Toxic Heart

by Theo Lawrence

  “How can you support yourselves, though?” I ask. Most registered mystics were city workers or servants in the Aeries.

  “It’s tough,” Turk says. “It’s definitely tough. Some people have set up shops around the Depths. We still need to eat, need clothes. Most of the men are driving gondolas. We’re surviving … barely.”

  “But you’re surviving,” I say. “That’s what’s important. Once everyone has had time to regenerate their powers, they’ll be able to fight … and then we’ll have a chance of winning. My parents and the Fosters can’t compete with mystic energy. That’s why they had mystics drained in the first place: they were scared of their power.”

  “Yeah, but …”

  “But what?” I ask.

  “It’s not as simple as all that.” Turk leads me over a stone bridge that looks like it could fall apart any second—there’s a gaping hole in the center. “Money still rules the world.”

  We turn down another street and pass a row of mangled brownstones, the street overflowing with chunks of cement and broken stone.

  I begin to recognize the area. It’s near where the mystic Lyrica lives—which means we must be nearing the Magnificent Block. As we walk, Turk pulls out his TouchMe and sends a quick text.

  “Was that to Hunter?” I ask as he stuffs it into his back pocket.

  “No,” he says. “Nosy.”

  “I need to see him, Turk. Now.”

  Turk shakes his head as if to say C’est la vie! “No can do. Not at the moment. But soon.”

  “This is ridiculous,” I say, walking ahead of him. “Why is he hiding from me?”

  “Aria, wait up,” Turk says, but I’m already practically running—even though I have no idea where I’m going. It feels like everyone is keeping things from me. More nauseating posters of Hunter and me are plastered all over the place—on the sides of buildings, even on the pavement. I stare at myself smiling and holding on to Hunter. I look like an idiot.

  We hurry up Broadway, scurrying underneath empty clotheslines and deadened mystic spires. Homeless people with dirt-caked faces and ratty hair line the streets, their palms open for change. I pull my cloak tighter.

  “Aria, come on!” Turk says. But I don’t feel like talking to him.

  The street opens up onto a major road where a series of bridges cover a wide, circular canal, and now I know exactly where I am.

  The Magnificent Block.

  Only instead of a towering wall, there’s simply … water.

  No mystic tenements peeking over a stone blockade. No stilted walkways leading to the center of the Block, because there is no center.

  The entire place has been destroyed. This section of Manhattan—what used to be Central Park and then was inhabited by the mystics—has been completely obliterated. The individual waterways and drained areas where the buildings were have been wiped out, leaving a sad, watery mess.

  “Sad,” Turk says from behind me.

  I turn to him, shocked. “What happened?”

  He doesn’t respond for a few minutes, his broad shoulders slumped, his tattoos washed out by the sun. Even his Mohawk looks droopy.

  “When the mystics refused to be drained, your family bombed the Block,” Turk says. “Hundreds were killed. Some escaped and are hiding out around the Depths. But here, your father wiped everything clean.”

  I stare out at the massive lake that has taken the Block’s place. Tenement ruins rise from the water, haunting reminders of what used to be.

  “This is horrible,” I say.

  “I know,” Turk replies. Gently he rests a hand on my shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  We make our way to a gondola, and Turk pays the gondolier to let us use the boat alone, promising to return it when he comes back to pick up his bike.

  “How does he know he can trust you?” I ask as Turk pilots us down a canal. The movement of the boat and the wind across my face feel nice, offering slight relief from the hot, sticky air.

  “We go way back,” Turk says. He’s seated in the boat, facing me, one hand grasping the gondola’s motorized steering wheel, the other arm resting on the side of the boat. “His name is Monroe. I’ve loaned him money in the past.”

  I’m silent for a moment, watching the ripples in the murky water. “Who are you?”

  Turk raises his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

  “You just live a very wild life,” I say.

  “Because I lent a gondolier some cash?”

  “And where does this money come from?” I ask, removing my hood. I quickly run my fingers through my hair.

