Mystic City (14 page)

“Elissa?” I say.

“Come in!”

The door retracts and I walk into Elissa’s office, which is painted a sunny yellow. The room is free of clutter, containing only her oblong desk and a narrow bookshelf.

“Aria,” she says, seeming genuinely happy to see me. “How are you?” She points to one of the empty chairs by her desk.

“Thanks,” I say, taking a seat.

I like Elissa. She’s the only person in the office who seems real to me. She works with Benedict, monitoring the city’s mystic energy, but I don’t hold that against her. They’re nothing at all alike: Benedict is short-tempered and harsh, barking out orders around the office like a drill sergeant, while Elissa speaks in soothing, even tones and stops by my cubicle at least once or twice a day to see how I’m doing.

“Good afternoon?”

“It’s okay,” I say. “How about you?”

Elissa shrugs. She’s wearing a smart-looking navy suit with a cream-colored blouse and strappy sandals. Her blond hair is twisted into an elegant chignon, and while her skin is as pale as
any drained mystic’s, she’s somehow able to carry the look well. Looking closely, I can see concealer hiding the bruises underneath her eyes, the blush giving her cheeks a bit more life, but mostly she looks like a striking, beautiful woman—certainly one of the best-looking forty-year-olds I’ve ever seen.

“Just monitoring the Grid.” Elissa swivels her TouchMe so that I can see it. “I’m keeping a close watch for anything strange around the old subway entrances.” She points to a few places on the screen where the subways used to be—Ninety-Sixth Street, then Seventy-Second, Forty-Second, Thirty-Fourth, and Fourteenth. “It’s rumored that the rebels are living in the old subway tunnels, but we’re still looking for a working entrance.”

“Well, that sounds a whole lot more interesting than what I’ve been up to!” I flash my notepad. “Coffee?”

“Everybody’s got to start somewhere, Aria.” She grins. “No thanks. I saw your friends drop you off after lunch. Did you have fun?”

“Oh. Yeah, we did. Thanks for asking.”

“Did you hear about the demonstration this morning?” Elissa asks.

“No! Another one?” The ad I filmed with Thomas started airing last week. I’ve already seen it more than a dozen times on TV. It was supposed to help
stop
these incidents, not encourage more of them.

“Rebels detonated more explosives, in an office building on the Lower East Side this time. Luckily, the company that used it was in the process of moving, so most of the employees were at the new location. There were only a handful of casualties. But still.”

I gulp, immediately thinking of Hunter. Would he ever be part of such a violent act? Would Turk?

“That’s why it’s so important we find their hideout before they can do any more harm,” Elissa says. “I admire their desire for change, but violence is never the way.”

“I agree.” I think of how my father shot an innocent man simply to prove a point. What would Elissa say about him if she knew that? “ ‘I object to violence because when it appears to do good, the good is only temporary; the evil it does is permanent.’ ” I feel a little silly to be quoting from my textbooks. “I think Gandhi said that.”

Elissa stares right at me. “Interesting.” I cringe; something about Elissa makes me feel dumb. In her smart-looking suit, with her perfectly styled hair and flawless skin, she seems like the kind of woman who always knows just what to say.

“You know I’m a reformed mystic, don’t you? Both Patrick and I are.”

I nod. “You seem … healthier than most registered mystics, though.”

She laughs. “Well, thank you. I suppose that’s one of the plusses of working for your father. Patrick and I are only drained once a year, so we’re able to keep up some of our powers and a semblance of regular life. Otherwise, we’d never function at the office.” She pauses, looking thoughtful. “That stays between us, though. Okay? Don’t go texting it or tweeting or whatever it is you kids do.”

“Okay.” Elissa is the only one here who pays me any attention. I’m not going to rat her out. “So is that why you’re working for my father?”

“That’s just a perk. I believe in rules, Aria,” Elissa says. “There
must be an
order
to things. It’s what keeps anarchy at bay. Your father believes that, too. He’s a great man. I promise you—Manhattan would be chaotic without men like your father and George Foster. And someday soon, women like you.”

“Do you live in the Block?” I ask.

Elissa chuckles. “Heavens, no. I live up here, on the West Side—with all the other Rose supporters.”

