Two of the city policemen look at each other. “What the—”
But the tornado swallows their voices. It grows larger and larger, circling them so violently that I can’t even see what’s happening. Then there are sickening sounds: a whoop and a whack as body parts fly everywhere.
Hands. Feet. Arms. Legs.
And heads.
All at once, the tornado disappears, having completely blasted the men apart. Someone’s finger lands near my feet, the white bone completely fleshless.
I look away so I don’t vomit.
That’s when I see a mystic with shaggy hair and a well-trimmed beard extend energy from his fingertips. He blends the rays together until he fashions a kind of sword, cutting through the air and slicing one of my father’s men in half.
Behind my father’s man, another man is raising his rifle to shoot—and I’m unable to shout out, unable to do anything but gasp.
The mystic turns just in time, and he uses the light-sword to slice off the man’s hand.
It falls to the floor, fingers still gripping the gun.
The man screams in agony, but then the bearded mystic brings his sword around and slices off the man’s head, too.
Farther down the tunnel, two mystics pull each other close, pressing the sides of their chests together, arms behind each other’s backs. They each extend their free arm and let loose ten rays of green energy, one from each fingertip, each as bright—and deadly—as lightning.
“Shoot!” one of my father’s men shouts to his friend. “Take them both down!”
One of the mystics gets shot in the leg.
I see her knee buckle, but then she nods at the other mystic.
And they begin to spin.
The joined rays of light slice through the men, dicing their bodies. The flesh sizzles as it burns, sending blinding-white smoke into the air. Then smoke and blood are everywhere, and the body pieces cascade to the ground.
Once the mystics have made a complete circle, they stop. Their rays retract into their fingers. The mystic who was shot touches her leg, heals herself, and they’re ready to go again.
The acrid smell of burning bodies and cordite from the gunfire is everywhere. The air is thick with the powder of pulverized tiles, and the metallic stench of blood makes it difficult to breathe.
I feel like I’m choking.
I rush back into the alcove. I take a huge gulp of air. Turk is still against the wall, his eyes glassy but open. He’s breathing, at least.
Suddenly, I’m thrown back against the wall of the alcove as a mystic emerges through it. He looks at me, surprised. He has a mustache and seems around my father’s age.
“Didn’t think I’d find a girl standing here,” he says, catching his breath.
“I suppose you can walk through walls?”
He nods. “Well, back to it,” he says after a moment or two, and hurtles through the tunnel wall before me, disappearing in a cloud of smoke and green light.
The alcove is filling up with noxious air. I don’t think we’ll be able to breathe in here in a few minutes.
I glance at Turk, who’s smiling. “Are you okay to walk?”
“I think so,” he says. Color seems to have come back to his cheeks, though sweat is dripping down them onto the ground. “I heal pretty quickly.”
“Let’s get out of here, then.”
I grab his hand and help him up, and together we creep out of the alcove.
The battle on the platform is still raging and spreading into distant tunnels. As far as I can see, the tunnel is filled with zigzags of green light refracting off the walls and the earsplitting sound of machine-gun fire.
Ahead of me to the right is a flight of stairs leading down into the flooded subways. It’s the only place I can think of to hide.
Turk and I stumble down the stairs. At first, only our feet are wet.
Then our ankles.
And then the water is up to our thighs.
“Wait,” I say, looking at the wall. There must be a ladder to a catwalk here somewhere. It’s just too dark to see it.
Somewhere behind us, a mystic wields his energy just long enough for the green light to let us see—there! A steel ladder is only a few sloshes away.
I push Turk ahead of me, making him climb first. Then I pull myself up the rungs, thankful to be out of the water, shaking off my clothes once we’re on the catwalk.
“Which way?” I ask Turk.
He points, and we walk. It’s silent at first, but after two or three minutes, I begin to hear voices. Shouts, actually. Which means the battle has spread all the way down here.
The catwalk descends and drops us off in an abandoned subway station, like the one Hunter lives in, but there are no subway cars here. An entire dirt wall has been blown out, creating a new tunnel.