  “MYOB,” Turk says, turning us left, onto a smaller canal. We pass a group of buildings that seem more or less intact, with gates that cover their doors, the bottom layers of stone stained green and brown from the water.

  “What’s that? Some sort of bank?”

  Turk sticks out his tongue at me. “Yeah. The bank of mind your own beeswax.” He laughs.

  “Oh, that’s mature,” I say, but I can’t help it. I’m laughing, too.

  “This part of Manhattan used to be called Harlem back in the day,” Turk says.

  We’ve been riding the canals for the better part of an hour, and we’re now in an area of broken-down brownstones, like jagged teeth rising from the waters.

  “And why are we here?” I ask.

  “You’ll see.” He pulls the boat up to a sagging dock and ties it to a rotting wooden post.

  We leave the gondola and step onto the street. We’re truly in the middle of nowhere. No people. No signs of life. Just abandoned buildings and the remains of old warehouses.

  Turk guides me to a street corner—but it’s the corner of nothing and nowhere. There isn’t a building in sight that looks remotely livable. Just an empty lot that takes up nearly an entire city block, surrounded by a rusty chain-link fence. At least it’s still morning and the sun is shining through the smog. Otherwise, this place would be absolutely frightening. There is a stillness that makes me feel like something awful is about to happen.

  “Please don’t tell me this is it,” I say.

  “This is it!” Turk says, smiling.

  I scan the street for a loophole or a portal like the old subway entrance at the South Street Seaport. “Where?”

  “Just relax,” Turk says. Then he raises a hand in the air and points.

  He closes his eyes, and his creamy skin begins to glow green. The color starts at the tips of his fingers and bleeds down, like wet paint, until his entire hand is pulsing with mystic energy.

  And then there’s a shift.

  I feel it first—a sort of rumbling beneath my feet.

  Glancing down at the cracked pavement, I see a tiny fissure. The jagged crack slips forward like a fish, lengthening until I can no longer see the end of it.

  And then the pavement begins to part.

  “Watch out,” Turk says as the street beneath our feet expands.

  We both move to the side as—in less than a second—a structure shoots up from the opening in the ground and a new wedge of building appears in the center of the empty lot.

  “Wow,” I say. “Impressive.”

  It’s oddly reminiscent of the historic Flatiron Building, which I learned about at school. The triangle-shaped building is about five stories high and covered in red bricks. There are a few steps leading up to a red door that glistens in the sun.

  Even though I saw a mystic home appear out of nowhere once before, when I visited Lyrica, watching such a large building pop into place like this still takes my breath away.

  I step forward, but Turk blocks me with this arm. “There’s a force field around this place,” he says. “Anyone can leave, but only a person with mystic energy in his blood can pass through it to enter. If you take one more step, you’ll be fried.”

  I stare at the building. “I don’t see anything.”

  “Watch,” Turk says.

  Then he lets out a deep breath.

  All of a sudden, there’s an irides
cent ripple in the air. It’s the slightest movement—like the surface of the bubbles my brother and I used to play with when we were younger. “Hold on to me and you’ll be fine,” Turk says, grabbing my hand. I feel a tiny shock in my palm as our fingers intertwine. “I promise.”

  We pass through the force field. It’s more intense than using a loophole—it feels a bit like when Hunter took me through a wall. There’s a fierce squeezing sensation, like my entire body is being gripped in a vise, and then a quick release.

  “See?” Turk says. “Now let’s go inside. There are some people I want you to meet. And one is—”

  “You,” Shannon says before Turk can finish his sentence, striding down the steps and slapping me on the cheek.

  “Ow!” I say. “What was that for?”

  “You got Markus killed. I saw it all.” Shannon glares at me, and I can see that she’s exhausted: the circles under her bloodshot eyes are so dark it looks as though she was punched. Her red hair is unwashed, and she’s wearing loose-fitting blue sweatpants and a T-shirt that’s grimy with ash—the same clothes she was wearing when I saw her last. I bet she’s been up all night, too.

  I don’t know how to respond, so I don’t. I doubt that anything Shannon says could possibly make me feel worse.

