Inside, the overhead lights are so bright I have to squint. Three of the walls are covered with long white curtains. The fourth is blue-black metal. A door much like the one we came through stands smack in the middle of it.
Elissa walks over to the far wall, yanking the curtains aside. I whistle: behind them, the wall is mounted with dozens of glass tubes. They’re about as thick as my wrist, covering the entire length of the wall and disappearing into the floor and ceiling, so it’s impossible to see where they begin or end. Are they fifty feet long or five hundred?
I go over to the opposite wall and pull the curtains aside: more tubes. The floor is white marble, and in the center of the room is a large metal throne that resembles nothing so much as an old-fashioned electric chair, the kind used for executing criminals. Straps dangle from the body, armrests, and legs of the chair. I don’t even want to think about why people have to be strapped into the thing.
“What is this place?”
“This”—Elissa motions around the room with her arms—“is one of the rooms in which Patrick, under the instruction of your father and George Foster, drains the power of the mystics who live in the Magnificent Block.”
“Oh.” Suddenly the beautiful glass tubes take on a sinister, cruel look. I walk closer and run my fingers down one of the tubes; I can see they’re lined with a thin coating of something silver and glittery.
“Quicksilver.” Elissa points to the silvery substance. “It’s another word for mercury. The only element strong enough to contain mystic energy.”
The quicksilver sparkles under the bright lights. “It’s beautiful.”
“Beautiful, yes, but also volatile,” Elissa says. “It’s quite dangerous to handle.”
“Where do all the tubes go?”
“Different places.” Elissa motions to a row of tubes. “Some go to transformer stations, where the raw power is stepped down and filtered directly into the city’s power grid. The spires you see everywhere—those are where the waste energy from that process is burned off into the air.”
I notice the swirling green liquid inside the tubes—the same as what’s inside the city’s spires. Drained mystic energy.
“But that’s only a small percentage of the drainings. Most of it is captured and sent elsewhere.”
I think about Violet Brooks’s speech, how she said that the city already has enough mystic energy to run for years and years and years, yet they’re still draining mystics every day.
I already know that the real purpose of the draining is to control the mystics. But another reason pops into my head: the mystic energy is being used to create—and sell—Stic.
Tabitha’s words come rushing back to me—Manhattan has one of the largest mystic populations in the world, and Stic is being sold here illegally. How much money do my parents and the Fosters make selling it? Is this really why they will stop at nothing to maintain their control of the city—the source of their profits? To control the farm where they raise mystics to harvest?
It’s sickening. This room disgusts me. It’s nothing more than a torture chamber.
“Why did you bring me in here?” I ask Elissa. “Why didn’t you report me?”
“I won’t sugarcoat it for you, Aria. You’re a smart girl. You would have figured it out eventually.” She strolls to the center of the room and places her hands on the back of that grim chair. “You already know that I’m a reformed mystic. What you don’t know is that I’m a double agent. I’m working with the rebels. If Violet Brooks loses the election, I’m going to help overthrow your parents and do what I can to destroy these places. They’re evil.”
Elissa? Double agent? “Is that why you’ve been so nice to me?”
She sighs. “You’re not like your family, Aria. You’re not greedy or cruel. You want what’s best for this city—I can tell. And I need your help.”
“My help? What can I possibly do?”
“I know you’ve been in touch with some of the rebels,” she says. “I have my sources. I haven’t reported you—in fact, I’ve helped you, deleting red alerts from the computer system that have popped up when you’ve accessed PODs in the Aeries. I’ve kept your secret, Aria.”
It makes sense now—why I haven’t been reported for sneaking into the Depths. I do have a Grid guardian angel: Elissa.
“But recently,” she continues, “Patrick has gotten suspicious. He assigned someone else—a worker named Micah—to monitor the Grid without me knowing, and your access to the POD was denied. Micah is the one who sent your father’s men after you the other day, the ones you sent on a wild-goose chase.” I’m shocked that she knows about that, but I don’t interrupt her. “Since then, Patrick has been watching you himself, trying to discover whether you’re able to access the rebels’ underground warrens.”
