Hunter stands still in the middle of the room, hands at his sides. There’s an eerie silence; then he shrugs and says, “Nine? Guess I’m more like a cat than I’d like to admit.”
No one laughs. The bodyguards simultaneously step forward. Behind them, George and Erica Foster are standing with queer expressions on their faces, while my mother looks as if she’s got something caught in her throat. Benedict and Kyle are there, too—Kyle with his arms crossed, Benedict trying to signal something to me that I can’t understand—and behind them, I see a glimpse of Garland and Thomas in the hallway.
The gang’s all here.
“Where’s Davida?” my mother asks. She points a finger at Hunter. “Did you murder her, mystic?”
“Of course I didn’t,” he says. “I’m not violent.”
“Don’t speak to my wife like that,” Dad says, the barrel of his gun still trained on Hunter. “In fact, don’t speak at all. How dare you show up in my home, after what you’ve done to my family—”
“How about what you’ve done to me?” Hunter says. He throws his arms up. “Just let me and Aria go and we’ll leave you alone forever.”
“I don’t negotiate with mystics,” my father says, snarling.
Hunter glances back toward the balcony, as though he might rush and jump off.
“Don’t,” I whisper to him. “It’s too risky.”
“Enough!” my father shouts. “This has gone on long enough. You cover your tracks well, I’ll give you that. We searched the entire city for you and never found you the first time. I was sure we finally had you that night in the Depths. I have no idea how you managed to come back from the dead, mystic, but once and for all, it will end. Here.” He unlocks the safety of his gun. “Now.”
I throw myself in front of Hunter. “No,” I say, spreading my arms. Now that I know Hunter is alive, now that I’ve finally recovered the memories that were stripped from me, I’ll do anything to protect him. I can’t lose him again.
“Aria, this time I will shoot you if you don’t move.”
“Then shoot me.”
I feel Hunter’s breath on the back of my neck. “Aria, don’t do this,” he says. “Step away. Please. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
I lock eyes with my father. “I love Hunter. I will always love Hunter.”
Dad’s finger tugs at the trigger of his pistol. “Then I hope you die happy, Aria.”
“Johnny, wait.” It’s Benedict. His eyes look watery, and he fidgets with the cuffs of his sleeves as he pushes past George Foster. At the side of the room, next to my bed, Klartino shifts the aim of his gun from Hunter toward Benedict. “You can’t kill them. Especially not Hunter.”
Dad scoffs, tilting his head so that a lock of black hair falls over his forehead. “Of course I can.”
“No, you don’t understand—”
“Perhaps you don’t understand, Patrick.” Dad’s eyes blaze with rage. “This happened the last time: you stepping in, trying to help. We can replace her memories,” he says in a mocking imitation of Benedict’s voice, “only look how that worked out. This boy doesn’t get another chance. He dies now.”
“The mystic is your key to the underground,” Benedict blurts out. This seems to pique everyone’s interest.
“What do you mean, Patrick?” George Foster asks.
“He’s a rebel. Never been drained. His power will unlock the seals on the hidden entrances. Once he opens them for us, we’ll be able to flood the underground. Take them by surprise.”
My father seems to consider this information, as does the rest of the group. I know Benedict is trying to buy Hunter and me some time—but I also know that what he’s saying is true. Hunter can unlock the seals. But if he does, all the rebels are at risk. I don’t want that responsibility on my shoulders.
“Just deal with us,” I say to my father, but my words are lost on him. The possibility of snuffing out the rebels once and for all is too tempting for him to ignore.
“The mystic has to be alive, though,” Benedict says. “Otherwise, he won’t be able to open any of the entrances.”
George Foster breaks away from his wife and whispers something into Dad’s ear. I glance at Hunter, who has a worried look on his face. I love you, he mouths to me.
I love you, too, I mouth back.
George Foster pulls away, and Dad motions to Stiggson. “Fine. Cuff the boy.” Then he speaks directly to Hunter. “You’ll lead us to one of the mystic entrances and allow us to go through. If we find out that you’ve warned your people of our arrival, Aria will die. If you do as we say … she’ll remain unharmed.”
