Mystic City (37 page)

And then Klartino’s in my face. He pushes me onto the chair at my desk, then slides my arms behind me, binding my wrists with some type of wire coil that digs into my skin.

“What are you doing?” I try to wriggle my hands, but it’s impossible.

My mother holds up her hand. “You’re staying here, Aria.”

“What? Why?”

“You know why,” she says. “I’m so disappointed. I thought we’d cured you. That we could be a family again, without that mystic. But nothing’s changed. You would rather risk your life on a romantic folly than devote yourself to our family, to this city—”

“I
am
devoted to this city,” I say, “much more than you or Dad.”

My mother slaps me so quickly I don’t even see it coming. The sting on my cheek doesn’t hurt, though. It only makes me mad. “Fine, lock me up. It doesn’t mean I won’t find a way out—I’ve done it before, and I can do it again. Just try me.”

My mother seems surprised by my outburst. Her brown eyes widen, and she flushes. Thomas looks at me sadly, then leaves. The room has emptied; everyone is downstairs but me and my mother.

“I know what you did to me,” I continue. “I remember
everything
. And I will never forgive you.”

Mom tsks at me—the kind of sound a mother might make if her daughter got a bad grade in school or stayed out past curfew. But we are so far beyond that now. This is life or death.

“Good night, Aria,” she says. Then she leaves.

I immediately try to loosen the wiring. If anything, it seems to get even tighter, and something sharp pierces the skin on both arms. I scan the room, trying to see if there’s anything I can rub up
against that might cut the wire, but I can’t see anything—just the edge of my desk.

Then I notice the metal handles on the windows to my balcony—could those slice the restraints?

I use my feet to make tiny hops in the chair over to the balcony. If I can loosen the wire, then I can open the windows and maybe … somehow … open the loophole?

I sigh and toss my head back. I’m incredibly frustrated. There’s no way I can open the loophole—especially now that the only magical thing I have, the locket, has been emptied.

I’m five or six hops away from my windows when they burst open.

They crash loudly against the walls, and my hair is blown back by the gust of wind that hits my face. At first I can barely see anything—the balcony is full of blazing green light. But I squint and then I see it:

Turk.

On his motorcycle.

Hovering outside my balcony.

Bright green jets shoot from the exhaust pipes; the slick chrome wheels are popping against the dark sky. Three super-red LED lights are blinking right below the leather seat.

“Turk!”

Slowly, he lands the bike on the balcony, kills the engine, and hops off. His Mohawk is dyed bright orange tonight. He’s wearing a tight wife beater and shorts that show off his calf muscles and his tan skin.

“You okay?” he asks, walking toward me. “Some of the other
rebels, ones who don’t like you so much, found out about the loophole, so I had to seal it. But I’ve been keeping an eye on you regardless. Just caught what’s happened. I waited until they left your building to come inside.”

“They took him—they’re going to—”

“Shhh,” Turk says, “all in good time, lady. All in good time.” He surveys the situation. “You tied up?”

“Why else would I be here?” I roll my eyes. “Can you help?” Turk grins. “Ah. The magic words.”

“Come on, Turk—there isn’t time for any of this. They’re going to
kill
him!”

“I thought they already did.” Turk laughs nervously. “All right. I’m going to blast away whatever’s tying you up.” He walks around me. “Hold your hands still—don’t move. I don’t wanna accidentally disintegrate a finger or something.”

“Not funny.”

“Just hold still, Aria.”

I keep my eyes on Turk’s bike. I can’t see his energy, but I can hear it—like the buzzing of a hornet’s nest directly in my ears. A jolt hits the chair. I’m knocked forward onto my side. I try to move my arms and find that I can. I bring them in front of my face—the metal ties are still around my wrists, like sickening bracelets. I push myself to my feet.

“Thanks,” I say to Turk.

“No problem.”

I cock my head at his bike. “Let’s get out of here.”

“To where?” Turk rubs his forehead. “You got a plan?”

“They’re going to use Hunter to gain access to the subway systems. We’ve gotta get down there, warn the rebels—”

“First of all,” Turk says, looking defeated, “at the speed of the rails, your family, the Fosters, and whatever backup they have are probably already in the Depths. We’ll never catch up with them. And more importantly, we have no idea where they’re going, which entrance they’re going to try to use. There are dozens. We’ll be racing around trying to find them and … and we won’t be able to save him. To save anyone.”

Turk punches the wall. “Damn!” His fist breaks through the plaster with a crunching noise and a cloud of dust poofs into the air.

“That was dumb,” I say.

He rubs his knuckles, which have started to bleed. “No, it wasn’t.”

“Wait—Times Square. Hunter mentioned something about Times Square … is there an old entrance there?”

Turk thinks for a second. “Yeah, there is.” He smiles. “Come on. I know exactly where to go.” He fumbles in his pocket for a second, then takes out a silver ring. “Here.”

“A present? How sweet.”

“Not just any present—it’s a passkey.”

“A what?” I ask, looking at the ring. It looks like … a ring. I take off my engagement ring and slip Turk’s ring on instead. My finger begins to throb lightly.

“The only way to break a mystic seal is with mystic energy. That’s how the rebels enter the underground,” Turk says. “But since
you’re not a mystic, you’ll need a passkey to get in. I infused some of my energy into the ring—it’s in case we get separated, so you can still hide down there.”

