Mystic City (23 page)

“I never knew,” I say, suddenly feeling a crushing guilt. My family does this.

“The drainings leave you weak for
months
, so weak you can barely walk at first.” He stares at me with an intensity that makes me nervous. “But it’s not about the pain. It’s the whole
point
. Our powers are like our souls. What your parents—what your government—make us do is killing us slowly and surely. I’ll never register, Aria. Never.”

“I understand,” I say quickly. “Really, I do.”

Hunter walks over to one of the blacked-out windows. “Besides, I have to save my powers in case I need them.”

“Need them for what?”

“Healing a cut on your leg, for one,” he says. “Or in case my mother loses the election.” He comes to where I’m sitting and places a hand on my knee. His touch is like nothing I’ve ever known; each time his skin meets mine, all I want is more, more, more.

“You’re probably wondering why we don’t live together,” Hunter says. “Me and my mom.”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Mystics didn’t always live in the open,” he says. “My grandfather was one of the first to come out.”

“They didn’t?”

Hunter shakes his head. “My ancestors have been persecuted from the beginning of time. We’ve been called everything—witches, warlocks, demons—and killed for who we are. Burned at the stake.”

“So what happened? What changed?”

“Before the First World War, when so many people emigrated to the United States for a better chance, a new life … mystics fled by the hundreds. Ellis Island welcomed us with open arms. We hid at first, establishing ourselves here, but eventually, nobody wanted to hide anymore.” Hunter clenches his fists. “Pretending to be something you’re not sucks the life out of you. Even worse than the drainings.” He relaxes his hands, stretching out his fingers. “There were a few … 
demonstrations
of our power here in the States, and word got to President Truman. He spoke out, welcoming mystics in exchange for our help building up the cities. Once global warming set in, well, we were indispensable.”

“Until the Conflagration,” I say. It happened before I was alive, but this event—the explosion—was when people realized exactly how powerful mystics were, and what could happen if that power was used for evil instead of good.

Hunter nods. “My grandfather was killed in the explosion. My mom has followed in his footsteps, living openly, registering, trying to change the system—but I refused to be drained. I didn’t want to screw things up for her politically, though, and so I ran away, right before I was scheduled to be drained, as my power was cresting. If anyone from the Aeries asked, my mom told them she didn’t know where I was. Eventually people just forgot I existed.”

“And she’s okay with that?”

“She worries about me,” Hunter says. “Wishes we could live together. But some things are more important.”

“Like an election?”

Hunter frowns. “You don’t get it, Aria. This election is the first time we’re being taken seriously. The lower classes, the poor nonmystics, believe in my mother and are actually supporting us. No one has dared to even challenge anyone in the Aeries since the Conflagration, and now … we could
win
. You see what life is like around here—don’t you think it should change?”

“I—I …” I look away. How can I possibly tell Hunter that I believe in his cause, when it will mean the downfall of my family?

“Look, never mind. I shouldn’t have asked you that.” Hunter softens his voice. “I know why you came here, Aria.”

“You do?”

“You want to know about the loophole to your balcony.”

“Oh,” I say, weirdly relieved. He doesn’t know that my feelings for him are like a drug I shouldn’t have—feelings that I can barely admit to myself, let alone to him.

“But I can’t tell you that,” Hunter says. “There are things that will endanger you if you know them, and I want you to be safe. You have to trust me.”

“I barely know you,” I say.

“That doesn’t mean you can’t trust me.” Even though we’re alone, he lowers his voice. “The rebels are as split as your stupid Roses and Fosters are above. Sorry, I don’t mean you. No offense.”

“None taken,” I whisper.

“My mom leads a peaceful coalition, but there are other rebels who are preparing for a war. You probably already know about the demonstrations—that building that exploded, the family that was killed—but those are nothing compared to what will happen if my mother loses the election. There will be a revolt. And I will be fighting with them.”

I’m speechless. A war? And Hunter will be fighting against my parents?