Hunter nods, as though he’s actually considering this ridiculous plan. He can’t be, though—can he? “And what happens to me?”
“You’ll die, of course. But I promise to make your end as painless as possible.”
“No!” I shout. “This is unacceptable, this is—”
“Aria,” Hunter says, “there’s no point in fighting. It’s the best way—the only way.”
“You can’t honestly believe that,” I say to him, as though we’re the only ones in the room. We’ve just gotten each other back; I’m not going to lose him again.
I stare into his eyes and the lovely blue of them washes over me like a wave, soothing my nerves. I think back to the night of my engagement party. I always thought true love would sear me. Well, here I am—on fire, ablaze with love: my chest feels like it’s been broken open, my heart about to be ripped out and crushed.
And there’s nothing I can do to stop it from happening.
“Cuff him,” my father repeats.
Stiggson marches forward, his steps heavy and methodical, the quicksilver cuffs in one hand. Hunter flips his wrists over, submitting. Stiggson looks at him funny—just as he’s about to unlock the cuffs, he changes his mind and punches Hunter right in the stomach.
“Stop!” I shout.
Hunter doesn’t make a noise. Then Klartino rushes up, takes out his pistol, and smashes it against Hunter’s cheek.
“Please, stop!”
Still Hunter is silent. His nose explodes with red, red blood, which drips over his mouth and down his chin, soaking his shirt.
Stiggson moves behind Hunter and yanks back his arms. There’s a sickening sound as they pop out of their sockets. Hunter’s face remains stoic. He doesn’t want to show my father that he’s winning.
A flash of silver, then Stiggson clamps the cuffs around Hunter’s wrists. Hunter flinches when the metal touches his skin, the first time he’s acknowledged any pain. I wonder if it burns.
I start to object again, but my father silences me with a look. Stiggson pushes Hunter in front of him, forcing him out of my room. They move slowly, as if they’re in a funeral procession. Hunter glances over his shoulder at me—I connect with him for a moment. I will come for you, I think as hard as I can, hoping he can somehow understand me.
And then Klartino’s in my face. He pushes me onto the chair at my desk, then slides my arms behind me, binding my wrists with some type of wire coil that digs into my skin.
“What are you doing?” I try to wriggle my hands, but it’s impossible.
My mother holds up her hand. “You’re staying here, Aria.”
“What? Why?”
“You know why,” she says. “I’m so disappointed. I thought we’d cured you. That we could be a family again, without that mystic. But nothing’s changed. You would rather risk your life on a romantic folly than devote yourself to our family, to this city—”
“I am devoted to this city,” I say, “much more than you or Dad.”
My mother slaps me so quickly I don’t even see it coming. The sting on my cheek doesn’t hurt, though. It only makes me mad. “Fine, lock me up. It doesn’t mean I won’t find a way out—I’ve done it before, and I can do it again. Just try me.”
My mother seems surprised by my outburst. Her brown eyes widen, and she flushes. Thomas looks at me sadly, then leaves. The room has emptied; everyone
is downstairs but me and my mother.
“I know what you did to me,” I continue. “I remember everything. And I will never forgive you.”
Mom tsks at me—the kind of sound a mother might make if her daughter got a bad grade in school or stayed out past curfew. But we are so far beyond that now. This is life or death.
“Good night, Aria,” she says. Then she leaves.
I immediately try to loosen the wiring. If anything, it seems to get even tighter, and something sharp pierces the skin on both arms. I scan the room, trying to see if there’s anything I can rub up against that might cut the wire, but I can’t see anything—just the edge of my desk.
Then I notice the metal handles on the windows to my balcony—could those slice the restraints?
I use my feet to make tiny hops in the chair over to the balcony. If I can loosen the wire, then I can open the windows and maybe … somehow … open the loophole?
I sigh and toss my head back. I’m incredibly frustrated. There’s no way I can open the loophole—especially now that the only magical thing I have, the locket, has been emptied.
I’m five or six hops away from my windows when they burst open.