  “Shannon, calm down,” Turk says.

  “I will not calm down!” she says angrily. “I blame you for every death last night, Aria. So if you thought your training was tough before, it’s only going to get tougher. The sooner you’re in shape and able to defend yourself, the sooner the rest of our team isn’t getting killed as collateral damage. And children. Markus!”

  “You think I don’t feel guilty?” I scream. “Because I do. I will have to live with this for the rest of my life.”

  There’s an awkward silence as Shannon and I stare at each other.

  “Sooo …,” Turk says. “Shannon, it appears you got my text and you’re excited to see Aria.” He turns to me. “Shannon is a little … touchy this morning. We’re all on edge.”

  Shannon abruptly turns on her heels and heads back to the town house. “Well, come on,” she says, motioning for us to follow her up the steps.

  I step inside and the air is immediately cool—a welcome relief. A simple oval mirror hangs near the front door in a foyer with a mahogany-stained wood floor, bright yellow walls, and an old-looking chandelier with dozens of glittering crystals overhead. There’s a pile of sneakers in front of a closet with a few hooded cloaks hanging inside.

  The foyer leads into some sort of living room, but my view is blocked by three people standing in front of me with their arms crossed, a girl and two boys who look around my age. I assume they’re mystics, because they’re here, but there’s no real way to tell. They look healthy and fit, which lets me know they haven’t been drained of their powers, or at least, not recently.

  The girl is standing between the boys. She’s tiny, much shorter than I am, with a shock of blue hair. She’s wearing cut-off jean shorts and a pink T-shirt with a picture of an elephant on it. The boys are both handsome in their own way. They’re wearing shorts and dark shirts that expose their arms.

  They do not seem particularly excited to see me.

  “Aria,” Turk says with forced enthusiasm, “meet your new friends!”

  “Um, hello,” I say.

  No one responds.

  I give a little wave. “Nice to meet you.”

  In response, the boy on the right extends his hand. At first, I think it’s for a handshake.

  But then a flaming ball of mystic energy bursts from his fingers, shooting rays of electric green up into the ceiling, and I realize I am wrong.

  There’s a harsh buzz and a flash of green, and a loud smash as the chandelier crashes to the floor and shatters.

  This boy doesn’t want to be my friend. He wants to kill me.

  “Landon!” the tiny blue-haired girl says to the boy. “What are you trying to do, scare her to death?”

  “Not a bad idea,” Shannon mutters.

  The kid with the glowing hand—Landon—gives a dramatic sigh. He shakes his wrist and the glowing stops, his fingers turning back to their natural tawny color. “Oops,” he says dryly.

  I can play this one of two ways: be upset, or kill him with kindness. I go for the latter.

  “I’ve seen a lot worse than a broken chandelier,” I say. “Happens to the best of us.”

  Landon raises his thick eyebrows. I can tell he thought I’d be scared.

  Blue Hair shoots Landon a disgusted look. “You’re like a little dog, marking your territory. It’s stupid.” Her voice is high-pitched, and she’s a fast talker. She reminds me of a peppier version of Kiki. I like her immediately. “Grow up.”

  She turns to me and says, “Sorry. Not exactly the welcome you were expecting, I’m sure. I’m Ryah.” She points to the guy on her left, who’s been silent the entire time. “And this is Jarek.”

  “Hi, Jarek,” I say, but I don’t get any response.

  Jarek is tall, even taller than Turk, with wide shoulders. From the thickness of his tan arms and the way his T-shirt clings to his body, I can tell that his chest, and probably the rest of him, is made entirely of hard muscle. His long brown hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and he has thin, arched eyebrows that suit his sculpted face. His nose is straight and wide, his jaw square. There’s a soft slant to his eyes, and I wonder if he is of Asian descent. He’s no Hunter, but he’s still very handsome.

  “He doesn’t say much,” Ryah says. She gives me a smile and I can see her dimples. “But his heart is in the right place. And this is Landon.” She points to the boy who tried to scare me. “He’s … sort of an ass.”