“He knows about the underground?”
She casually sits down in the chair. “Of course. Your father and the Fosters have known about the rebel hideouts for years, but they’ve been unable to find an entry point. It takes mystic power to get through the wards and barriers the rebels have erected, and all the legal mystics aboveground have been drained.”
“Even you? Even Patrick? Don’t you still have some of your powers?”
She sighs. “But I still don’t have access to the subways. Not just any charged mystic can get through—most need a passkey of some sort. So the rebel mystics are safe from Patrick and your father … and from me. Without all my powers, I have no way to warn them of what’s coming.” She pauses. “Your father is planning something that could wipe out the entire underground. They’ll be slaughtered, and everything Violet Brooks has struggled for will end.”
I want to believe Elissa, but is anyone who they say they are? Davida, Hunter, Thomas—now this? “Why should I trust you?”
Elissa glances down at her watch. “Come. You’ll see.”
She stands and goes to close the curtains. Then she motions for me to hide behind the set of curtains opposite the chair. We disappear just as Benedict enters the room. A high-pitched beep sounds as he opens the door, the latch clicking behind him. He must have just left my father’s emergency meeting. I peer through one of the slits, watching him take a white lab coat off a hook on the wall and slip it over his suit.
Seconds later, the other door opens. Through it walks Stiggson in his typical all-black attire. He’s dragging a woman whose hands are cuffed.
“What’s happening?” I whisper to Elissa. She doesn’t answer, but holds a finger to her lips and motions for me to keep watching.
Benedict flicks on a few switches as Stiggson pushes the woman into the chair. Her blond hair is lifeless; her eyes are the color of dishwater.
“No,” she says weakly, her lips turned down.
Stiggson ignores her and straps her in. He slips a bite guard into her mouth and immobilizes her head with a series of belts that go underneath her chin and across her forehead. Then he undoes the cuffs and gently places them in a container.
Benedict opens the curtains nearest him. He scans the wall and adjusts a series of tubes and levers. At last, he presses a circular green button. The sound of some kind of vast machine coming to life fills the room. It doesn’t seem possible, but the lights in the room burn even brighter.
Benedict places a pair of goggles over his eyes, then hands another pair to Stiggson, who dons them and steps back against the wall.
Two large black discs emerge from the floor on either side of the chair. Benedict presses another button, and then it begins.
The woman seems to brighten and glow, as though she is burning up from within. Thin filaments of green light—like the ones I’ve seen flow from Hunter’s fingertips—writhe out of the woman’s chest. They coil and snap and move so sinuously that they’re almost pretty. The tendrils of light layer themselves one upon another, always moving, until they form a tight sphere around the woman, a bright woven cage of light.
It would be beautiful, if not for her cries of pain. She moans and whimp
ers around the mouth guard. I cover my ears with my hands, but the sound gets in anyway. It’s the sound of someone being slowly murdered.
Bright washes of color fill the room. The sphere of light begins to unravel, rays like bright spaghetti coming loose and spooling onto the black discs, from which they are funneled into two massive glass tubes filled with quicksilver.
Stiggson is smiling as though he’s enjoying the view. Benedict’s expression is much harder to read. Terrified, I grab on to Elissa’s arm so that I won’t make a noise.
After what seems like forever, Benedict presses a sequence of buttons and quiets the machine.
The woman goes limp.
Stiggson picks her up, slinging her over his shoulder like she’s a sack of potatoes. He lays her onto a nearby gurney and covers her body with a black cloth, then wheels the table through the far door, out of the room. This must be why I’ve never seen mystics coming and going before—there’s a secret entry to this room I don’t know about.
Benedict glances around, dusts off his hands, and follows. Once he’s gone, we emerge from behind the curtain.
