Mystic City (19 page)

Not only is Hunter an illegal, unregistered mystic, but his mother is Violet Brooks. She’s running for office and attacking my family.

What am I doing?

If I tell my parents that Violet has a rebel son—a fact she’s managed to keep secret from the media so far—they’ll use it to smear her and ensure that Garland wins the election. But is that what I want? For the Roses and the Fosters to continue ruling the city, for the mystics to continue being enslaved and mistreated?

I don’t think my family is right. Or fair. But they’re still my family.

I’m not sure I can keep a secret this big from them.

Back home, I enter the passcode and take the back elevator all the way up to the penthouse, then exit into my family’s kitchen. The apartment is dark, everything turned off. There’s a tiny ding when the elevator doors close, and I wait a few seconds to make sure it didn’t wake anyone.

When I’m satisfied, I slink up the stairs, quiet as can be, careful not to disturb Kyle or any of the servants. I’m guessing my parents are asleep in bed by now, too.

Even though she’s probably sleeping, I head straight to Davida’s room. I need to talk to her now, and I can’t risk my mother’s sending her out on errands tomorrow before I have a chance to question her. I rap gently on the door. A moment passes and it slides open.

“Aria?” she whispers. Davida is in a nightgown of simple white cotton, her black hair loose around her shoulders.

I step into the room and wait until the door closes behind me. My back is slick with perspiration, my knees weak from running out of the Block. My body is tired from the trip back to the Aeries, but I am somehow wide awake.

“What’s wrong?” Davida says, wiping sleep from her eyes.

I cross over to her bed and perch on the edge. Then I pull out the pair of gloves. Davida’s deep brown eyes widen. I lay the black gloves on the bone-white quilt and stare at her expectantly.

“Well, now you know everything, I suppose,” Davida says.

I throw up my hands. “I don’t know anything!”

“Shhh,” Davida says, rushing forward and sitting down next to me. “You’ll wake Magdalena and the others.”

“I want the
truth
, Davida. All of it. Why are you keeping these
magical things?” I point to the gloves on the bedspread. “Who
are
you?”

Davida cringes, turning so I can’t see her face. The last thing I want to do is upset her, but I want answers—no, I
need
answers.

“Okay,” she says, her back still to me. I move to rest a hand on her shoulder, but she flinches away before I can touch her. “I’m a mystic,” she says to the wall.

“What?”

“You heard me,” she says. “I’m a mystic.”

It can’t be true. “Davida, I’ve known you since you were a little girl. You were found in an orphanage in the Depths. You’re poor, yes, but you’re not a mystic. Your parents died when you—”

“My parents aren’t dead, Aria. They’re alive.” Davida stands and begins pacing. “No one knows. Mystics—even registered ones—are second-class citizens. My parents wanted me to grow up and have a better life. So they placed me in an orphanage and lied. There was another mystic there, a woman named Shelly, who taught me how to conceal my powers so I wouldn’t have to register. The gloves help with that—when I touch people, they can’t feel my energy. Better that people think I’m a horribly scarred orphan than a mystic freak.

“When your parents took me in, I was so happy to have a home that I vowed to keep my real identity private. And you and I got along so well, I never wanted to disappoint you. I haven’t had much contact with my family over the years, but I got a letter a few weeks ago saying that my mother is on her deathbed. She can’t afford to see a doctor, so I’ve been taking her food and medicine.”

My heart nearly stops beating from shock. “I’m so sorry.”

“Aria, I’m still
me
,” she says, batting her dark lashes. “I didn’t tell you because I thought you would hate me. I’m sorry for lying to you, but you and your brother and your parents are the closest thing I have to a family. I was worried if you all learned the truth, they would throw me out.”

I immediately want to tell her that my family loves her and there is nothing she could do that would make us feel differently. But I know it isn’t true—as soon as my parents find out, they’ll feel taken advantage of and Davida will be without a job, her powers drained.

They might even have her imprisoned.

