Toxic Heart

by Theo Lawrence

  In the center of the room, Jarek is shifting his weight, apparently trying to break the chain off the ceiling hook.

  I cradle my burned hand against my chest. Shannon and Landon are still trying to douse the fire around Ryah, who’s gone silent.

  With Turk encased in mystic light, Elissa pivots on her heels, heading straight for Shannon.

  “Watch out!” I cry.

  Shannon hears me, turning just in time to duck Elissa’s rays of energy. She rolls out of the way, and the energy pierces the wall behind her, making another hole. This time, it’s so big that the wall begins to crumble, and the space behind it is exposed—a labyrinth of rusty pipes that explode on contact. Water gushes into the room, covering the concrete.

  Water, I think. That can put out the fire.

  Thankfully, I’m not the only one who realizes this.

  Landon immediately goes into action, sucking in a breath of smoky air and stretching out his arms. His energy rays connect with the water, casting a green sheen over the rusty liquid spewing from the broken pipes.

  Then he yanks back the rays, pulling the water with him so that it gushes into the room. There’s a slap as the water hits the concrete with the speed of a waterfall, crashing over Ryah, encircling her.

  The fire dies with an anguished hiss.

  Landon lowers his arms and the swirls of water break away.

  Ryah lies on the ground, unmoving. She’s unrecognizable—even her hair is gone, the fine blue strands burned to a crisp. I can’t tell whether she’s dead or alive.

  “Finally,” Elissa says to me. “You’re all mine.”

  But before she reaches me, I hear the sound of water again.

  To my side, Landon is crouched near the floor, concentrating so hard his entire body is shaking. His lithe arms seem suddenly tremendous to me, full of strength.

  The water on the ground begins to bubble, as though Landon is heating it with his energy. The bubbles swell and begin to rise.

  Elissa shakes her head in disbelief. “What the—”

  The bubbles begin to erupt, spurting jets of water into the air. They jump across the room, spreading out until nearly half the space is covered with liquid.

  Landon brings his arms together and stands, manipulating the water upward into a swirling bluish wall. It foams and churns as its center begins to spin toward Elissa, morphing into a pointed cone. It keeps extending, growing thinner and longer as Landon continues to draw in water from the swamped hallways of the warehouse.

  When the swirling water resembles a sharp spear, Landon attacks, throwing his arms forward so swiftly they seem like they might fly off his body. The water-spear moves toward Elissa and begins to freeze midair.

  The liquid turns to ice, crystallizing with a thousand tiny crackles. The ice glistens, shiny as silver, sharp as a sword.

  Elissa looks around frantically for somewhere to hide, but her feet seem glued to the ground.

  The frozen missile launches right into the center of Elissa’s chest like an ice pick.

  She glances down in disbelief.

  For a second, her face softens. She looks calm. Peaceful.

  And then an explosion of green light fills the room, shattering the windows and twisting the catwalk into a hunk of metal that clatters to the ground.

  Landon cries out in agony; pure white light pours out of every inch of his body, illuminating him like some sort of angelic being.

  The ice melts in a split second. Water pours over everything.

  I am thrown backward onto the concrete. A beautiful shattering of energy fills the room like a shower of stars, spilling over everything—gorgeous reds and blues and greens, and then, like the aftermath of fireworks, nothing but black.

  The room is calm when I wake. It’s the sort of quiet that’s a sound itself—as powerful as any shout or cry or thunderstorm.

  I open my eyes.

  Pain spikes up my side and through my blackened hand. I try to move my arm, but it feels like the entire right side of me is broken.

  Smoke lingers in the room, filling my nostrils. My lungs are still burning, and the back of my head throbs where I smacked it against the concrete.

  With my left arm, I push myself to a seated position and then stand. I’m wobbly, but I make it.

  Everyone else is on the floor.

  Elissa is buried under a heap of tarnished metal from the fallen catwalk, her legs twisted at an unnatural angle. Blood trails from underneath the metal into a dark pool.

  On the other side of the room, Ryah is burned beyond recognition. Next to her, Shannon is stirring, brushing strands of red hair from her face. A few feet away from her, Turk is unconscious.