Up ahead, I see more flashes of green light—and the screaming is growing louder.
“Maybe you should wait here,” I say, grabbing Turk’s arm. “You’re wounded.”
He shrugs me off. “Not too wounded to fight.” He exposes his chest so I can see that he’s stopped bleeding. “Let’s go, Aria.”
We step into the tunnel and I realize that it functions as a bridge, connecting to another tunnel that runs parallel to this one.
I scramble forward. On the other side, where I couldn’t see before, mystics line the catwalks, shooting off rays of energy, even hanging off the ladders. Policemen yell in agony as the rays strike them, burning them to cinders in tiny bursts of light and heat.
There’s much less flooding here. We must be on higher ground: there’s only a murky brown layer of water that stops midway up people’s legs.
Then I hear breathing—breathing that isn’t Turk’s or my own. We’re not alone.
“Hello?” I say. “Who’s there?”
A figure steps out of the shadows. I recognize her immediately: dark hair brushed behind her ears, a stoic, handsome face—and familiar blue eyes.
Violet Brooks.
Turk steps closer to me.
“Aria Rose?” she asks. “Is that you?”
I nod.
“What are you doing here?”
The sight of her nearly makes me cry. Some of the pale, sickly concealer she wears has sweated off and is running in streaks down her cheeks and neck and arms, exposing the healthy skin underneath. She looks so much like Hunter—even her voice has a similar cadence. “I—Hunter—he—”
“It’s too dangerous for her here,” she says, turning to Turk. “Protect her. Get her out of here alive.”
Turk nods. “I will, Violet.”
She kisses me on the forehead, letting her lips linger for a moment. Then she turns and rushes off, out of the passageway and into the tunnel.
She immediately obliterates three of my father’s men, letting loose beams from her fingertips that grab them in bright embraces. The skin and muscle from their bodies seem to melt right off their bones, leaving exposed skeletons that clatter as they hit the ground.
Once they’re gone, I finally see Elissa.
She’s standing knee-deep in the tunnel water with a machine gun, shooting at mystics left and right, her face twisted in concentration. At first she doesn’t see Violet, and Violet uses this to her advantage—she takes off running.
As her body gathers speed, her skin begins to glow: light green to dark green to a color so electrifying I can’t look directly at her.
I shield my eyes and watch as Violet runs up the wall of the tunnel.
She skips over the catwalk and onto the ceiling, flips in midair, then drops like a cannonball directly onto Elissa.
Bam!
Water splashes up as their bodies collide, but Violet wraps her arms around Elissa’s neck and hangs on, strangling her as Elissa struggles and stumbles and blindly shoots off bullets from her machine gun. Rounds chatter into the roof and walls and water until Elissa drops the gun and tugs at Violet’s arms.
With a scream, Elissa throws Violet off and into the sh
allow water on the tunnel floor. Before Violet can get up, Elissa swivels around, takes a pistol out of her belt, and shoots Violet right in the chest.
“No!” I hear someone scream. Someone I know. Someone I love.
Hunter catapults himself from off one of the catwalks. How did he get away from my father and George Foster? He extends his arms, then blasts Elissa with a beam of energy that stupefies her.
She topples over.
“Mom!” Hunter says, rushing to Violet. He pulls her out of the water as if she’s weightless, searching frantically for somewhere to drag her.
“Hunter!” Turk calls. “Over here!”
Hunter lifts his head, and our eyes meet. His face brightens immediately, even though it is beaten up beyond belief. He begins to pull his mother over to where Turk and I are hiding.
And then Elissa gets up.
It seems to happen in slow motion: the way she raises her arm, her smile a crooked gash in her pale face. The way a green light seems to coalesce around her hand—she must be using whatever energy she has left—the way she swings her arm around behind her like a pitcher winding up.
Hunter is bent over his mother and can’t see, doesn’t realize what is about to happen.
Before I know what I’m doing, I’m running. I’m only fifteen feet away, but it feels like a huge gulf.
