Toxic Heart (20 page)

Lyrica stands up, smoothing her dress with her hands. “If you want to honor Davida, you must find her heart, put it in this reliquary, and return it to her family. Good luck, Aria,” she says in a tone that sounds like a warning. “If she died in the deeps, who knows what happened to her body? She could have been swept out to sea.”

She collects my empty mug and disappears into the kitchen, returning with a small plate of cookies. “I like something sweet after my tea,” she says. “You?”

I take one of the cookies and break it in half: peanut butter. I don’t realize how hungry I am until I take a bite and my stomach growls for more.

“Tell me something else, Aria Rose,” Lyrica says. “What is life like for you these days?”

I find myself telling Lyrica more than I’d planned: about the attack at the compound and Markus’s death, how both Thomas and my brother are after me, how Turk rescued me and took
me to a mystic hiding spot, how there might be a spy among us and maybe that’s how Thomas found me at the compound. “We thought I had been tagged,” I tell her, “but Hunter did a scan and there’s no tracker on my body. So we don’t really know how they manage to keep finding me—unless someone is feeding my family information from the inside.”

Lyrica shakes her head, the beads in her hair making tiny clicks. “Sure you weren’t tagged, Aria. Just like when your parents told you that you’d overdosed on stolen mystic energy, when really they had erased your memories. You’re a good girl, Aria, but perhaps a bit naive?”

“This is different,” I say, trying not to be insulted. “Hunter checked for a tracker and didn’t find one.”

Lyrica raises her eyebrows inquisitively. “Did he do a mystic scan?”

“I don’t know. There was a machine and … I guess he did.”

“Let me see.” Lyrica pulls her chair over and faces me. She holds out her hands. “May I?”

I nod.

She tilts her head up, toward the empty glass orb that hangs overhead. Her palm explodes with green light and suddenly her entire right hand is encircled by a thick, bright green ring. A single ray of light shoots out from her index finger and connects with the orb, filling it with pulsating energy.

The mystic energy begins to swirl inside the orb, growing brighter until I have to look away. There’s a soft hum as Lyrica chants under her breath, and then, gently, a coil of energy emerges from a hole in the globe that must be no wider than a grain of salt.
It fans out, sweeping across the room and casting a green glow on the walls.

Then another ray pops out, like a strand of spaghetti.

Then another.

And another.

Before I know it, Lyrica is standing, and dozens of minuscule rays of energy are extending from the pulsating orb. I feel the energy wash over me, bathing me in mystic light, heating my skin and making it tingle. The sensation grows stronger, as if every cell in my body is electrified.

Lyrica is practically on her toes, her arm reaching toward the ceiling, fingers extended. She stretches out her arm until—

She makes a fist and the connection between her and the orb is broken. There’s a huge flash as the rays of energy fizzle and pop like burned-out lightbulbs.

And then she sinks to the floor.

“Lyrica!” I say. The strange connection between us is broken, and I no longer feel the effects of the mystic energy. “Are you all right?”

She stares up at me with glassy eyes. “Yes. Just … tired.”

I help her to her feet and sit her back in her chair. Her face is ashen; she takes a few deep breaths, and I fetch her a glass of water. When I return from the kitchen, some of the color has returned to her cheeks.

“I’m not as young as I used to be,” she says, drinking. “But you
have
been tagged, Aria.”

“Hunter checked, though,” I say again. I let my eyes wander over my arms, hands, legs. “Where is it?”

Lyrica lowers her eyes. “On your
spirit
, Aria.”

“You mean my soul?”

She nods. “I am sorry to have to tell you. But at least now you know.”

Thomas
. He knew there was a tracker on me. Could he have done this? “Was it done by Thomas?”

“Who?” Lyrica asks.

“Thomas Foster. My ex-fiancé … He lives in the Aeries.”

She considers this. “I can’t imagine anyone except a mystic being able to do this. It is powerful, dark magic.” She glances up at the orb hanging from the ceiling, then back at me. “Do you want me to get rid of it?”

