A red-haired girl with a spiked necklace leans forward and snorts some powder off the mirror. Behind me, a boy and a girl outside the circle are sitting on a plush leather couch, making out and ignoring the rest of us. The flat-screen TV is on and muted, and a few other kids are chatting at high speed—they sound like actors in a movie that’s locked on fast-forward.
“No, man, it’s not like that at all,” one of the boys is saying, shaking his head. “I love her. I love love her. She just doesn’t realize it.”
“That’s because you never call her,” one of the other guys says, taking some of the white powder and rubbing it on his gums.
Frank is breaking up one of the green pills into powder and fixing the powder into thin lines. And then I realize the obvious: everyone here is doing Stic.
“Where did you get that?” I ask Frank. One of the girls stares at me like I’m a cop about to arrest her.
Frank chuckles and continues grinding up the pill with his fingers. “Why you asking? Thomas holding out on you?”
He drops the rest of the pill onto a triangular mirror in front of me. Then he looks at me oddly. “Ooh, pretty,” he says, reaching out and grabbing my locket, which has fallen out of my dress. He closes his fist around the silver heart.
I push his hand away—as soon as we touch, I scream out in pain. His skin burns like when you jam your finger into an outlet. My muscles contract; I flinch, my body going as stiff as a board, my jaw snapping shut. All the kids laugh at me.
It only lasts a moment, though. Then I feel my muscles relaxing back to normal.
Still laughing, Frank is doing a line of Stic. “Powerful shit.” He passes the mirror back to Stacy, who pushes all the powder together into a fat line before dropping her nose over the mirror and snorting.
Wild, Frank stands up and grabs hold of a metal lamp a few inches away. He raises it in the air, then bends it in half as though it were a thin piece of copper. The lamp is now in two pieces, and he throws them to the floor. Some of the other kids applaud. Snot is running from his nose; I can’t help but think how powerful Stic is.
“What did you mean by ‘Thomas holding out on you’?” I ask.
Frank wipes his nose. “Shouldn’t you be asking him that?”
“Are you telling me that Thomas is a Stic—”
My question is cut short by the sound of Stacy dropping to the floor. Her head smacks the wood with a sickening thump, and she starts convulsing.
“Babe?” Frank says cautiously.
Beads of sweat have popped out on Stacy’s forehead; she seems instantly wet and shiny. And her skin is turning a bright, bright red. Something bad is happening.
Stacy doesn’t say a word, just moans. Her limbs twitch, and within seconds her entire body is shaking, her back arching up off the ground while her heels drum against the carpet. She’s having a seizure, foaming at the mouth, spit running down her chin.
Frank is on his feet, shoving the other kids away. “Everybody stand back!”
Everyone seems to be screaming now. The couple who were making out on Bennie’s couch are now holding each other tightly, and a few of the girls have left the room and are shrieking away down the hall. Stacy’s skin gets redder and redder with every second, so red it’s painful to look at, like the worst sunburn I’ve ever seen, as if she’s being boiled alive.
There is the stink of scorched something. I glance around to see if someone’s stray cigarette has accidentally lit the carpet on fire—and then I realize the smoke is coming from Stacy herself. She is literally burning up.
She moves like a fish out of water, flopping a few feet in each direction, rising from the floor and falling back down again. The smoke grows stronger, thicker, and then—
Stacy bursts into flames.
“Shit!” Frank looks around frantically. “Somebody do something! Help!”
Without thinking, I dump my glass onto Stacy’s body.
Then the kid next to me takes his drink and dumps the liquid on Stacy. The water briefy quells the flames, but then they rise up again. Another girl pours her drink on Stacy, as well—a cosmo, from the looks of it—but the flames only grow stronger.
I rush over to the cabinet in the corner and rifle through the drawers until I find a pea-green blanket. I unfold it and cover Stacy’s body, smothering the flames as Frank helps hold her down.