I’m shaking so badly I can barely walk, and I have to remind myself to breathe. “Who do we tell about this? It needs to stop—right now!”
Elissa rests her hand on my shoulder. “There’s no one to tell, Aria. The procedure you just saw? It’s legal, and it happens every day.”
“But it can’t be. It’s horrible!”
“I know. Believe me, I know.”
I feel stupid then—of course she knows. She’s been drained. “I’m so sorry, Elissa. For what my family has done to you. To every mystic.”
“It’s not your fault, Aria,” she tells me. “What’s important is what happens next—what we do to right these wrongs.”
“But what can I do?” I ask, my voice trembling, not with fear, but with anger.
“Help us,” Elissa says. “Help our cause. When the time comes, I will give you a message to carry for me. And that time will be soon, Aria. Meanwhile, I’m trusting you. Keep my secret.”
“I won’t tell a soul, I promise,” I say, looking at the metal chair. “I won’t betray you.”
• XX •
J—
My love, my life. Every second I’m away from you is a second more that I live in the deepest, darkest agony. I only just saw you, but now I’m home, and your phantom kisses still live on my lips, on my cheeks, and in my heart. When will we run away together? Find a place we don’t have to sneak around and lie? We’ve spoken of this before, but I need it now, like air—the moment for us to get out of this damn city is near. I can taste it. I’ll see you in three nights, my love, as we’ve planned. Until then—
R
I place the letter on my bed, next to all the others. I’m rereading them to see if there’s anything—any clues—I’ve missed.
Downstairs, my parents and the Fosters have assembled for a meeting; I excused myself to “go over plans for the wedding.” Thankfully, everyone is distracted—even Thomas—because Garland is practicing his speech for a broadcast he’s giving tomorrow morning.
I ruffle through my clutch, where the ring Thomas gave me is still buried. It’s gorgeous, that much is undeniable. But could Thomas, who gave it to me, truly be the author of these love letters, the star of my forgotten memories, the owner of my heart?
Not a chance in hell.
There’s a noise at the window. I thrust the ring back into my clutch and hide the letters. Then I rush over to the window and part the curtains.
There on the balcony is Hunter—separated from me by a mere pane of glass.
It’s been nearly a week since I’ve seen him. I open the latch and let him inside, drinking in the sight of him. Why does he affect me so? The strong, sure way his body moves, how his black T-shirt clings to his chest. The slight arch of his eyebrows, the teal-blue of his eyes, the gentle way his mouth curls up when he smiles. I’m alert to every bit of him. Could he have written the letters? No—surely he would have mentioned them to me if he had.
Without any words, he pulls me to him, sliding his arms down my back, wrapping them around my waist. He smells like cinnamon and smoke. I nuzzle my head into his shoulder, lightly kissing the soft skin of his neck.
“I didn’t know if I would ever see you again,” I whisper. “Were you at the rally? You disappeared, and I had no way of contacting you, and—”
“Shhh,” he says. Something about our embrace feels so perfect that I can’t help but wonder if our bodies were made for each other. “It’s okay. I’m here.”
I let myself enjoy the moment for as long as I can. Then, slowly, I pull away. “You’re here now,” I say. “But where have you been? I asked you to meet me, and you send Turk instead, and my brother saw him. Did he tell you that? Then you drop off the face of the earth!”
Hunter raises his hands in surrender. “I give up. I tried to stay away from you, because I thought it was the right thing—the safe thing—to do. But I can’t stop thinking about you. And I can’t have you wandering the Depths looking for me. It’s dangerous, Aria. More dangerous than you can imagine.”
Even though I heard him, I want him to say it again. “You … think about me?”
He pulls me back into him and kisses my forehead. “Every minute of every day.” He gives my left cheek a kiss. “I know things are complicated”—he kisses my right cheek—“but I think … well, I think that—”
“Not here,” I say, taking his hand and pulling him toward the open window, onto the balcony. “It’s too risky.” I think about the draining and what my parents would do to Hunter if they barged in and caught him. “Take me to the roof.”
