After the injection, Dr. May hands the nurse the empty syringe. “Now, Patricia here will operate the machine. Once you’re done, she’ll escort you to my office, where we can discuss the next steps in your recovery. Just lie back, Aria, and relax.”
Relax. As if it were that easy.
There is a whirring at first once I’m slid inside, then a rhythmic banging, like someone is taking a hammer to the side of the machine.
Bang bang bang. Dr. May exchanging glances with my mother. Bang bang bang. My father shoots a man in the head. Bang bang bang. Thomas, his heart beneath my hand. Bang bang bang. I am getting sleepy. Bang bang bang. Turk’s motorcycle. Bang bang bang. Hunter’s touch healing the gash in my arm. Bang bang bang. What is wrong with me? What has happened to my life? Will I ever have any control?
Bang bang bang.
Bang bang bang.
Bang bang bang.
“That wasn’t too bad, was it?” Patricia asks once she wheels me out of the machine and I can see the light again. I am still for a moment; then I swing my legs over the side of the table.
I grunt. What does she know about bad. “How long was I asleep for?”
She looks at the clock on the wall. “About three hours.”
I shake my head. Three hours?
“Don’t worry,” she says, “it’s a long procedure.”
What could they possibly have done to me that took three hours? The whole thing feels wrong, but I know fighting my father and anyone on his payroll right now is dangerous. I feel so alone. I watch as Patricia shuts down the machine.
“Come on,” she says, motioning for me to follow. “I’ll bring you to the doctor.”
We stroll down a long corridor, passing another examination room every few feet. I stare at the white carpet as we walk.
Dr. May’s office has a rectangular plaque—
DR. SALVADOR MAY
—on the door. Patricia points, then starts back down the corridor. I knock softly, but there’s no response. So I press my ear to the opaque glass; surprisingly, I can hear voices on the other side. I brace my hand against the wall and listen.
“Really, Melinda, I wouldn’t be so worried—”
“How can you say that,” my mother says, “when the last time was such a failure?”
“This time will be different,” Dr. May says, “this time will be—”
Suddenly, the door retracts and I fall into the office. I must have pressed a touchpad accidentally. I land with my hands and knees on the carpeted floor. Then I pick myself up and brush off the hospital gown.
Dr. May and my mother stare at me like I’m deranged. I shrug and say, “Sorry.”
“Aria!” my mother says, her face aghast. “Haven’t you heard of knocking? It’s not as though you were raised by a pack of wolves.”
“Please, sit down.” Dr. May motions to an empty chair. His desk is cluttered with family photographs and a stack of files that teeters dangerously near the edge.
“The results of the exam are uploaded instantly into my TouchMe,” he says, scrolling the screen with his finger. “And from what I can tell, you have a beautiful brain.” He smiles without showing his teeth. I think it’s an attempt to be comforting.
What am I supposed to say to that? “Great. Beautiful brain,” I repeat.
“I’m confident that your amnesia will fade in time,” Dr. May continues. “The effects of Stic are still not completely understood, as the energy from every mystic is as unique as a fingerprint. Did you know that mystics have different-colored hearts?”
I did, but only now do I imagine the oddness of, say, a yellow heart. But aren’t we all just a multitude of colors inside—red arteries and blue veins and pink muscle? Perhaps a yellow heart isn’t so odd after all.
“Stic is nothing more than distilled mystic energy. Depending on who it comes from, the effects will vary,” says Dr. May. “It’s impossible for us to know exactly what you ingested. Luckily, there seems to have been no lasting damage.” He shuts off the screen and folds his hands on top of his desk. I stare at him and rub the inside of my arm, which aches from the shots. “I know it’s been difficult for you, Aria, but I am hopeful that you will be feeling better in no time. The injections today will help.”
“Thank you, Dr. May,” my mother says, seeming satisfied. I’m not convinced, though.
Suddenly, I hold out my open palm, hoping she’ll find it with hers. Even though she hasn’t held my hand in years. Even though we are not close like that.