“If anyone sees you down here, there will be trouble,” Hunter says. “Which is why, as much as I would like you to, you really can’t stay.” He leans in and I think he’s going to kiss me on the lips. I close my eyes, waiting, but all I feel is a gentle peck on my forehead. “You’re an incredibly special girl, Aria, but it’s too dangerous for us to be together. You have a fiancé and a life that doesn’t belong with mine. Go back to the Aeries,” he says, pulling away. “Where you’ll be safe.”

His words stab my soul—how can one person go from being so kind to so cold within seconds? “You didn’t seem to mind hanging out with me when you were kissing me on my roof,” I say, trying not to let my voice falter. “What could have possibly happened since then? Did you change your mind because it’s complicated?”

Hunter stares at me silently.

I stand up. “Boys are so … stupid. I thought you were different, but you’re just like Thomas. And my father.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” I say, “that you only look out for yourself.”

Hunter moves in front of me, barely an inch away from my face. “You have no idea what you’re talking about, Aria. You’re so far off from the truth, it’s crazy.”

“Then prove it.”

For a second, I think Hunter is going to take me in his arms and kiss me. But then his expression turns melancholic. “You really have to go,” he says.

He steps back and holds his hand up in the air. He concentrates for a moment; then a green circle of energy, like the one he disappeared into the other night, opens up in the middle of the subway car. The opening of the circle pulses, the energy swirling and growing like flames in a fire.

The loophole back to the Aeries, back home.

If he wants me gone
, I tell myself,
I’ll go. But not without saying goodbye
.

I race forward and plant my lips on his. I kiss him feverishly, as though the end of the world is upon us and there is nothing left but us, together, and this final fiery expression of desire.

The locket comes to life against my chest, searing my skin. I step closer to the fiery loophole and thrust one of my hands inside. My skin prickles and stings; I feel something pulling me inside, away. I look back, over my shoulder, at Hunter.

“Come to my balcony on Monday night,” I say. “I’ll be waiting for you.”

• XVI •

“The girl literally blew up!” Kiki says.

We’re at my kitchen table, eating breakfast on Monday morning. Sunday passed in a blur. Thankfully, I made it back safely via the loophole on Saturday night. I had to kick open my windows and accidentally broke the lock, but otherwise? Not even a scratch.

Davida kept to herself all of Sunday; every time I went to her room or tried to find her to ask why she’d disappeared underground, she was nowhere to be seen. My mother and I discussed table settings for the wedding and decided on a floral arrangement for the centerpieces (roses, no surprise there). Garland and his wife, Francesca, came over for dinner and we discussed the election, which is just over a month away. Thomas didn’t come—no doubt he was too embarrassed about what happened the night before.

The tone of the meal was somber. My parents are worried that Violet Brooks actually could win the election—and then what? Garland and Francesca were both nice, but I wish there were something more to them. “I’m incredibly excited about your wedding, Aria,” Garland told me, flashing a bright white smile and grabbing
his wife’s hand. “The day I married Franny was the happiest day of my life.”

“Oh, Garland, that’s so sweet,” Franny replied. They reminded me of a young Jack and Jackie Kennedy, only less interesting. And less Catholic.

This morning—Monday, July 18—Kiki showed up unexpectedly, just after my father left early for a meeting downtown. I’m already dressed for work, in a navy-blue pencil skirt and a white blouse with pearl buttons. The locket is still around my neck; now that I know it has powers of some sort, I’m too nervous to take it off. In the other room, Kyle is eating an egg white and broccoli omelet, watching TV alone.

“Really?” I ask. “She
literally
blew up?”

“Okay, well, she didn’t ‘blow up’ as much as … fizzle.” Kiki bites into an apple. “I was there, of course. Saw it all firsthand. I cannot believe I watched someone OD right before my very eyes. I am
so
traumatized,” Kiki says, pressing her hand to her forehead.

I’m not sure why Kiki is lying about witnessing the overdose, but she
does
love being the center of attention. There’s no need to call her bluff. She’s not hurting anyone.

The image of the girl on fire is hard to forget: her body shaking uncontrollably as the drugs overtook her, her crimson skin spontaneously combusting.

“Anyway, the point is that she’s dead and
I saw it
. I wonder if I have to go into therapy now,” Kiki says.

I shoot her a sideways glance.