Hunter lets go of my hand and closes his eyes. I watch as the rays of light shoot from his fingertips, knitting together the way they did before. He swings back his arm and throws—the ray extends like a lariat, then catches onto my roof. He takes me in his arms.
And we jump.
I cling tightly as we move, feel the hard muscles beneath his shirt. I feel … alive.
On the roof, the hot wind moves around us, and I glance up. The final pink rays of dusk are melting away, blending into night. Hunter’s heart is beating steadily, pumping blood and mystic energy through his body—energy that could easily kill me.
But Hunter would never hurt me.
Not like my father.
Together we stare out at the plate-glass windows of the chiseled skyscrapers. It feels like we are in our very own world together in the sky. A dreamlike city of towers.
“Why do you do this to me?” I ask finally, breathing in his scent.
He laughs. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, my life, it was all figured out. Sort of, at least.” I pivot so my back is against his chest, his arms snug around me, our eyes fixed on the darkening sky. “And then you came along.”
“And then I came along,” he repeats softly.
“And you changed everything.” I turn to face him. “The way I feel about you—it seems like I’ll die if I don’t see you … and then, when I do see you, like I’ll die if you leave. It’s—it’s got to be—well, it feels like—”
“Love?” Hunter asks, his eyes wide. “Could the things you’re feeling be love?”
I gulp and nod at the same time. “I think so,” I say. “I hope so.”
“Me too,” he says. “More than anything in the world.”
Then he leans in and kisses me. Not on my forehead or cheek, but on my lips. A real kiss. A kiss that feels like it can change the world.
His soft lips press against mine, and then they part. I can feel his teeth and his tongue, and then I lose myself in him—how he tastes, how he smells, how he feels. He grabs the hem of my denim skirt and bunches it in his fists. Almost in response, the locket around my neck begins to pulse, warming my skin. Hunter is everything I have ever wanted, everything I never knew I wanted until I met him. Nothing matters except us, together.
“This is insane,” I whisper into h
is ear. “I barely know you, but the things I feel … it’s like I’ve been waiting my entire life for you.”
“Ow,” he says, pulling away and rubbing his chest. “What’s that?” He motions to my neck, where the locket must have pinched the skin under his shirt.
“Oh,” I say nervously, “nothing. I mean … it’s a locket.”
I tug the locket from the top of my blouse, holding it out for him to see. Faint golden light seeps from the edges; it pulses in my palm, throbbing as though it’s alive.
He peers at it strangely. “Why haven’t you shown me this before?”
“I don’t know,” I say, admitting that I found it in my clutch. “I wanted to keep it a secret until I knew how to open it.”
“You can’t open it?” Hunter asks, sticking out one of his fingers to touch the locket. It practically hops in my hand and gets warmer than it already is, like an egg about to hatch. I won’t be able to hold it for much longer.
I shake my head. “I tried everything, but I can’t figure out how.” The closer the locket is to Hunter, the more it vibrates. “It’s never done anything like this before, though. Maybe it has something to do with you—with your energy? Look how it responds to your touch.”
I take off the locket and drop it into Hunter’s hand. It blazes like a miniature sun. “Wow. What do you think it does?” I ask.
Hunter takes a deep breath. “Well—”
Before he can continue, he’s interrupted by footsteps and my father’s voice shouting into the night.
“Stop right there!” my father cries out. Hunter turns around, and there he is—Dad, dressed in a navy suit, hair blowing in the wind. Stiggson is right behind him, his gun pointed straight at Hunter. Next to Stiggson is Klartino.
“Step away, Aria,” Stiggson tells me in his gravelly voice, and Klartino gives a sharp nod. Two even larger men are standing behind them, one dressed in white, the other in black, their skin covered in tattoos.
“It’s not you we want,” Klartino says. “It’s the mystic. Give him to us and no one will get hurt.”
Mystic City Page 21