Instead, she stands and kisses Dr. May softly on the cheek, careful not to leave behind any trace of her lipstick. “That is quite a relief,” she says. “Isn’t it, Aria?”
I close my waiting fingers into a fist, nod, and say, “Yes. Quite.”
That evening, I search my closet for the perfect dress. I’ve never thought much about all the clothes I own, but after yesterday, I can’t stop thinking about the Depths and how, in comparison, everything in my apartment is so … expensive.
I select a peach-colored minidress with a high waist and beaded fringe around the hem. Why does my family have so much money? It’s never made much sense to me—my mother doesn’t work, and sure, my father collects bribes from city officials, but that can’t account for the insane amount of wealth the Roses have amassed over the years. Can it? I don’t think I’ve ever bothered to ask about any of the details.
I glance in the mirror and fix my hair. I’m being forced to go on a date with Thomas. And a chaperone. It seems that despite the fact that Thomas called my parents and let his servant frisk me last night, and despite the mind-numbing guilt I feel over the man my father shot, I’m expected to be seen with my fiancé for the sake of the election. Expected to be happy. The best I can hope for is that last night was a fluke. That Thomas was, as he said, caught off guard by my visit and wasn’t acting like himself. That we can still fall in love. Again.
I feel like my body has been taken over by puppeteers. I’m so tired, and even as I dress, I feel the strings above my head being pulled—by Dr. May, by my mother and father, by Thomas. No one gets close enough to touch me; they maneuver me from above.
“Make sure to smile,” my mother says as I’m about to leave the apartment with Klartino. “You never know when someone is going to take your picture, Aria.”
“I will.” I clench my teeth and smile so widely that my face hurts. My mother rolls her eyes and walks away, down the hall that leads to my father’s study. I haven’t had a bodyguard in over a year, and Klartino isn’t exactly my first choice for a chaperone. He has thick, nubby hands and a sour-looking face; the entire right side of his neck is covered in a green-ink tattoo of a tiger clenching a rose in its teeth. Nice.
But I guess after the stunt I pulled last night, I’m not exactly my parents’ favorite person at the moment. And Klartino is pretty intimidating. I wonder how he and Stiggson disposed of the gondolier’s body. If he cared at all that a man died right in front of him.
Probably not.
We’re eating at the Purple Pussycat, a throwback to the speakeasies of the 1920s. The restaurant is owned by Thomas’s family and sits atop a spiral building on Fifth Avenue. The décor is all high ceilings and walls paneled with dark mahogany, shiny black floors, and various bars set into pockets of the room. Men and women sip fancy drinks, the men in smart suits with crisp shirts and ties, the women in tailored dresses that expose their arms and legs, pointy shoes that surely crush their toes.
Klartino stays a few paces behind me as I approach the hostess, a girl in her early twenties with the Foster five-point star tattooed on the inside of her left wrist. She shows me to a table where Thomas is already seated.
Thomas stands as I approach. He looks smart in a white dress shirt and dark slacks, the outfit completed by a paisley tie and navy-blue blazer. His hair is more like it was at the engagement party than at his apartment—gelled and parted on the side. I see flashes of light—paparazzi—and I realize this is a carefully orchestrated photo op. We�
��re the ideal couple—groomed to perfection, encouraging people in the Depths to vote for Garland Foster in the election instead of the mystic candidate Violet Brooks.
Diners bow their heads and whisper about the soon-to-be-married couple with the potential to unite the East and West sides of Manhattan against the mystic threat.
I smile—like my mother instructed—to hide how sour that makes me feel.
Now more than ever, I feel a lot of weight on my (bare) shoulders.
“Aria, you look beautiful,” Thomas says, kissing my cheek. I close my eyes, wondering how strong I will have to be to endure this “till death do us part.”
“For a Rose, anything,” I whisper, repeating my grandmother’s old adage of familial devotion.
“Hmmm?” Thomas says.
Suddenly, something stirs within me—a memory, an emotion, I’m not sure. It’s almost as if a voice in my head is whispering, You love Thomas Foster. Even though I don’t feel the truth of it in my bones, if it weren’t true, why would I be thinking it? My mind and my body feel completely out of sync.