  I hobble toward him. Please be okay, I think. Please be okay.

  He looks so peaceful that if I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was taking a nap. His eyes are closed, his face only slightly dirtied from the smoke. I wipe a bit of grease from his forehead with my good hand.

  “Turk,” I whisper, giving his shoulder a gentle shake. “Are you okay?” I run my hand over his head, feeling the soft fuzz. “Can you hear me?”

  His eyelids flicker open. “Aria?” he says groggily.

  “You’re alive,” I say.

  “Of course I’m alive.” He draws in a sharp breath. “What about Elissa?”

  I sit up straight. “She’s dead. Or badly hurt—either way, she’s out of commission.”

  Turk shakes himself into consciousness. The color begins to seep back into his cheeks. He stares at my bad hand. “Let me help you.”

  “No, save your energy for Ryah.”

  Shannon is awake, bent over Ryah’s limp body. “It’s bad,” she says.

  Every inch of Ryah’s skin is black and bloodied, the flesh ravaged so terribly that I can see hints of white bone in places. It’s so gory that I have to look away.

  Turk gulps. “Is she—”

  “Dead?” Shannon shakes her head. “She’s breathing. Barely.”

  “Thank God,” I say.

  “I’m scared to touch her,” Shannon adds. “I don’t want to end up hurting her more.”

  Turk closes his eyes; there’s a soft hum as his hands glow green, and he lays them gently on Ryah’s legs.

  We look on, hopeful, but nothing seems to happen. Turk opens his eyes and stands up, shaking his head. “This is beyond what I can do. We need to get her to an experienced healer. Fast.”

  Shannon nods. “You’re right.” She looks around the room, spotting Jarek. The chain has fallen from the ceiling, and he’s stretched across the floor like some sort of knotted-up caterpillar.

  “Where’s Landon?” I ask. I don’t see him anywhere.

  Turk closes his eyes, saying something underneath his breath, his hands clasped in front of his chest. Shannon does the same thing. Neither of them answers me.

  Turk sways back and forth gently. After a few seconds, he opens his eyes, with an expression of sadness and frustration on his face. “Landon’s gone.”

  “Gone?” This doesn’t make any sense to me. “Where did he go?”

  “Sometimes a mystic uses too much energy,” Shannon says, without the usual harshness in her voice. “He just … exploded.”

  I remember the white light around Landon. How strange and brilliant it was. I thought it was beautiful … but that was him dying? “That can’t be,” I say. “You must be wrong.”

  Turk rests a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Aria. It’s how most mystics hope to die, actually: burning up in a blast of light.” He bites his lower lip. “He died for a good cause. We will honor him once this is over.”

  A rush of gratitude surges through me—if Landon hadn’t fought Elissa, we might all be dead. He saved us, like Davida did. And like Davida, he was too young to die.

  Turk is gazing at Elissa’s body. “I’m going to finish her off.”

  “No.” Shannon grabs his arm. “Leave her.” Her hair is matted with sweat, her eyes red from the smoke. “She’s probably dead. And eve
n if she’s not”—she looks down at Ryah—“we have to help Ry. Now. She doesn’t have much time left.”

  “You’re right,” Turk says. He goes to Jarek and breaks his bonds. Jarek begins to speak, but Turk gives him a firm smack that shuts him up. “Not now. Don’t say a word. Just help me with Ryah. Careful.”

  Together, they let loose mystic rays from their fingertips, weaving them into a makeshift stretcher. We all help move Ryah onto the rays; then Turk and Jarek lift her off the ground.

  “Come.” Turk motions for Shannon and me to follow. I take one last look around the space, at the overwhelming amount of destruction—the collapsing walls, the remaining water pooled across the floor.

  Then my eyes catch it: the cooler.

  Elissa’s force field has vanished, and the white cooler is perfectly intact. I pick it up and tuck it under my arm. Then I rush to catch up with the others.

  Outside the warehouse, Turk and Jarek rest Ryah on the ground near the canal. Turk shakes away the rays of energy and takes his TouchMe out of his back pocket, keying in a message. “Someone will be here momentarily,” he says to Shannon.