“Yes,” I say. “Please.”

Lyrica cracks her knuckles. “Then I will. It may be useful, though. You should keep the trace. I can transfer it to an object.” She points to the chain around my neck. “Your necklace. May I use it?”

I take the silvery heart out from beneath my shirt. “Seems fitting,” I say, unclasping the locket and handing it to Lyrica.

Lyrica takes the necklace. “Close your eyes,” she instructs.

I do.

She grips the necklace with one hand and my shoulder with the other. I expect to feel a burst of heat, of electricity—what it normally feels like when a mystic touches me—but instead I feel … 
cool
. Like every inch of me is being rubbed with ice cubes. Suddenly there’s a pain in my stomach, like something rotten is twisting inside me, trying to escape.

My lungs begin to burn.

It feels like something is being ripped from inside me.

My mouth opens instinctively. Lyrica removes her hand from my shoulder and I double over in pain. She presses one fingertip to my forehead and my body begins to heat up; the warmth starts in my toes and spreads up my legs, into my torso.

“All right.” Lyrica removes her finger and stands back. “You can open your eyes.”

I look around, and my body seems to return to normal. Lyrica hands me back the locket. It’s freezing.

“This carries the trace now,” she tells me. “Be careful.” I slip the locket back around my neck, securing the clasp. It’s warm to the touch, heating the skin just below my throat. “It is time for you to go now, Aria Rose.”

“How do I get back?” I ask. I have no idea where Queens is or what it’s like.

“You’ll see,” Lyrica says cryptically, leading me out of the sitting room and back to the front entrance of her house. She hands me a crumpled tote bag for the reliquary. I carefully place it inside and sling the bag over my shoulder.

“Thank you,” I say. “For your help—all of it. You’ve been so incredibly kind to me.”

Lyrica smiles at me, and I realize her eyes are wet. “Of course, child.”

She pounds her foot loudly on the floor, and there’s a shift like the one when I arrived. The house is moving.

I turn the doorknob. Fresh air rushes inside; I look out and see that we’re no longer in Queens, wherever that is. We’re near the area formerly known as Times Square, looking out onto a narrow street
and a canal bustling with energy—I recognize it immediately. A few feet away I spot a dock where a handful of gondoliers are waiting for passengers. Luckily, I still have the half-empty pouch of coins in my pocket.

“Goodbye, Lyrica,” I say as I head down the stairs to the street.

“Aria?”

“Yes?” I say, glancing back.

“Many of the men in your life want to use you,” she says, shielding her eyes from the sun. “What do you
want
?”

Lyrica winks at me, and before I have time to answer, she closes the door, vanishing—along with her house—from sight.

“Where have you been?” Ryah asks, dragging me up the stairs.

I glance down at my TouchMe. Still no response from Turk, and I tried calling
and
texting him. Thankfully, he’s programmed all the numbers I might need into the contact list, so I was able to message Ryah to help me through the force field. She responded immediately.

“I woke up, and you were gone!” Ryah is wearing a tight white T-shirt and cutoff denim shorts with frayed edges. Her hair is as blue as ever, though it’s lying flat across her head, parted at the side. She hasn’t gelled and spiked it yet today. I sort of like it better this way.

It feels like an entire day has passed since Hunter brought my breakfast, but it’s only been a few hours—it’s just after ten a.m.

Ryah shuts the door behind her. “Shannon ate the rest of your bacon before she went off with Hunter.”

Shannon went somewhere with Hunter? “That’s fine,” I say, slipping off my sneakers and leaving them in the foyer. It’s much cooler in here than it is outside. “Where’d they go?”

“There was an … incident,” Ryah says. “On the Lower East
Side. I don’t know all the details—only that there was an attack at a grocery store by some of the Foster army. Seems like a few people were killed, but I know Hunter brought troops to assess the damage.”

“Oh,” I say. “That’s horrible.” The bag Lyrica gave me for Davida’s reliquary is heavy on my shoulder.