“Well,
more
therapy than I’m already in,” she says. “I ran into
Thomas, too.” Kiki raises an eyebrow. “He said you left early because you weren’t feeling well. Are you okay now?”

Hmm. Makes sense that Thomas didn’t tell her about Gretchen.
I
certainly want to tell her, but I haven’t decided what to do about it just yet. Inform my parents and call off the wedding? Pretend it never happened?

Until I decide, best to keep it to myself. “Yeah, I’m fine. What time is it?” I put down my spoon without finishing my oatmeal, no longer hungry. “I don’t want to be late.”

“It’s eight-thirty,” says a voice from the hallway. Davida is walking toward me with a stern expression on her face. Her hair is up; she’s wearing her black uniform and, of course, her gloves. “Aria, may I have a word with you?”

Before I can respond, Kiki answers, “No, Davida, you may not.”

I’d laugh if Kiki’s tone weren’t so serious. “What’s your deal, Kiki?” I ask.

Kiki tugs on the hem of her striped cotton day dress. “I promised your father on my way in that I’d escort you to work and make sure you got there on time,” she says, “and I won’t disappoint him.”

Kiki takes one final bite of her apple, then drags me into the foyer. My purse is in my hand, and before I know it I’m out the door.

“I hate how she orders you around,” Kiki says, tapping her foot impatiently as we wait for the elevator. “You should get rid of her once and for all.”

For some reason, Kiki’s dislike of Davida really bugs me this
morning—more than usual. Also, I’m annoyed that she’s basically made it impossible for me to speak with Davida when I
need
to ask her about the other night. “You know, how I interact with my servants is really none of your business.”

Kiki flinches as though I just slapped her. The elevator dings and the doors retract. “Come on,” she says. “Some of us have places to be.”

At work, I can’t seem to do anything right.

I accidentally spill coffee on my blouse and have to rush to the bathroom to try to scrub it out before it leaves a stain. I’m left with a white collared shirt that has a huge wet spot just underneath my right breast. So embarrassing.

Then, because I’m so upset about the spill, I do something to the TouchMe at my desk—I must’ve touched a wrong button on the screen—and the monitor goes blank. I’m forced to wait for someone from technical services to come and reboot the entire system.

“Don’t worry,” the young man—Robert—says. He looks about my age, maybe a few years older. “We’ll get you back to work in no time, Ms. Rose.”

My phone buzzes as I wait for Robert to finish. It’s Thomas calling. This is the fifth or sixth time he’s called me since Saturday night. I let the call go straight to voice mail. I’m not in the mood to speak to him, not after the party.

Gretchen Monasty.

I think back to the plummet party, when she was so rude.
Was Thomas hooking up with her then, or is this a more recent development?

My phone beeps: Thomas has left me a message.

The sound of his voice makes me bristle.

Aria, it’s me. We need to talk. I care about you so much, and I don’t want you to have the wrong impression. Please call me back. I miss you
.

The message ends. I play it back.
I don’t want you to have the wrong impression
. What other impression could I have?

I press Delete and stare at the phone, incredulous. I caught my fiancé cheating on me. Shouldn’t I be breaking down and crying, unable to get out of bed or move a muscle?

Oddly enough, all I feel is … relieved.

Who is this boy I’m supposed to marry—did I ever even know him at all? Or has our entire relationship been a sham? And yet … The locket. The letters. Who are they from, if not from him?

“Ms. Rose,” says a voice, bringing me back to the present. It’s Robert, standing before me with a timid smile.

“Yes?”

“All fixed,” he says. “Have a nice day, now.”

I watch as he walks to the elevator, undergoes a body scan, and then steps inside. The door zips closed behind him, and I think,
Great. Back to work
.

I’ve barely sat back down when I’m accosted by Patrick Benedict, who slams his fist down on my desk. His brown eyes seem darker than usual today, his bony face a collection of sharp angles and nearly translucent skin, so thin I can see the blue veins that run across his forehead. He’s hunched over, and his eyes are
bloodshot, as though he’s been up all night. His hair is slicked back and parted on the side, his lips drawn back like those of a dog about to fight, exposing his stark white teeth.