Mystic City (7 page)

“And equality,” he says, then picks up his mug and takes a long sip. I wonder if that was supposed to be a stab at me. Surely he knows who I am, who my parents are? There’s no way a rebel mystic—or anyone from the Depths—could possibly support the Roses and the Fosters. We’ve been despised by mystics in the Depths for ages—not that we ever really minded, as long as things stayed the same.

I avert my eyes. He must find me despicable, with my wealth and good fortune. Which is disappointing because … because why? I glance back at him and I can hear my own heartbeat. Deep down, I know why. I just don’t want to admit it.

I like him
.

My throat feels dry and scratchy. I’m engaged. I can’t like him. I don’t even know his name. Thomas’s face flashes before me: the richness of his eyes, the honey color of his skin. What am I doing here?

“Aria?”

I look up. “Yeah?”

“Are you okay?”

No!
I want to yell, but it’s not his fault this conversation is the most comfortable one I’ve had in ages, that simply looking at him relaxes me. “Are you going to tell me your name?”

He scratches his head, confused, as though he’d been expecting a much more intense question. “Sure. It’s Hunter.”

I expect him to say more, but he doesn’t. “So … what else do I need to know about you? We’re practically strangers.”

Something about the question strikes a chord in him. The muscles around his mouth tense; his posture becomes rigid. The boy I’ve been talking to suddenly morphs into something harder, colder. He takes out his wallet, removing a few bills and placing them on the table. “No offense,” Hunter says, “but it’s best if things remain that way.”

Then he takes out his phone and punches a few buttons, texting someone.

“Seriously?” I’m confused by the sudden change in tone—one moment we’re laughing, the next he’s distant, leaving? “I was just attacked. You saved my life. We don’t have to be friends or anything, but you don’t have to be so … so …”

“Rude?” He looks up, the pure blue of his eyes still startling. “Look, Aria. You seem like a nice girl, but as long as you’re safe, my work is done. My friend Turk is coming to pick you up and take you home. Wait for him here.” He narrows his eyes. “Don’t come back here, okay? You’re safer in the Aeries. Where your sort belongs.”

He stands. Simply looking at him makes my heart beat faster. I want him to stay, but there is nothing that ties him to me. We really are strangers. The thought makes my insides ache.

“Goodbye, Aria,” he says, and though he’s determined, I can tell he’s pained.

I sit still, frozen with sadness. Even though he’s telling me goodbye, the way he says my name feels like the warmest hello I’ve ever received.

It’s only as he’s leaving that I see a tiny tattoo in the center of his left wrist.

In the shape of a starburst.

“Wait!” I slide out of the booth too quickly and fall onto the floor—and now everyone is looking right at me.

“Miss?” someone asks. “Are you okay?”

I get up, shake myself off, and hurry outside. I look around frantically but the streets are practically empty. How did I let him go
again
?

I try to calm my breathing. I wasn’t hallucinating—there
was
a boy on my balcony last night, and it wasn’t someone who’d been invited to the party.

It was Hunter. He’s saved me twice in two nights.

I stand for a few moments underneath the
JAVA RIVER
awning, hoping he’ll return. Then I feel silly for waiting. I’m Aria Rose. I live in the Aeries, and I’m engaged.

Thomas
. He’s the one I’m supposed to see tonight, and I haven’t thought of him once since I saw Hunter.

When I realize Hunter’s not returning, I go back inside—my table hasn’t been cleared. Behind the cash register, an old woman
with grayish skin harrumphs at me, her hair knotted into a bird’s nest on top of her head. I sit down to wait for Turk.

Why did Hunter save me in the first place if he didn’t want anything to do with me? Without thinking, I stare into my coffee mug and down the scalding liquid in one gulp. I wince. My throat, and my heart, are on fire.