My right foot lands, and I see Elissa’s arm begin to come forward, see anger light her face.
My left foot strikes the ground and then I’m in the air, throwing myself at the boy I love.
He lets out an “Oof!” when I plow into him, and we go down in a mess of limbs as a gunshot echoes through the tunnel.
“Hunter,” I whisper, running my hands across his chest, making sure he’s all right. His eyes are closed, but I don’t see any wounds or fresh blood. He must’ve passed out. I kiss him on the lips, knowing he’s okay, and then I stupidly stand up.
And I feel my entire body ignite.
Green energy explodes all around me, blinding me. I am on fire.
A memory: the real first time Hunter kissed me. His lips on mine in the Great Lawn. At first it was a sharp buzz that made my tongue taste like metal and my entire body tingle with electricity. Even the tiny hairs on my arms stood up. But then it was something more. It was warmth—not heat, but warmth, flowing through my arteries like lava, calming me. It made every color seem new, as if before then I’d only been seeing the world in sepia tones. My vision was clear, my senses attuned to everything around me: birds chirping in the trees, crickets rubbing their legs together in tiny symphonies, even the way things smelled—the salt water, the moss on the trees, the muddied scents of earth. For the first time, I felt alive with promise. And that promise felt like the reason for being alive.
Finally, I knew why I was here, what I was supposed to do: love Hunter. That knowing filled me with so much joy and thankfulness that I’d met someone to love. Someone who wanted to love me, too. Together, we would offer something to the world that was more than just our individual selves. Together we would be stronger; we would make everything around us better.
And that’s what life is for: to love, to create, to blend, to harmonize.
And to die.
I fall into a silky, pitch-black nothingness.
• XXXII •
And then I am awake, and it’s like nothing has changed. The battle still rages around me. I can hear it. I don’t want to have to see it.
I am facedown on the ground, surrounded by water and earth; I can even taste the sandy, wet dirt in my mouth. People are rushing around me, and I suppose they imagine me dead.
I should be dead.
I was hit square in the chest by a bolt of mystic energy. The sensation was like being touched by a mystic, multiplied by infinity:
The bright ray arrowing directly into my chest.
Burrowing inside me.
Flooding me with a galvanizing current.
Lighting me up, the pores of my skin expanding as they were illuminated, burnished with a lethal green glow.
I’m not dead … am I?
I hear voices shouting: “Taylor, watch your back!” “Elissa! Elissa!” “Oh God, Derek, can you hear me?” “Pull, pull, pull!” I open my eyes a crack—boots move around me, stepping over me. It smells like barbecue, and I know too well what that charred scent is from.
Slowly, I angle my head so that my mouth is out of the water and take a deep breath. I wait to see if anything hurts. My arms are sore, but otherwise, I’m fine. I open my eyes and recognize the silver buckle on a pair of shoes a foot away.
Thomas. Standing over me.
I tilt my neck and see Thomas fighting. With Hunter.
Hunter has his arm out and is using his energy to create a barrier to deflect the bullets Thomas is shooting at him. Tiny rays jet from his fingertips to form a shield of translucent energy, which he wields like an ancient knight.
“Come on, Foster!” Hunter is shouting. His hair is wild and his cheeks are flushed red. “That all you got?”
Thomas ignores his taunts, watching as his bullets continue to bounce off the shield, ricocheting and hitting people behind me or lodging in the tunnel walls. “Too much of a pansy to fight like a man?” Thomas hollers. “Oh, that’s right—you’re not actually a man, are you?”
Hunter grows angry—I can see his features squeeze together, his forehead tighten. Thankfully, he keeps up his shield. Come on, Hunter, I think. Don’t let him get to you.
Frustrated, Thomas lets loose another series of bullets.
Hunter flexes his fingertips and the shield turns a brighter shade of green. This time, inches before the bullets hit, they turn soft and melt into the water on the ground.