Davida kneels down in front of me. “Do you hate me? Please say you’ll forgive me.” Her voice breaks and she begins to cry. I reach over to her nightstand for a tissue and pass it to her.

“Of course I don’t hate you,” I say. “I’m sorry you felt like you had to keep your past hidden from me. I don’t want there to be any more secrets between us. Let’s promise to tell each other everything, okay? And I’ll help you however I can.”

Davida wipes her eyes. “I love you, Aria, you know that, right? It’s improper for me to say, I’m sure, but—”

“I don’t care about being proper, Davida. I love you, too,” I tell her, and she places her gloved arms around me and gives me a hug. “I won’t say anything to my parents.”

Back in my room, I strip off my sweaty clothes and cap and take a shower. I comb my wet hair with my fingers and tie it back with a ribbon. I slip on a nightgown my mother brought me last year from Paris, blue silk with white lace trim.

I’m about to roll back my comforter when I hear a knock on one of my windows.
The wind
, I think, but the knocking repeats, more persistent.

I pull back the curtains. There, outlined against the night sky, is Hunter.

I blink. Am I dreaming?

But when I open my eyes he’s still there, smiling at me and pointing to the latch on the window. I flick it open and slide the panes apart. Warm air immediately fills my room.

“What are you doing here?” I ask in a harsh whisper. “Are you crazy?”

“I’m here to see you,” he says, his hands gripping either side of the windowsill for balance. “And yeah, I’m a little bit crazy. But nothing you can’t handle. Why’d you run off before?”

I glance toward my bedroom door. “You might wake everyone up if you stay. I doubt they’ll be too happy about a mystic sneaking in my window.”

Hunter holds up his hands. “I’m not sneaking. You opened the window. That counts as an invitation, doesn’t it?”

“No,” I say. “It does not.”

“Look,” Hunter says, “I need to explain. Just let me talk to you for a few minutes and then I’ll go. I promise.”

I stare at him and am surprised by how familiar his face seems. Something about him—his easy attitude, perhaps, or the way he looks at me—makes me feel I can trust him.

“Fine.” I roll up the sleeves of my nightgown. “A few minutes, that’s all.”

“Thanks,” Hunter says, fanning himself with his T-shirt.
“Damn, it’s hot.” For a second, I can see the tight muscles of his stomach, his golden tanned skin. Then he holds out his hand—I let him grasp my fingers, and he pulls me out onto the balcony.

“Your time starts now.”

“I don’t want to talk here,” he tells me. “We could be overheard.”

I look out at the city—the view from up here is spectacular. The network of high-wire bridges and covered arcades that connects the buildings is swathed in yellow-white light from the spires; the sky is a murky blue, with gray clouds that look like the wisps of cotton candy at the carnival.

“Where do you want to go?” I ask. “The moon?”

“Nah,” Hunter says, letting go of my hand. “I have a better idea.”

Carefully, Hunter raises one hand into the air, and his fingertips begin to radiate the same bright green color I saw when he saved me in the Depths. The glow quickly turns into rays of light jetting out from each fingertip, so electric they are nearly blinding.

At first there are five, each like a stretched-out saber. Then Hunter flexes his fingers and the rays coalesce into one thick mass that pierces the sky. He throws back his arm like he did earlier at the carnival, only this time he’s harnessing his energy and blasting it toward the roof of my building.

The green light from his hand is resplendent. Hunter lassos it around one of the pillars at the top of the roof like he’s some kind of otherworldly cowboy, the lines and muscles of his face pulled taut as he concentrates, his skin tinged from the glow.

Then he extends his free hand to me. “Are you ready?”

“Ready for what?”

He winks and curls his fingers, beckoning me. “Come on, Aria,” he says. “Have a little faith.”

“Are you crazy? I’m not going to … swing onto my roof with you, or whatever you plan on doing.”

“Why not?”

The ray seems securely wrapped around the roof post. But really, how could it hold the two of us? Everything about Hunter is improbable. Still, he hasn’t failed me yet.

“Okay,” I say.