• V •

With a name like Turk, I’m not sure what to expect. This is what I get:

A boy with copper skin and egg-shaped eyes, hair fashioned into a Mohawk, the sides sheared close to his scalp, the top ablaze with color, morphing from black at the roots to bright platinum near the tips. Silver piercings run through his earlobes and his right eyebrow. His clothes are tight and black, long pants and a sleeveless shirt exposing hills and heaps of muscle. His arms are colored from wrist to armpit with tattoos: fire-breathing dragons and dangerous-looking swords, nearly naked women and strange mythological creatures.

He has the same healthy coloring as Hunter—another rebel. His legs straddle a white motorcycle with chrome wheels and black accents on the seat. I’ve only seen a motorcycle on the Internet and never would have guessed how
big
they are. He spots me through the window and beckons me outside.

On the street, the hot summer air makes me feel like I’m in a sauna. Turk holds out a sleek silver helmet and cocks his head. “You gonna get on?”

He must be kidding. “Absolutely not.”

“So you’re just gonna hang out here?”

Good point. I have to get back to the Aeries, and I can’t afford a gondola—the rest of my money was hidden in my cloak.

Turk extends the helmet a second time. “You seem like a reasonable girl, Aria. Let me get you home in one piece. I’d say you’re a bit out of your league.”

“How does this thing work?” I ask skeptically, eyeing the cycle. The engine is nearly twice the size of my head, the exhaust pipes polished to a shine. “It looks too big for most of the streets.”

Turk laughs. “Let’s just say this sucker is … enhanced.” He winks. “For your riding pleasure.”

“Okay,” I say, grabbing the helmet and slipping it on. I go to climb on the cycle but there’s only one seat—and he’s on it.

Turk slaps one of his thighs. “Step on up, sweetheart.”

I raise my eyebrows. Turk matches my expression.

I groan. “Don’t do anything funny.”

“Nope,” Turk says, offering me his hand. “Nothing funny about this at all.”

He hoists me up and I settle between his legs. He presses a button and a sleek pair of handlebars extend from a slot in the front of the bike.

Turk leans forward, his arms wrapping around me when he grabs the bars. “Ready?” he asks, lips close to my ear, his breath warm and sweet.

“Sure,” I say.

“Just tell me where to go,” he says.

I whisper my directions as Turk pushes a tiny button and we erupt in flames.

Turk’s bike really
is
enhanced. Magical, even.

We tip forward on the narrow streets, so drastically I have no idea how gravity is functioning, so fast there’s no time to be sick, veering left, then right, skipping over broken concrete and garbage and shattered bottles, building after building bleeding into each other as we pass.

We whirl and zoom past a fleet of gondolas tied up for the night, sleeping in the black water, their prows knotted to posts along the sidewalks. The cycle is narrow enough to creep over a stone bridge, nimble enough to take hairpin turns in alleyways.

Our only exchange is the way our bodies move with the bike, how Turk’s arms are snug around me. I close my eyes and imagine he is someone else.

And then we stop.

The handlebars retract and Turk leaps off the motorcycle, landing with both feet firmly on the ground. I slide less gracefully off the side and remove my helmet—my hair is wet, matted to my forehead. I scrape my fingers through it as Turk watches me.

“What?” I say.

“Nothing. Nice to meet you, Aria.”

He’s about to remount when I stop him. “Wait,” I say, my hand on his arm. “I need to ask you something.”

“About?”

“Hunter.” He smiles knowingly, and the look on his face tells
me he’s been expecting this. “I know you two are friends,” I say, “and …”

“You don’t know anything about him?”

“Exactly.”

“There’s not much to know.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Turk shrugs. “Hunter’s a mysterious guy. If he wants to tell you something, he’ll tell you. If he doesn’t, he won’t.” Turk cradles the helmet he lent me under one of his arms. “But do yourself a favor. Just let things be. Forget about him.”

Forget
. Something I am quite good at, apparently.

“Well, I appreciate the ride, at least,” I say softly.

“The pleasure was all mine,” Turk says. He straddles the motorcycle, places the helmet in his lap so he can use both hands, and starts the engine. “Be careful. You know what you’re doing?”

I glance at the POD a few steps away. His question makes it clear that he knows I gave him directions to Thomas’s apartment building and not my own. Granted, we live on opposite sides of the city, so it wouldn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out I’m heading in the wrong direction. But at least Turk isn’t trying to stop me from going.