“Oh my God,” the girl with the spiked necklace is saying next to me, fanning herself with her hands. “Oh my God oh my God oh my God!”
I back away from the smoke. My eyes are tearing up, and it’s hard to see. Suddenly, a bunch of EMTs burst into the room. I don’t think anyone called them, but no one in the Aeries ever has to: I’m sure there’s a fire alert on the Grid. One of the benefits of so much of the city being monitored electronically.
We all back into the hallway while the EMTs do their work.
They are quietly efficient. While two strap Stacy onto a gurney, a fireman sprays down the room with an extinguisher. When they leave, Frank follows the gurney, and I wonder what will become of Stacy.
“That was wicked awesome,” one of the boys beside me says.
I shove him against the wall. “Shut your stupid mouth,” I say. He’s too shocked to respond.
Downstairs, the party is still raging, the kids completely oblivious to what happened upstairs. I feel so much hatred for these people—my people—that I’m choking on it. Kiki’s not in the kitchen, so I just start opening every door in Bennie’s apartment to find her. At this point, I’ve completely given up on locating my missing fiancé.
First is an office of some sort; a couple is sleeping something off with their heads under a desk. Then I find Bennie’s father’s library, empty save for his collection of books and three guys smoking pot out of a tiny glass bowl. Next is a long exercise room—tons of machines that probably never get used. I open the door, press on the lights.
And there is my fiancé, kissing a girl who is not me.
Thomas is standing in the middle of the room in a pale blue dress shirt that is open at the neck. His belt is unbuckled, and Gretchen Monasty has one of her hands down his pants. The top of her dress is rolled down, exposing her pink lace bra.
Thomas looks over, lipstick on his chin. His dark hair is cow-licked, as if Gretchen has been running her fingers through it for the past hour. His expression is priceless: a mixture of surprise, fear, embarrassment, and lust.
He pushes Gretchen away so quickly that she almost falls to the ground.
“Aria! It’s not what it looks like,” he calls out, but I’m already gone—out the door, down the hall, running as fast as my heels will carry me.
• XV •
There is only one person I can talk to, one person I want to talk to.
Hunter.
The nose of the gondola breaks the waters of the canal, moving swiftly down Broadway, tiny waves rippling on either side of us. It’s sweltering hot, and my head is still spinning from the chaos at Bennie’s party. Remarkable that Thomas managed to take my focus away from a girl who literally ignited before my very eyes—but he did.
I want to feel hurt, to feel devastated beyond belief by his actions—sneaking around with Gretchen Monasty behind my back. How long has this been going on? But really, how can I be mad at Thomas for kissing someone else when I did the exact same thing?
I’m surprised by how easy my escape was, and confused that no one has detected my movement on the Grid so far, but I’m not complaining. I have no destination—I came to the Depths to find Hunter, but I have no way of contacting him. So I’ve instructed the gondolier to take me to the Block, and I’ll figure it out from there.
We sail past high, dark buildings, underneath arched bridges, and past other gondolas and water taxis. I don’t know how long we’ve been motoring along when I notice the spires along the main canal. I’ve never seen the energy within them act like this, pulsing on and off, surging and diminishing to the beat of some invisible music. I glance at the gondolier to se
e if he notices anything strange, but his eyes are focused ahead, his hand on the steering wheel.
Suddenly, I feel the heart-shaped chunk of metal around my neck heat up against my skin. I yank it out from underneath the fabric of my dress—and it’s glowing.
A golden light radiates from it. I cup the locket in my palms and try to open it, but I still can find no seam or latch. I drop it back inside my dress before the gondolier notices; it’s hot against my skin.
What is this thing? And why is it reacting like this now? When Frank grabbed it, he had just taken a dose of Stic. I wonder if the overload of energy coursing through his system activated it somehow.
Some spires brighten as we draw near, while others dim almost to darkness, and the locket throbs as if there is a human heart trapped inside. I think back to when I timed the rush of color in the spires from my window. I noticed that the pattern of light—white, yellow, and green—was different in each spire, but it didn’t mean anything to me then. I couldn’t figure out the pattern.