They crash loudly against the walls, and my hair is blown back by the gust of wind that hits my face. At first I can barely see anything—the balcony is full of blazing green light. But I squint and then I see it:
Turk.
On his motorcycle.
Hovering outside my balcony.
Bright green jets shoot from the exhaust pipes; the slick chrome wheels are popping against the dark sky. Three super-red LED lights are blinking right below the leather seat.
“Turk!”
Slowly, he lands the bike on the balcony, kills the engine, and hops off. His Mohawk is dyed bright orange tonight. He’s wearing a tight wife beater and shorts that show off his calf muscles and his tan skin.
“You okay?” he asks, walking toward me. “Some of the other rebels, ones who don’t like you so much, found out about the loophole, so I had to seal it. But I’ve been keeping an eye on you regardless. Just caught what’s happened. I waited until they left your building to come inside.”
“They took him—they’re going to—”
“Shhh,” Turk says, “all in good time, lady. All in good time.” He surveys the situation. “You tied up?”
“Why else would I be here?” I roll my eyes. “Can you help?” Turk grins. “Ah. The magic words.”
“Come on, Turk—there isn’t time for any of this. They’re going to kill him!”
“I thought they already did.” Turk laughs nervously. “All right. I’m going to blast away whatever’s tying you up.” He walks around me. “Hold your hands still—don’t move. I don’t wanna accidentally disintegrate a finger or something.”
“Not funny.”
“Just hold still, Aria.”
I keep my eyes on Turk’s bike. I can’t see his energy, but I can hear it—like the buzzing of a hornet’s nest directly in my ears. A jolt hits the chair. I’m knocked forward onto my side. I try to move my arms and find that I can. I bring them in front of my face—the metal ties are still around my wrists, like sickening bracelets. I push myself to my feet.
“Thanks,” I say to Turk.
“No problem.”
I cock my head at his bike. “Let’s get out of here.”
“To where?” Turk rubs his forehead. “You got a plan?”
“They’re going to use Hunter to gain access to the subway systems. We’ve gotta get down there, warn the rebels—”
“First of all,” Turk says, looking defeated, “at the speed of the rails, your family, the Fosters, and whatever backup they have are probably already in the Depths. We’ll never catch up with them. And more importantly, we have no idea where they’re going, which entrance they’re going to try to use. There are dozens. We’ll be racing around trying to find them and … and we won’t be able to save him. To save anyone.”
Turk punches the wall. “Damn!” His fist breaks through the plaster with a crunching noise and a cloud of dust poofs into the air.
“That was dumb,” I say.
He rubs his knuckles, which have started to bleed. “No, it wasn’t.”
“Wait—Times Square. Hunter mentioned something about Times Square … is there an old entrance there?”
Turk thinks for a second. “Yeah, there is.” He smiles. “Come on. I know exactly where to go.” He fumbles in his pocket for a second, then takes out a silver ring. “Here.”
“A present? How sweet.”
“Not just any present—it’s a passkey.”
“A what?” I ask, looking at the ring. It looks like … a ring. I take off my engagement ring and slip Turk’s ring on instead. My finger begins to throb lightly.
“The only way to break a mystic seal is with mystic energy. That’s how the rebels enter the underground,” Turk says. “But since you’re not a mystic, you’ll need a passkey to get in. I infused some of my energy into the ring—it’s in case we get separated, so you can still hide down there.”
“Thanks,” I say, knowing this will come in handy. The ring reminds me of something else: the locket. I have a sudden urge to find it. “Hold on.” I feel for it under the dresser and pull it out. It’s cracked and dirty, but I place it around my neck anyway, as a symbol of what my parents did to me. I won’t let their actions cripple me. I will turn my past into my future—with Hunter.
I follow Turk onto the balcony, where he picks up his helmet and drops it onto my head. I clutch my skirt in my hands, bunching it up so I can step onto the bike.
“Ready?” Turk asks.
“Just one more thing—do you have your TouchMe?”
He nods, pulling it out of his pocket. “Why?”
I grab it with one hand and begin to type in a number. “Because my mother took mine, and there’s someone I have to call.”