As soon as our fingers touch, something shocks me, making my blood simmer and rushing through my limbs as though I’ve been struck by lightning. “Hunter!” I cry out, but his eyes are barely more than slits, and he’s focusing on my hand. Quickly, the jolt of electricity subsides; I’m left with a warm sort of buzz that makes my skin feel prickly.

“I’m trying,” he says. “I want you to be safe with me. Always.” He pulls me into his arms; our chests fit together like puzzle pieces. I wrap my arms around his neck, clinging to his shoulders.

“Hold on,” he says.

“Oh, I will. Don’t worry.”

And then I can feel us
moving
.

With one swift jump, Hunter is off the balcony. For a second, we seem to freeze midair, as though time has stopped.

And then we drop.

My stomach feels like it might fall right into the Depths. I suck in some air, but that only makes me cough. I squeeze my eyes shut—if I’m going to die, I don’t want to see it happening.

But then I feel us shooting upward, swooping around the sky
as though we’re riding on the clouds. I open my eyes. My heart races—it could catapult out of my rib cage at any moment.

“Aria,” Hunter whispers.
“Look.”

I stare out into the Aeries—we are suspended midair, wind moving all around us. “Wow,” I manage to say. We’re surrounded in midnight blue. The glass façades of the skyscrapers glitter like gems. The spires swirl majestically, and the silvery grid of Aeries bridges is like a web of light laid on the city.

And then the top of my apartment building is so close that Hunter yells, “Jump!” and I do, letting go of him and hopping onto the roof. My knees buckle but I don’t fall. I straighten and wish I weren’t in a flimsy nightgown.

Immediately, the light dissipates, and Hunter tumbles onto the roof, as well.

It takes a minute for him to regain his strength. He leans over and breathes deeply.

“That was incredible,” I say, barely able to speak.

“That?” Hunter says casually, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Nah, just a parlor trick, really.” He gives a tiny shrug. “But I’m glad you liked it.”

“I loved it.” The roof deck is mostly barren. I see a few misters to cool the air and panels of smoked glass to protect the patio area. Some garden furniture is set up for those who can withstand the heat, and there’s a tiny glass solarium near the far end, where my mother grows her own roses.

“Well then,” Hunter says. For a moment he looks deep in thought. I like how the nighttime shadows further define his face and sculpt his jaw; how the blue of his shirt brings out the blue of
his eyes, which blaze with excitement; how his nose and lips and teeth all work together in perfect harmony.

Then his arms are suddenly around me, pulling me to his chest. Even over the material of my nightgown, his touch makes my skin tingle. Being with Thomas feels nothing like this—whatever
this
is.

Then I remember the gorgeous letters Thomas wrote me, and I’m racked with guilt.

“Why did you come here?” I glance down, and there it is: Hunter’s tattoo. A starburst. Outlined in black ink. The way it’s shaded makes the center look like a glowing ball with thin shards bursting outward.

I pull away slightly so I can peer into his eyes. “You
were
on my balcony the night of my engagement party, weren’t you?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Are you spying on me?”

“
Spying
has such a dirty connotation,” Hunter says, running one of his hands up my back. “How about
keeping watch
?”

We’re so close I can feel the beating of his heart. The way I feel with his arms around me—so safe, so secure—is like nothing I’ve ever known.

“Why didn’t you tell me about your mom—who she is? Is that why you were
keeping watch
over me? To monitor the competition?”

“No. Maybe.” Hunter averts his eyes. “I thought you wouldn’t talk to me if you knew.”

“Your mother stands against everything my parents believe in,” I say. “But I’m not my parents.”

“Aria,” Hunter whispers into my ear.

“Yes?”

“Just kiss me.”

We press our lips together gently, and it’s like I am alive, on fire, like I can do anything in the world. I know this is because he’s a mystic, but there’s something more than that. Something welcoming and familiar, something safe and sexy and irresistible about the way his lips feel, his tongue brushing lightly against mine. Our passion is like what’s described in my love letters: it’s like coming home, finally, when I never even knew I’d been away.