  “Okay,” she says. “Don’t wait with me.” She glances down at her TouchMe. “The summit! You don’t have much time. It’ll be starting soon.”

  Even though it’s morning, it doesn’t look—or feel—like it. The sun is hidden behind dusty clouds that are reflected in the gray water. I’m feeling weary from everything that has happened plus the lack of sleep.

  “We’ll take care of it,” I say. “Just get Ryah some help.”

  Shannon grabs my good hand and squeezes. “I will. And, Aria?”

  “Yes?”

  Her brown eyes seem full of concern—more concern than I’ve ever seen from her. “Make sure everyone comes home in one piece.”

  “I will,” I reply. “I promise.”

  Moments later, a gondola shows up. Its driver is an older mystic, thin as a string bean, with a dark mustache and wavy brown hair.

  He helps Shannon carry Ryah onto the gondola. Shannon climbs on board, and Turk, Jarek, and I watch as it moves away until it’s only a black dot against a sea of twisting canals and tattered buildings.

  Jarek shifts his gaze from me to Turk. “Guys,” he says nervously, “I just want to say—”

  Once more, Turk smacks him upside the head. “Not now, Jarek.” He turns toward the graveyard of rusting boats. “Where’s my bike?”

  Jarek shows us Turk’s motorcycle, hidden under a tarp. The bike looks as good as new, the sharp chrome wheels and stark white paint spotless.

  Turk glances at his TouchMe. “Hunter, Thomas, and your brother are meeting in less than an hour. Who knows when this bomb is going to go off? We’ve gotta get moving.”

  Jarek brushes his hair back. “Should I just head back to the hideout? You guys probably don’t want me around.”

  “You’re right,” Turk says. “You’re the last person I want to see right now.” He points to the back of the cycle, then smacks Jarek’s backside. “Which is exactly why I’m not letting you out of my sight. Aria, you take the sidecar. And don’t forget to put your helmet on.”

  We mount the bike; then Turk pulls back on the handlebars and the motorcycle soars away from the wrecked warehouse, picking up speed as we glide into the murky sky, heading away from the Hudson River. The water below us shimmers, as if bits of glass are hidden within the waves.

  I breathe a sigh of relief when I see the bag I left in the sidecar, the one that holds Davida’s reliquary. Huddled here as we drive the car, the cooler sandwiched between my legs, I’m not comfortable, but at least none of this—the battle, Landon’s death—has been in vain. We still have the heart and the reliquary.

  Now we just have to stop Hunter before it’s too late.

  My burned hand has taken on a life of its own: it’s oozing some sort of clear fluid, and a large chunk of flesh just below my wrist looks charred. It almost doesn’t hurt at all anymore, which worries me.

  I remove the reliquary from the bag with my good hand, tracing the design of the Seven Sisters. Who were they? How did they get their powers? Did any of them have to make sacrifices like Davida and Landon did? I’m running my fingers absentmindedly over the smooth wood when suddenly I feel the box pulling me.

  Right toward the cooler.

  It’s almost as if there’s a magnet embedded in the fine woodwork. The box heaves forward and connects with the cooler.

  I hear a click from the reliquary.

  Could it be?

  The middle of the lid has parted, the two sides sliding in opposite directions. Fresh cedar and a hint of cinnamon fill the air. Inside, the name Davida Kane is etched in gold leaf. A thin black border runs along each side of the box.

  Then it hits me: Davida’s heart.

  Somehow, the reliquary must have sensed the proximity of her heart and opened, expecting the muscle to be deposited inside.

  I glance over at Turk, who’s navigating through the sea of towering skyscrapers toward the very top of the Empire State Building. Gray fog off the river mixes with city smog, making it difficult to see. Jarek’s eyes are tightly shut; fierce wind whips his hair over his face.

  Nobody is watching me.

  I duck even farther into the sidecar, opening the reliquary completely. There are more mystic symbols etched inside, and in the very center of the box is a note, folded over.

  My name is written on it.

  I sneak another look at Turk and Jarek, then open the note:

  Aria,

  Don’t consign my heart to a box. By now you know what to do with it.