“I’m fine. Thanks.” I point to the helmet. “Aren’t you going to wear that?” I yell over the roar of the cycle.

Turk only smirks. “Of course not.” He points to his Mohawk, which has somehow remained unharmed despite our travels. “I don’t want to mess up my hair.”

Then he’s gone, leaving behind a cloud of fast-fading sparks.

Thomas is surprised to see me. Which kind of figures, since it
is
around midnight.

“Aria?” He shoots an irritated glance at the manservant who ushered me in.

“They announced Ms. Rose on the intercom, sir. I assumed you had arranged to meet her.” He reminds me of my father’s man, Bartholomew—same white hair, same bland features.

“I did no such thing, Devlin,” Thomas says. His hair is messy tonight, without any gel. I like it more this way. “You should know better.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Devlin says, bowing his head.

Thomas is far from properly dressed—he’s wearing a pair of linen pajama pants. His shirt is unbuttoned, and he hides his chest by crossing his arms. It’s not the kind of chest that should be hidden: broad shoulders and sculpted pectorals lightly dusted with hair. His stomach is tight and flat. Thomas is more muscular than I imagined, more athletic.

I must be staring, because he reaches over, lifting my chin with his fingers so I’m looking at his face instead of his abdomen.

“What are you doing here, Aria?” He sounds almost unhappy.

“I—I wanted to see you.” Which is partly true, but not for the reasons I’m implying. I’m thankful for the cool air in his apartment after being outside in the deadly heat, but my pants and shirt are wet with sweat, and now I’m beginning to shiver.

Thomas purses his lips. “Do your parents know you’re here?”

“Of course not.” I reach out and touch his bicep. “Why does it matter? We didn’t care about them before, did we?” My voice has
gotten louder, but I can’t help it. “We need to talk, Thomas.” I look at Devlin. “Alone. It’s important.”

Thomas is silent, his face unreadable. Then Devlin says, “Shall I frisk her, sir?”

I step back. “You’re kidding, right? Why would I carry anything dangerous?”

“Not harm me,” Thomas says. “Harm
you
.”

It takes a second, but then I get it. He’s worried I have Stic on me.

I’m left with no choice. Devlin pats me down, pressing his hands against my arms and torso and legs. Then he runs a handheld scanner over every inch of my body. Its insistent beeping makes me want to smack someone. I’ve never felt so humiliated in my life. Thomas doesn’t even have the decency to frisk me himself.

Finally, Devlin announces, “Clean.”

“I could have told you that,” I say with a snarl.

“It’s protocol, Aria. Not personal,” Thomas says. “Devlin, please take Aria to my bedroom. I’ll be there momentarily.” He turns to me. “My parents are at a charity function. I need to call them and check when they’ll be home so they won’t find you here. I don’t want you to get into any trouble.”

Devlin bows a second time and motions down the hallway. “Please, miss, follow me.” Once we are far enough away, he whispers, “Sorry about the scanner, miss.”

The Fosters’ home is sleeker than ours: simple, clean lines, modern-looking furniture. There is no carpet anywhere; no hardwood floors, either. Instead, each room is tiled in shiny colors. For the
first time in my life, I miss my mother’s antique end tables, tubular vases, and thick drapes.

Mystic paintings in sleek black frames are spaced throughout the apartment; the colors swirl together as though the paint is alive, moving just enough so that the images never stay exactly the same for more than a few seconds.

I stop for a moment and study one—an oil painting of the city skyline—and watch as the sky darkens from gray to blue to black, then back to gray again. It’s stunning, really.

I could stare for hours, but I move on.

Thomas’s room is nearly bare—a large bed on a black platform against the far wall. A desk with his TouchMe and a chair that looks more impressive than comfortable. Two framed movie posters—Charlie Chaplin’s
A King in New York
and
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
with Paul Newman—and three long windows overlooking the East Side skyline. The walls are white; the floor is black. A gray lamp with a metal body sits on a nightstand.