  “He’s actually not that bad once you get to know him,” Turk chimes in. “Right, Landon?”

  Landon doesn’t reply. His black hair is buzzed close to his scalp, and he’s about half the size of Jarek—both in height and width. He looks strong and lithe, with a cocky expression and smooth coffee-colored skin. It’s pretty clear he doesn’t like me.

  “Now clean this mess up.” Turk motions to the fallen chandelier. “Stop destroying the place where you live. That’s no way to treat your home.”

  Landon shakes his head and slopes down the hallway. I assume he’s getting a broom.

  “He’s very moody,” Ryah whispers. “It’s not you. Well, it’s a little bit you.…”

  “Let’s get you set up, Aria,” Turk says, steering me around the broken chandelier. There’s a staircase along the left wall leading to the next level, a living room with couches and a fireplace to the right. Straight ahead is a large, open kitchen.

  The décor is homier than I expected from the outside, and the space looks lived-in—the couches are frayed, their cushions indented; the yellow paint is dirtied and scratched; the hardwood floors are scuffed. Cheap-looking multicolored area rugs dot the floor, and carvings like the ones back at the compound adorn the walls.

  Turk turns to Shannon and Ryah. “Can you point Aria toward her room?”

  Ryah says, “Absolutely, Turk,” in a way that makes me wonder if she has a thing for him. She turns to me. “You’re going to be staying with me, Aria! But first—a tour.” She links her arm with mine. “We’re going to be great friends. I can already tell.”

  I glance back at Shannon, who is miming sticking her finger down her throat and puking.

  “Okay,” I say to Ryah. “Let’s go.”

  I’m surprised by how large the house is. Outside, I could see only the narrow façade; inside, the rebel hideout seems to have the depth of an entire city block.

  Ryah takes me through the kitchen and the pantry, which is full of canned fruits and vegetables. The floor here is made up of large black and white tiles, and the gas range and cabinets seem fairly new and well polished.

  “There’s a walk-in freezer with meat and fish.” Ryah points to a metal door. “We don’t get a fresh supply now because of the war, so we have to use it sparingly. Are you vegetarian?�
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  “No,” I say. “Are you?”

  “Oh, God, no. I love me some beef.” She leads me out of the kitchen, down a hallway with sunshine-yellow walls and black track lighting along the ceiling. “I try to eat my weight in protein. But since we have to be careful to leave enough meat for everyone, I just wind up eating a lot of peanut butter.”

  She stops outside an open door. “So this is the armory,” she says, motioning for me to look inside. Stacked on shelves and against the wall are more weapons than I’ve seen in my life: rifles, pistols, ray guns, stacks and stacks of bullets and ammo clips.

  There is also a fair amount of weaponry I don’t recognize, which must be unique to the mystics: bronze pistols that look like miniature trumpets and gloves made of silver and gold twists of metal; black headgear with purple lenses over the eyeholes and vests covered with tiny lightbulbs; rows of knives in various shapes, their clear handles filled with deep-green liquid.

  She points to the far wall, where a dozen or so axes are hanging. “Those are Damascus steel,” she says. “And there are swords and knives—all mystic-enhanced.”

  This word is familiar: Damascus. I learned it from Hunter; it’s steel that has been welded by the mystics, able to support unbelievable weight, nearly impossible to break. It is how the mystics helped build the Aeries, forming the foundation of its skyscrapers.

  It strikes me as ironic and unfair that most mystics seem to live in old stone buildings instead of the ones they helped create.

  “Come on,” Ryah says, pressing a touchpad and sealing the armory door. I follow her down the hall to another doorway, which opens onto a flight of stairs leading to a basement. Old-looking brass sconces hang on the wall, burning with bits of green mystic energy and casting a luminescent glow. I hear grunting sounds and breaking glass.

  “A shooting range,” Ryah says before I can ask. “It’s basically a training area.” As she says that, the bottom of the stairs brightens with green light. “I’d show you, but whoever is practicing isn’t expecting us, and you don’t want to catch a mystic off guard when he’s training.”