  —D

  Even before I see her initial, I recognize the handwriting as Davida’s. I read the note a second time. By now you know what to do with it.

  I have no idea what to do with a mystic heart other than participate in the ceremony Lyrica mentioned. But that doesn’t seem to be what Davida is referring to here—and why would she suggest anything else?

  The only heart I’ve ever even seen is …

  A million pictures flash before my eyes, fitting together like puzzle pieces: Frieda, the old woman back at the compound, questioning what had happened to Davida’s heart. Lyrica’s cryptic advice about how I must absorb Davida’s faith within myself. And, of course, the heart-shaped capture locket that I wore around my neck, where Patrick Benedict stored the memories of Hunter that my parents extracted from my brain.

  The only way to open the locket was to swallow it. And when I did, all my memories returned to me.

  My eyes travel past my knees to the cooler between my legs. Inside is Davida’s heart. She must have written this note before she snuck out of the apartment to follow Hunter and me into the Depths. She knew there was a good chance that she would die, so she left this note, instructing me what to do.

  Davida doesn’t want me to give her heart back to her family.

  She wants me to eat it.

  I think back to when I swallowed the capture locket. Not again.

  Is it dangerous? Could I die? What will Hunter and the others think? There are a million reasons to talk myself out of following Davida’s wishes.

  But this is what she wanted.

  I reach down and open the cooler. The lid retracts and the sidecar is filled with silver light.

  The heart is encased in a glass box lined with liquid mercury. The quicksilver is trapped between two layers of glass; when I pick up the box and rotate it, the silver rushes around like blood—only deadlier.

  I slide open the lid and there it is:

  The heart.

  It’s smaller than I expected. No bigger than a fat strawberry, a meaty thing that fits neatly in the palm of my hand. And it’s blue—the bluest thing I’ve ever seen in my life, cobalt at the top and lighter toward the bottom, swirled with slivers of white fat and indigo arteries.

  Davida’s life force—her essence.

  An image of her flashes in my mind: us sitting together on my bed. “Do you love him?”
she asked me of Hunter. I told her I did. “Then I will protect you both. For as long as I can.”

  Davida has always watched out for me—even after her death, it seems. I glance at her heart and feel myself start to cry.

  “Aria?” Turk calls over his shoulder. I turn away from him, blinking back tears. He looks at me quizzically; I don’t know how much he can see. “What’s going on?”

  I cringe, staring down at the organ. I can’t bear to bite into it. The thought of chewing it …

  I hold back a wave of nausea.

  Now, I think. Do it now.

  I close my eyes and open my mouth as tears run down my cheeks; then I push the heart into my mouth, letting it rest for a second on my tongue.

  It’s weightless. I don’t feel a thing.

  Suddenly, my taste buds burst with sweetness, as though the inside of my cheeks have been doused with syrup. Remarkable, I think, and then I swallow Davida’s heart whole.

  I feel everything and nothing. The colors around me seem brighter. More exact.

  My vision is more precise: I watch my reflection in the plate-glass façades of the skyscrapers as we climb higher into the sky, heading toward the peace summit.

  The warm air smells salty, almost putrid. Smog covers my tongue; I can actually taste the air: a mixture of dirt and dust and oil. My breath grows shorter as we soar.

  Every pore in my skin seems to have expanded, tingling with a sense of urgency and delight. I feel alive. Awake. The burn on my hand has begun to heal itself: my blackened fingertips have turned pink, the new skin as smooth as a baby’s, spreading down to the rest of my hand. I open and close my fingers. The pain has been extinguished.

  I am calm. I can actually hear my heart thumping as it pumps blood and oxygen and nourishment through my body.

  I open my mouth but my lips are sticky, like they’re covered in peanut butter. I pull myself to a normal seated position in the sidecar. Turk is glancing at me as he navigates the cycle, shooting me a concerned look.

  “Aria? What’s going on? You look sick.”

  Sick? I feel wonderful.

  Turk levels out the motorcycle and we speed along the rooftops of the Depths. The sun is shining through the smog, a bright, hot yellow—as if nothing is wrong, as if nothing tragic is about to happen.