“Landon and Jarek are out also—the location of one of the Foster army bases was leaked, so they went to confirm the lead before Hunter plans an attack.”

“Why didn’t you go with them?” I ask.

“I was waiting for you!” Ryah smiles. “Turk’s here, too. He’s upstairs. Showering.”

She pauses in the foyer. “I still can’t get used to you being bald. Well, practically bald. You do have a little peach fuzz.” Ryah giggles. “Anyway, Shannon and I woke up and you were gone, and I was like,
Oh my gosh, Aria’s been abducted!
But then I saw that you’d had breakfast, and then Shannon was like,
Maybe she ran away!
And I was all like,
No!
Anyway, I’m just so glad to see you!”

“Thanks,” I say. I’ve never met anyone with quite as much energy as Ryah. I’m still not entirely sure how to act around her.

Ryah rests her hands on her slim hips. She gets a funny look on her face. “Are you going to tell me where you went?”

My stomach jumps. Does Ryah know I went to meet Kyle?

“Just … out,” I say.

I feel bad being cryptic, but I can’t risk her telling Hunter the truth. Then he’d
never
go to the peace summit.

“Well, the next time you leave, you should let someone know where you’re going,” Ryah suggests.

Turk knew where I was going
, I think, but of course I can’t say that. “Is this a prison?” I say. “I always assumed I could do whatever I wanted to.”

Ryah bites her bottom lip. “No, of course it’s not a prison, Aria. It’s just that—we’re trying to look out for you.”

“And I appreciate that, but I don’t need a babysitter,” I say. “I’m going upstairs.”

I don’t wait for Ryah to respond. I know she means well, but it bothers me that she and the others think I need to be watched 24/7, that I can’t go out on my own without a protector or even be alone here unless someone knows where I’ve gone.

I start up the wooden stairs, one hand on the thick banister. There’s someone I have to speak with. Now.

I head straight for Turk’s room. I’m relieved he made it out of the Block safely, though I wonder how. I assume he’ll have some choice words for me—for trusting Kyle and endangering myself by meeting him.

I reach the fourth-floor landing and start down the hall. The bedroom door is open about halfway. I’m about to knock when I see someone moving inside—Turk.

He doesn’t see me. He’s wearing a pair of snug navy boxers, toweling off his head after his shower.

He’s stunning.

His legs are incredibly well defined, especially his calves, dusted with light brown hair. His underwear clings to his butt and the backs of his legs like it’s holding on for dear life. Beads of water
cascade down his back, falling to the floor as he rubs the towel across his head and his chest.

Turk is lean, all muscle. His body is so perfect it doesn’t even look real. Broad shoulders and a sculpted back that narrows to a thin waist and a V that disappears into his underwear. I have seen boys with good bodies before: Hunter, of course, and even Thomas, but Turk looks like he was painted by an artist or cut from marble. And where there isn’t smooth, olive-colored skin, there’s ink. Not just pictures, but symbols and words.

Most shocking is the image of the Sister.

The tattoo covers most of his back. Etched in black ink are the oval lines of her face, which is void, featureless. Her flowing, wavy hair is emerald green and ocean blue and glittering lavender. The figure’s hands are extended to either side, as though she is waiting for her sisters to press their palms to hers, as they do on Davida’s reliquary.

I’m so intrigued that I don’t move when Turk turns around.

And catches me staring at him.

My skin feels hot, and I start to sweat. I’m so embarrassed.

“Like what you see?” Turk asks.

“No,” I say. “I mean … no.”

He laughs. “Whatever.” He goes over to a dresser and pulls out a black T-shirt and a pair of jeans. “What happened to you?” he asks, slipping them on. “I looked everywhere—”

“I’m fine,” I say. For a second, I debate telling Turk about Lyrica. About the mystic trace on my soul that she discovered. But no—I decide to keep this information to myself, at least for now. “I hid until it was safe for me to come back here.”

Turk swipes a hand over his scalp, as if remembering that he’s practically bald, too. “Safe. Ha. You could have gotten killed. If I hadn’t planted that loophole for you—”