The shots this morning, the machine … maybe they did work, and my memories are coming back. I glance again at Thomas—I’m so confused that I wind up curtseying and holding on to the ends of my dress too long, imprinting my palms with marks from the beaded fringe. “No, you look beautiful!” I say, and from out of nowhere I get the hiccups.
“Aria?” Thomas says.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Really”—hic!—“I am.”
Klartino offers me a sip of water, and I take it. “Thank”—hic!—“you.”
Thomas reaches for my shoulder, which startles me—a good thing, actually, because I stop hiccupping. His hand is warm on my skin. I can’t deny his sex appeal, how smooth and polished he is. Would marrying him be the worst thing in the world? By now, the entire restaurant is staring; dozens of eyes have zoomed in on me, and a handful of cameras are snapping my picture.
“We should sit down,” I say.
Thomas nods. “Good idea.”
I wave Klartino close; he hunches his already hunched back and brings his ear to my lips. “You’re free to go,” I whisper.
He shakes his head. “Your father said I’m supposed to stay with you.”
“Can you at least sit at another table?” I pull in my chair and place the napkin on my lap. If my relationship with Thomas has to be watched, it can be watched from a distance.
Klartino calls over the hostess, who seats him at a table in direct sight of ours. “The food better be good,” he mutters.
When I turn my attention back to Thomas, he’s scrolling through the menu.
“See anything you like?” I ask.
He glances at me and lets out a low whistle. “I certainly do.”
Thomas’s stare lingers for a few seconds, as though there is something about my face that he finds particularly appealing. I shiver even though I’m not cold. A gorgeous boy—a boy I’m about to marry—is complimenting me, coming on to me. I can live with that, right? I’m a Rose. I can make sacrifices for power.
So why does Hunter’s face pop into my head?
Thomas orders dinner for us, but I can’t seem to focus on what he’s telling the waiter. Instead, I hear the strange voice again: You love Thomas Foster. It’s distant, as though it exists wholly outside my body. I close my eyes, imagining I’m looking down at myself, watching a girl in love with her fiancé.
“Why did you call my parents last night?”
Thomas looks up from his glass, startled. “What?”
“My parents. Last night. You called them—why? Did you want to get me in trouble?”
He shakes his head. “Of course not. Devlin called them, not me. I had no idea what he’d done until they showed up.”
I stare at him, his perfectly chiseled features, and wonder if he’s telling the truth. If anything, he looks concerned. Upset, even. “Okay,” I say. “I believe you.” Thomas lets out a deep breath; he seems relieved. “How was your day?” I ask. It’s what my mom always asks my dad.
Thomas relaxes into his chair. “Good. My day was good.”
“What did you do?”
“I trailed Garland on a few meetings,” he says offhandedly. “The mayor wants to raise the number of drainings per mystic from two to four per year, and he wanted to walk Garland through the process.”
“More drainings?”
Thomas shrugs. “Why not?”
“Isn’t two enough?”
“I have no idea,” Thomas answers. Our first appetizer, bacon-wrapped scallops, is set on the table. “But he must think more drainings will keep them down. The last thing we want is for these mystics to regenerate too quickly and overthrow us all with their weirdo magic. Plus, they’re thinking of lowering the required draining age from thirteen to ten.”
“Ten? Isn’t that a bit young?”
Thomas forks one of the scallops into his mouth. “They say that a mystic’s powers mature at thirteen, but what if that’s a load of crap? There could be a bunch of crazy-powerful little freaks running around. We’ve gotta end that before it begins, don’t you think?”
He says this so casually. I can’t help but think of all the people at Java River, most of whom were surely mystics. They already looked beaten down by the officially mandated two drainings per year; how much worse will it be if that’s doubled? If the age is lowered? Would it make them sick—or even kill them?
“Maybe they should be allowed to keep some of their powers.” Hunter comes to mind, the way he pressed his fingers to my wrist and instantly healed my wound. “Would that really be so bad?”