• XXX •
By the time we descend into the Depths, the sun has disappeared, and the sky has bruised over in shades of purple and blue.
“I still don’t understand what she’s doing here,” Turk says over the roar of his bike. Turk’s motorcycle powers us over a series of bridges as we ride along the Broadway Canal. Most shops are closed for the night, but there are a few people milling around the streets and walkways who dive out of our way as we pass—this is no time for cautious driving. Who knows what my parents are doing to Hunter, how long he has to live. We’ve got to save him.
Elissa Genevieve grips me tighter around the waist.
When we first picked her up, Turk practically refused to speak to her. “She works for the enemy.”
“No, she doesn’t,” I told him. “She’s working to help you from the inside, just like Benedict.”
Elissa nodded. “Yes, he and I work together!” Her long hair was pulled back into a severe ponytail, her face devoid of makeup. I’d texted her to meet us at the Circle in the Aeries, explained what had happened. Invited her to come with us. To help.
“I’ve never seen you underground before,” Turk said skeptically.
“I’ve been drained,” Elissa said. Dressed in all black—Lycra pants and a form-fitting top—she looked ready to fight. “I no longer have access.”
“She helped me,” I told Turk. “She showed me what happens in the draining room. She’s on our side, Turk.”
Turk scratched his forehead. “We don’t have time to discuss this. If Aria trusts you, then I trust you.” He pressed a hidden button under the handlebar of his bike, and the seat extended noiselessly, making room for all of us.
Almost. Now I’m sandwiched between Turk and Elissa; I can practically feel my organs rearranging themselves. The mist coming off the canal waters is thick and heavy, swirling around us in curls of gray, like smoke from an oversized cigar.
When we reach Fiftieth Street, Turk slows down. Times Square is only a few blocks away, and we don’t want to give any warning that we’re here.
It star
ts to rain. A smattering at first, then fat droplets that spray my face and soak my clothes. “Shit,” Turk says. The white light from the bike’s headlights pierces the smog, allowing us to see—but only what the beam touches. Around us, the rain and darkness and heat of the night lick at me like a dog’s tongue, making me feel sloppy and tired.
I brush my hair back with my fingers and wipe my cheeks. There’s no time for tired. All I can think is: Hunter.
We go another block or so; then Turk pulls over in front of a row of derelict buildings and shuts off the engine. “We should walk from here. Less conspicuous.”
Elissa slides off the back of the bike, and I can breathe again. She holds out her hand and helps me down. Turk wheels the motorcycle over to an old fire hydrant. He unwraps a chain from around the body of the bike, then locks the cycle to the hydrant.
When he’s done, he searches for us in the dark—practically all I can make out are the whites of his eyes. “There’s a spire somewhere around here,” he says. “We should be able to get more light if we keep moving.”
We walk together silently. I grab Turk’s shirt and follow him. I hope he knows where he’s going. My feet crunch over bits of broken pavement, an empty soda can. I can’t see the Broadway Canal, but I know it’s near us—I hear the slap of water hitting concrete and smell the foul, salty stench.
We go another block or two and turn right, over a bridge, and then I see a spire in the distance. Its light blankets the area with an iridescent glow. The familiar energy inside swirls and undulates white-yellow-green, white-yellow-green. I listen for signs of Hunter, of my parents, but all I hear are the muted voices of passersby in the distance, the shuffling of our feet, and the wild beating of my own nervous heart.
The neighborhood looks seedy. The streets are full of trash, the store windows covered with graffiti or smashed in. The buildings here seem crowded, overlapping like crooked teeth. Rats scurry along carrying bits of paper and rotting food. Overhead, faded marquees hang sadly from abandoned theaters, lightbulbs crushed or missing, windows smashed in.
“This used to be the center of the city,” Turk says as we pass a wide intersection of avenues. A green sign that says 42ND STREET hangs from a post on one of the bridges. I see the entrance to the old subway station—the biggest I’ve encountered so far. Circles of different colors, red, yellow, blue, each with a faded number inside, are painted over the entrance.
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