Only now, with the way the locket is reacting …
Follow the lights, Tabitha told me.
Okay, Tabitha. I’m listening.
“Excuse me?” I call out to the gondolier.
He raises his head.
“Can we stay straight, please?”
He points left. “But the Block’s that way, miss.”
“I know,” I tell him, “but I’ve changed my mind. Straight ahead, please.”
He obeys, and we stay on track. Up ahead, the canal is about to fork: on the right, the spires seem to churn a bright green light that flashes on and off. The locket warms and the beat inside it seems to quicken. To the left, the spires seem to dull, the light fading to a soft white.
“Turn right up here,” I say.
He obeys without another word.
We pass a series of ramshackle buildings with ratty awnings and even rattier docks. A cluster of gondoliers idle with their boats tied to the pilings, waiting for passengers and smoking cigarettes. They watch us and talk among themselves.
Up ahead, a particular spire pulses dramatically, and the locket around my neck begins to purr.
“This way,” I tell the gondolier. “I mean, left, please.”
He turns onto a narrow side canal. Here, the waters brush dangerously close to the doors and windows on the first floors of the buildings, showing just how much the water level has risen over the years. Higher up, mystic sconces line the buildings.
I watch as the sconces blink in ways I cannot understand but am driven to follow. I give a few quick directions—left, then right, then left again—and our waterway opens up onto a larger canal. The gondola picks up speed, and soon we’re moving very fast. Wind whips my hair every which way, and the locket thrums against my chest.
The spires lead us farther and farther south, until finally the locket calms and a sense of relief washes over me.
“We’re here,” I say, not knowing where here is. I hand the gondolier a few coins from my clutch.
He pulls alongside the nearest dock and I am out and on my way.
I have no idea where I’m going. I walk on cracked pavement and over a tiny bridge—this part of the city is more run-down than near the Block, if that’s even possible. Store windows are boarded up, and there don’t seem to be as many apartment buildings. Gaps mark the skyline—places where buildings must have plummeted and crumbled into nothingness. And then I realize that the water I see up ahead is not a canal, but the ocean.
The misty outlines of the Manhattan and Brooklyn Bridges come into view.
I must be at the very southern tip of the city, in the area that used to be called the South Street Seaport. I look for a spire and spot one a half-block away. Its tip glistens in the night, the light swirling with a silvery-white glow.
As I walk toward it, the locket seems to awaken.
I must be heading in the right direction.
Few people are out on the streets, and no one is dressed like I am—for a party in the Aeries—so I try to blend into the shadows by the closed storefronts along the street. I stride down the sidewalk as though I belong here. I pass a couple walking arm in arm; a few homeless men sleeping on the ground beside overturned hats, hoping for spare change; a teen not much older than me who whispers “Stic?” as I sweep by.
Then a figure catches my attention.
Someone in a dark hooded cloak is walking a hundred feet ahead, heading swiftly in the same direction I am. The figure glances around mysteriously, passing underneath the post that I noticed swirling only moments before.
When the light hits her face, I gasp.
It’s Davida.
She must be here, I reason, to bring food to her mother. But no—if that were the case, she wouldn’t be here at all. Her mother must live with the other registered mystics in the Block.
So what is Davida doing all the way down south?
I’m tempted to call out her name, but I worry that she’ll run away. Instead, I follow her down the street to a cast-iron subway entrance. Green globes are mounted on poles on either side, the paint mostly chipped off. At one time there must have been a stairway descending into the subway, but when the system was flooded, the city sealed off the tunnels, making them impossible to enter.
Only … Elissa Genevieve told me how her team was searching for a way into the underground subway tunnels to flush out the rebels. How all the entrances are blocked with mystic shields. They can’t really be impossible to enter, can they?