“Are you serious?” Thomas rests his fork on his plate. “The mystics set off a bomb that wiped out much of Lower Manhattan. Or did you already forget the Conflagration? Their power is deadly. They want to kill us, Aria. And you’re proposing that we let them keep their powers?”
I shake my head. “That’s not what I meant.”
“What did you mean, then?”
“I meant … maybe not all mystics want to kill us.”
Thomas laughs heartily, right from his belly. “Don’t be a fool, Aria. The mystics would love nothing more than to see us all die so they can control the city.” He leans forward. “Especially you.”
Our waiter clears away the empty appetizer plates and sets down a palate cleanser—an apple and calvados sorbet—before our first course.
“Is it hot in here?” I ask. Thomas shakes his head. “Because I feel … hot,” I say, using my napkin to dab at my forehead. My skin feels itchy, too—no, not itchy, but … tingly, as if somebody were poking at my insides with a live wire.
“Did you know,” Thomas says, wiping the corners of his mouth with his napkin, “that mystic workers are actually trying to start some kind of union? Mark Goldlit in the Council saw one of their proposals. They want vacation—can you believe it? And Violet Brooks is supporting this nonsense. If we let them get a foothold with the voters, soon all the poor will want a voice in the government, and then what? Too bad mystics can’t be stripped of their voting rights like they are their powers. Then we wouldn’t even have to worry about the election.”
I’m about to say something biting when I stop myself, tasting the sorbet instead and letting it slide down my throat, numbing me. Thomas is just like his brother. Who is just like his father. Who is, for the most part, just like my father. To support the mystics would be blasphemy. I trusted Thomas once, enough to fall in love with him. What changed?
Oh, right—I OD’d. An immense wave of guilt washes over me. Thomas’s odd behavior is probably because of me. Because I messed up and forgot him. Forgot us. He probably has no clue how to act around me.
Thomas takes another bite of his sorbet. “It’s good, right?”
The more he talks, the more tiny snippets of—what? memory?—pop to life: lips brushing my cheek, a strong hand on my waist. Running. Hiding. The salty smell of water from the Depths.
Is this my past resurfacing? Wh
at I used to feel for Thomas, what made me want to risk it all—my parents’ affection, my brother’s concern, my friends’ companionship—to be with him?
Whatever happened at the doctor’s office today, whatever was in those shots, is working. When I look at Thomas, every inch of my skin buzzes, from my toes all the way up to my scalp. I want to jump across the table and rip off his tie, lick his neck, kiss his chin, his lips—it’s strange, to feel such repulsion at his words and attraction to his body at the same time.
“Aria?” Thomas pushes his water toward me. “Drink this. You look like you’re burning up. Are you sick?”
I swallow the water quickly. “No, no. I’m fine.” I glance to my left and see an older couple staring; the woman cups her hand over her mouth and whispers something to the man. “I’m just going to use the restroom.”
A waiter points to the back of the restaurant, and I move as quickly as I possibly can. Sweat is rolling down my back; my pulse is racing. I can barely walk.
Is this what they call love?
I stand at the sink and splash cool water on my face. What’s happening to me? I blot my cheeks with a soft towel the bathroom attendee hands me, then open my clutch.
There, staring back at me, is the locket.
Remember.
I slip it on and wonder what Thomas’s reaction will be.
We make our way through the rest of the meal with hardly any conversation.
Fine. “Thomas?” I say finally.
“Mmm?”
“What if we ditched Klartino and went to the Depths? Just you and me?”
Thomas nearly chokes on a piece of meat. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
Thomas stares at me curiously. “Are you out of your mind? Why would I go to the Depths?”
Because that’s where we escaped together to be happy, I’m about to say, and maybe we could feel like that again. But his expression is so cross I can’t get the words out.
“Never mind,” I say, running my finger under the chain around my neck. “You haven’t said a word about my locket.”
Thomas eyes where the silvery heart rests against my collarbone. “You shouldn’t wear junk like that,” he tells me. “It looks like the mystic crap they sell to tourists.”
Mystic City Page 7