It’s nice how devoted Elissa is to my family, but doesn’t she feel conflicted, knowing most of her kind are housed in ghettos in the Depths while the rest of us—including her—float free in the Aeries?

Maybe when I get to know her better, I’ll ask her more about her choices. But for now I have to remain Johnny Rose’s naive daughter, so as not to raise suspicion.

“What about women like Violet Brooks? She wants rules and order, too—that’s what she says, anyway.”

Elissa takes in a sharp breath. “Violet Brooks,” she says—and I prepare for the condemnation I know is coming—“is a smart woman with good ideas.”

“You think so?” That isn’t what I was expecting.

“Your father wouldn’t like my saying so, but it’s true. Unfortunately, she is also a sadly deluded woman who doesn’t understand the system. The only thing a mystic mayor can promise Manhattan is misery and death. She’s a threat to the safety of the entire city.” Elissa leans forward. “That’s why we’re all so happy about you and Thomas! Once you’re married, no mystic will ever have a shot at public office.”

“Aria!”

I whip around and see Patrick Benedict charging right toward me. He’s a small man, as thin and pliable as a sheet of metal, his expression always sneeringly intelligent. Today he’s wearing his typical outfit—a dark suit with a light-colored tie. His thinning black hair is combed back, his thick eyebrows are raised, and the centers of his cheeks are bright red. Like Elissa, he has the pale skin of a drained mystic, only without the circles underneath his eyes or the gaunt, sickly appearance.

“What are you doing? You’re supposed to be working, not fraternizing.” He narrows his eyes at Elissa. “You should know better, Genevieve.”

“Calm down, Patrick,” Elissa says. “Aria is doing a good job.”

“A good job?” His intonation lets me know he disagrees. “There’s a stack of files on her desk that was supposed to have been cleared already. Meanwhile, she’s going off to lunch with her friends and chatting with you.” Benedict zeroes in on me. “I’ve told your father about your work ethic, and he’s not happy, Aria. He wants to see you. Upstairs.”

I want to stand up and smack the smug expression right off Benedict’s face. But I know that won’t win me any points—with anybody.

“Now,”
Benedict says.

I wait outside the double doors to my father’s office, which occupies the entire top floor of the building. They’re made of shiny brass and adorned with metal roses whose edges look sharp enough to
draw blood. Two hulking bodyguards with Rose tattoos up their cheeks stand in front of them, arms crossed firmly over their chests. Catherine, my father’s secretary, is seated at her desk.

“Aria, he will see you now,” Catherine tells me. The bodyguards step aside, pulling the doors open. I give a small curtsey and then stroll past them. The doors close behind me with a soft click.

The air-conditioning sends gooseflesh up and down my arms the moment I cross the threshold—it’s even colder in here than in the rest of the building. The far wall is made up entirely of windows looking out on the Hudson. It’s the only touch of modernity in the place. Otherwise, it’s all mahogany walls and floors, brown leather couches, and overstuffed bookshelves—throwbacks to the nineteenth-century robber baron style.

“Aria,” my father says, motioning to a chair across from his desk. “Sit.”

He’s in a dark suit today, and a navy-blue tie with orange polka dots. He’s clean-shaven and his dark eyes have a sparkle in them, nearly as bright as the jewel in the center of the Rose family crest on the ring he wears on his right index finger.

Behind him is a large oil painting in a gilt frame. Impressionist, from the look of it: a golden-orange sunset over the Hudson River. I don’t remember seeing it before. I realize it is mystic enhanced, like the paintings in the Fosters’ apartment, when the colors turn and begin to glow pink and red, and the thin blue waves of the river rock back and forth.

“Thanks,” I say, glancing at the screen of his TouchMe. Dad sees me looking and presses a button; the entire thing goes blank. “You wanted to see me?”

“Why don’t you start by telling me why I’m getting complaints about you from Patrick. He says that you’re a slow worker, that you’re not taking this job seriously.”

“I
am
taking it seriously—”

“You
asked
for this opportunity, Aria. You should be doing everything that is requested of you and more. Instead, you’re dallying, doing the bare minimum—if that.”