Davida moves from shadow to shadow until she is right in front of the entrance. She positions herself directly underneath one of the globes and bows her head. Covered in black, she’s practically invisible. She reaches out and touches one of the posts, and the globe on top blazes green for a moment, then returns to normal.
And then she starts to sink.
It happens so quickly—I watch as her legs disappear, then her torso, and finally her face vanishes into the cement, as if the ground itself isn’t solid and giant hands are lurking underneath the pavement, pulling her down.
I wait for a second, checking to see if anyone witnessed this intense bit of magic. But I seem to be alone. The street is quiet, almost too quiet.
I sneak over to the entrance and examine the sidewalk. Rock solid. I stamp on the place where Davida was swallowed up. Nothing happens. I grab the same post she did, but the globe doesn’t light up.
The entryway itself is plugged with cement and sealed off with a metal cover. I kick it with my foot and immediately regret doing so. The cover is completely solid, and now my toes hurt. Nice going, Aria. Those shoes were expensive.
I think for a moment. I saw Davida light up the globe with her touch. Why didn’t that happen for me? She’s a mystic, I think. I’m not.
I wipe sweat from my neck with the back of my hand. I may not be a mystic, but this locket certainly has some kind of power. What if …
A few steps and I plant my feet right where Davida stood, underneath the far globe of the entryway. I unclasp the locket. My stomach fills with a nervous, tingly feeling, but I touch the silver heart to the post anyway: as soon as the two pieces of metal meet, the globe on top ignites with color.
And then the cement and the metal covering beneath my feet liquefy.
The drop is quick. My legs feel like they’re being squeezed in vises; my chest deflates; my arms ache like they’re being pricked with dozens of needles. My entire body is hot. I look up as the Depths disappear from view. What if I fall into nothingness—or get stuck? My neck is almost at the pavement now, and I breathe as deeply as I can and shut my eyes.
I pass through.
I hit the ground and open my eyes. I’ve fallen onto a flight of stairs. Above me, the cement ceiling ripples, like a pool of water after you’ve thrown a stone into it. I reach up and touch it. At first it’s solid, but then it flows away from my touch.
I stumble down the stairs, which end on a platform at the mouth of a darkened tunnel. The walls aroun
d me are covered with tiny colored tiles, and there are sconces afire with mystic light on either side of me. This isn’t an abandoned station; it’s clear this place is an active hideaway for people who don’t want to be found.
Not people, I think. Rebel mystics.
The thought makes me shudder. I recall the ad I filmed in the wreckage of one of their explosions. I’m naive if I think they’re all as nice as Hunter. If Hunter is even nice. Who knows what he wants from me?
What have I gotten myself into? There’s no going back, though—only forward. I’ll find Davida, and she’ll explain everything.
I glance around at what must have been a waiting area for people to board the subway. The ground is slick with grime and eroded from where, at one point, it must have been completely flooded. I walk to the edge of the platform. The subway tracks are full of muddied brown water. The tunnels seem to run in a continuous long line, but the only way to get down them is to swim.
Then I see a strip of concrete a few inches above the water level. I can’t see far enough to know how long it is, but there’s nowhere else to go. So I start down the tunnel, into the inky dark.
I can’t see Davida, but I hear footsteps ahead of me and assume they’re hers.
With a soft splash, I step into warm, shallow water. The ground angles downward, and the water gets deeper and deeper. Another step, and I sink to my calves into the water. If I continue along this route, I’ll have to breast-stroke my way through.
No thanks. I feel along the wall and look up: there’s just enough light to make out rungs set into the concrete—a metal ladder. I slosh toward them, climb up, and soon find myself on a ledge above the tunnel. My shoes are ruined now; I’d kick them off completely, but who knows what I’d step in.
I advance, and a lightbulb embedded in the wall blinks on. The ledge connects to what I can now see is a network of metallic catwalks. These are not the flooded, abandoned subway tunnels we were taught about in school. Someone has put a lot of work into this place—a lot of mystic work. No one else could have done this.
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