m here all night.”

  Then he walks right through the same tree again. It happens so quickly I can’t really see what happens or how his particles rearrange themselves. They just do.

  “Remarkable,” I find myself saying. “It’s hard to believe.”

  “Aw, shucks,” Hunter says. “You’re making me blush.”

  “What other kinds of powers are there?”

  “You’re not really interested in this, are you?” he asks skeptically, tilting his head. “
You’re just being polite.”

  “No, don’t be silly,” I say. “This is fascinating.”

  He begins walking toward the castle. I follow, stepping over leaves and roots and fallen branches.

  “Some mystics can take on the glamour of someone else,” Hunter says, navigating a flight of stone steps. “So you can look like a different person. But eventually it wears off. Other mystics can use their energy to affect the weather, or even the air surrounding them.” He waits for me to catch up. “I know a girl who can spin a tornado out of thin air,” he says, “and someone who can start a fire”—he snaps his fingers—“like that.”

  “Can you fly?” I ask. “I’ve heard mystics can.”

  Hunter shakes his head. “Myth. The only things that can fly are birds. Well, and Superman.”

  “What about breathing underwater?”

  “I can’t,” he says, “but my friend Marty can. Only for a few hours, though.”

  “Hours?”

  Hunter chuckles. “Yup.”

  “What else?”

  “All kinds of stuff,” Hunter says casually, counting off on his fingers. “Mystics can heal wounds—which you already know. Create light. Manipulate water. Some mystics are able to create illusions or change a solid to a liquid. Some have superhuman strength and speed. Others can use their powers to make magical barriers, which we call shields, to protect areas so that nonmystics can’t enter them.”

  I’m amazed at how different all the mystic powers are from one another.

  “Mystic energy can act as an enhancer,” Hunter tells me as we walk, climbing the rocks toward the castle, “which basically means that if a metal is coated in mystic energy, it can’t be broken by anything other than another piece of mystic-coated metal.” He stops for a minute. “A mystic-made weapon is beyond dangerous.”

  “Is there anything mystics can’t do? I mean, besides fly.”

  Hunter thinks for a moment and scratches his chin. “No mystic can bring someone back from the dead.”

  “I’d hope not. That would be … scary.”

  “I’m probably making it sound more glorious than it is.” Hunter steadies himself on a jagged rock, then jumps to another one. I follow his lead. “Plenty of us have really lame powers. I know this girl Nelly whose hand acts like a steam iron. Great against wrinkles but not much else. Or this dude Enrico who can juggle egg-sized balls of light. Whoop-di-doo.” Hunter rolls his eyes, and I laugh.