“It’s not like that, Dad. Benedict has it in for me!”

“No one
has it in
for you,” he replies sternly. “If I get another complaint, I’ll send you right back home and we’ll forget all about this
job
experiment. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I say, because … what else is there to say?

Dad stands and motions for me to follow him to the far wall of windows.

“Look out,” he tells me. “What do you see?”

I peer out at the other skyscrapers. From here Manhattan looks cold and intimidating, a metropolis of broken-up islands and naked steel, of stone and glass behemoths.

“I see a city,” I tell him.

He clucks his tongue. “That is exactly your problem. This is not just a city, Aria. It is
your
city.

“There’s a reason why we aren’t as close as we once were,” he says. “We’re so alike, you and I. Your mother and brother are different … softer. I remember once, years ago, you were playing with Kiki and fell down and scraped your knees. You didn’t cry or call for help. You just wiped the blood off with your hands and continued playing.” He smiles at me, a rare genuine smile. “I knew then that you were meant for great things. That underneath your
beauty, you were tough. That you would carry on the traditions of our family.”

“But we’re ending the traditions,” I say. “By marrying Thomas, I’ll be helping to end them, our feud—all of it.”

“Yes.”

Suddenly, from somewhere deep inside me, a question bursts forth. “What if I don’t want to marry Thomas?” I ask, thinking of the boy in my dreams—whoever he is.

I wait for my father to yell. Or to slap me. He does neither.

Instead, he presses his hands to the glass, spreading his fingers open. “I was young once, Aria, and I had dreams … dreams that didn’t necessarily coincide with what
my
father wanted for me.” Dad’s face softens for a moment. “I put my family before myself, and that is how I built my life. There is not a choice when your family is involved.” He pauses. “If you do not choose your family, Aria, then we do not choose you. You will be stricken from the record, as if you’ve never existed.”

My lips begin to tremble, and I worry that I might start to cry—and the last thing I want is to show how weak I am.

“Now go,” he says, and I don’t hesitate. I immediately start walking across the hardwood floor, toward the door.

“Oh, and Aria?” he calls out. I glance at him over my shoulder; he’s standing by his desk, resting one hand on his TouchMe.

“Yes?”

“I love you,” he says.

• X •

That evening, when I get home from work, I go straight to my room.

The stink of roses overwhelms me. My bedroom is full of them—Thomas has sent a bouquet to me for every day that I’ve worked at the office. The cards that accompany them are full of bland professions of love—
I’ll be thinking of you with each passing minute
, one says, and another reads
I love you more and more each day
. They’re probably written by his assistant.

I’ve seen him most every night, as well. He comes to the apartment for dinner with us; he talks about politics and the upcoming election with my father while my mother shows me dress swatches and menus for the wedding.

He’s taken me to the movies. We’ve had ice cream together. He’s been sweet.

Does it matter if I can’t remember how much I love him? Sometimes I look at him and think,
It’s a handsome face. It
could
be the missing face from my dreams—right?

But my feelings for Thomas are like melting ice. When I try to recall our past, I get nothing more than distorted visions—
half-memories that only leave me more confused.
Remember
, I tell myself, like the note instructed. Like the boy in my dreams has told me.
Remember. Remember. Remember
.

I finish dressing for dinner. My hair has grown longer than I usually keep it, but I don’t mind—when it’s tied back, in a ribbon, I like how it leaves my face exposed, how the waves fall below my shoulders.

I pull open one of my dresser drawers to root for an Alice band. I move aside a few loose bracelets and some of my tortoiseshell combs, and I see a tear in the drawer lining.

I run a finger over the blue-and-white striped paper. The tear follows one of the blue lines, a cut so minor you can hardly see it. I try to smooth it out with my nail, but when I run my hand over it, I can feel something underneath.

Gently, I grab onto the tear and pull; the paper lifts easily, revealing loose papers. I gather them up and see that they are letters. The one on the top is dated more than six months back.

What are they doing here? I organize them by date and begin reading the oldest one.

It has been three days since we met in the Depths. Three days and all I’ve been thinking of is you
.

I don’t even know if this note will reach you, and I don’t want to say anything more personal in case it ends up in the wrong hands
.