Thomas shakes his head. “What the—”
“Too hot for you, Foster?” Hunter calls, smirking.
They keep at this for a few more minutes, circling, weaving through other mystics and men—they clearly have eyes only for each other.
“Come on!” Thomas screams.
Hunter leaps over a fallen body, and I watch as his shield begins to flicker.
The green light pulses for a moment, then disappears entirely.
Hunter has a shocked expression on his face. Thomas uses the opportunity to shoot at him, but his gun’s magazine is empty. He calmly ejects it and inserts a fresh one.
Hunter closes his eyes and holds out his hands and the shield appears again, surrounding him like a bubble. But then it fades.
He’s getting tired. He won’t be able to keep this up for long.
“Don’t have much left, do you?” Thomas teases, his lips curled in a smirk.
Hunter’s shield disappears again; he tries to revive it but can’t. Thomas laughs heartily.
In the distance, I can see my brother fighting a female mystic. I can’t see my father, but I don’t imagine he’d get into the heart of a battle.
I try not to call attention to the fact that I’m still alive until I can figure out my next move.
“Nowhere to run now, mystic,” I hear Thomas say to Hunter, whose face is awash with fear. Thomas has him up against a wall, his gun pointed at Hunter’s forehead. My beautiful, courageous Hunter—I have to save him. I have to help him.
I glance next to me, where one of my father’s men has fallen, eyes closed, dead. In his grasp is a machine gun. If I can do this right, I’ll have a moment—one moment—to grab the gun and fire, taking Thomas down. If he sees me first, he’ll shoot me. And then he’ll shoot Hunter.
I can’t fail.
I take a breath, mentally preparing for what I have to do.
One, two, three, I count in my head. Then I’m off.
I grab the neck of the machine gun, prying it from the dead man’s hands. The weapon comes to me easily, as though I’m supposed to be holding it.
Then I jump up, pointing the barrel of the gun at Thomas’s back. I don’t want to kill him, but I have to. He’s certainly not going to show any pity—if I wait any longer, I’ll lose Hunter
.
“Stop!” I scream. Confused, Thomas turns around to see me. He opens his mouth to speak, but before he can, I close my eyes and pull the trigger.
The sound is deafening.
I don’t let go until the kickback from the weapon makes me drop it. Water soaks my hair and face, but Thomas has fallen beside me, his eyes open in surprise.
Suddenly, the earth around me begins to shift.
“Aria,” Hunter says. His face is covered in dirt and sweat, but he’s never looked more beautiful to me. “We’ve gotta get out of here. They’re setting off a bomb.”
I spit out murky brown water. “Who?”
“Your father’s men—I heard him talking about it. Come on.”
Hunter grabs my arm, and I’m able to bring myself to my feet.
My eyes land on Patrick Benedict, who is soaked with blood and gore, a gun strapped to his chest. He is farther down the tunnel, where the ground has yet to be flooded, his feet on the bottom rung of a ladder.
He leans down and places both of his hands on the ground.
Immediately, the dirt goes soft, like quicksand, and begins to boil. His touch causes it to stir and flow, emanating a soft yellow glow.
A dozen or so of my father’s men plunge into the liquefied ground up to their waists. They scream in shock. When Benedict withdraws his hands, the ground goes solid again.
Their screams end abruptly.
I realize it’s because they’re dead.
He looks at me triumphantly. Then I see Elissa come up from behind.
She points her gun.
And shoots.
The bullet hits Benedict in the back of the head, and he falls off the ladder, plummeting to the ground.
Water is spilling out a side tunnel now, washing over the bodies, and Benedict gets swept away and vanishes beneath the cloudy currents.
Then there’s an incredible blast.
The ground trembles.
Tunnel walls begin to fold in on themselves.
The catwalks twist and bend, screeching as they snap. Ladders drop into the water. Chunks of the ceiling begin to fall like deadly rain.
Everyone is screaming. Shouting.
“Come on,” Hunter says to me. Turk is there, too.
“But Benedict—”
Mystic City Page 30