“Thanks,” I say, knowing this will come in handy. The ring reminds me of something else: the locket. I have a sudden urge to find it. “Hold on.” I feel for it under the dresser and pull it out. It’s cracked and dirty, but I place it around my neck anyway, as a symbol of what my parents did to me. I won’t let their actions cripple me. I will turn my past into my future—with Hunter.

I follow Turk onto the balcony, where he picks up his helmet and drops it onto my head. I clutch my skirt in my hands, bunching it up so I can step onto the bike.

“Ready?” Turk asks.

“Just one more thing—do you have your TouchMe?”

He nods, pulling it out of his pocket. “Why?”

I grab it with one hand and begin to type in a number. “Because my mother took mine, and there’s someone I have to call.”

• XXX •

By the time we descend into the Depths, the sun has disappeared, and the sky has bruised over in shades of purple and blue.

“I still don’t understand what
she’s
doing here,” Turk says over the roar of his bike. Turk’s motorcycle powers us over a series of bridges as we ride along the Broadway Canal. Most shops are closed for the night, but there are a few people milling around the streets and walkways who dive out of our way as we pass—this is no time for cautious driving. Who knows what my parents are doing to Hunter, how long he has to live. We’ve got to save him.

Elissa Genevieve grips me tighter around the waist.

When we first picked her up, Turk practically refused to speak to her. “She works for the enemy.”

“No, she doesn’t,” I told him. “She’s working to help you from the inside, just like Benedict.”

Elissa nodded. “Yes, he and I work together!” Her long hair was pulled back into a severe ponytail, her face devoid of makeup. I’d texted her to meet us at the Circle in the Aeries, explained what had happened. Invited her to come with us. To help.

“I’ve never seen you underground before,” Turk said skeptically.

“I’ve been drained,” Elissa said. Dressed in all black—Lycra pants and a form-fitting top—she looked ready to fight. “I no longer have access.”

“She helped me,” I told Turk. “She showed me what happens in the draining room. She’s on our side, Turk.”

Turk scratched his forehead. “We don’t have time to discuss this. If Aria trusts you, then I trust you.” He pressed a hidden button under the handlebar of his bike, and the seat extended noiselessly, making room for all of us.

Almost. Now I’m sandwiched between Turk and Elissa; I can practically feel my organs rearranging themselves. The mist coming off the canal waters is thick and heavy, swirling around us in curls of gray, like smoke from an oversized cigar.

When we reach Fiftieth Street, Turk slows down. Times Square is only a few blocks away, and we don’t want to give any warning that we’re here.

It starts to rain. A smattering at first, then fat droplets that spray my face and soak my clothes. “Shit,” Turk says. The white light from the bike’s headlights pierces the smog, allowing us to see—but only what the beam touches. Around us, the rain and darkness and heat of the night lick at me like a dog’s tongue, making me feel sloppy and tired.

I brush my hair back with my fingers and wipe my cheeks. There’s no time for tired. All I can think is:
Hunter
.

We go another block or so; then Turk pulls over in front of a row of derelict buildings and shuts off the engine. “We should walk from here. Less conspicuous.”

Elissa slides off the back of the bike, and I can breathe again.
She holds out her hand and helps me down. Turk wheels the motorcycle over to an old fire hydrant. He unwraps a chain from around the body of the bike, then locks the cycle to the hydrant.

When he’s done, he searches for us in the dark—practically all I can make out are the whites of his eyes. “There’s a spire somewhere around here,” he says. “We should be able to get more light if we keep moving.”

We walk together silently. I grab Turk’s shirt and follow him. I hope he knows where he’s going. My feet crunch over bits of broken pavement, an empty soda can. I can’t see the Broadway Canal, but I know it’s near us—I hear the slap of water hitting concrete and smell the foul, salty stench.

We go another block or two and turn right, over a bridge, and then I see a spire in the distance. Its light blankets the area with an iridescent glow. The familiar energy inside swirls and undulates white-yellow-green, white-yellow-green. I listen for signs of Hunter, of my parents, but all I hear are the muted voices of passersby in the distance, the shuffling of our feet, and the wild beating of my own nervous heart.

The neighborhood looks seedy. The streets are full of trash, the store windows covered with graffiti or smashed in. The buildings here seem crowded, overlapping like crooked teeth. Rats scurry along carrying bits of paper and rotting food. Overhead, faded marquees hang sadly from abandoned theaters, lightbulbs crushed or missing, windows smashed in.

“This used to be the center of the city,” Turk says as we pass a wide intersection of avenues. A green sign that says 42
ND STREET
hangs from a post on one of the bridges. I see the entrance to the
old subway station—the biggest I’ve encountered so far. Circles of different colors, red, yellow, blue, each with a faded number inside, are painted over the entrance.

I glance behind me to make sure Elissa is okay. She’s peering around wildly, as if searching for someone. When our eyes meet, she looks guilty for a second; then she relaxes and gives me a tight grin.

“Is that how we get underground?” I point to the subway entrance, which is sealed with blocks of concrete laced with steel girders. It looks all but impenetrable. I search out the green posts, like the ones near the South Street Seaport, but I don’t see any. I wonder how we’ll get in.

Turk shakes his head. “No. The entrance is up there.” He points a few blocks ahead: I don’t see anything except a dirty, oversized sign about half the length of a city block. It was probably white at one point, but that was many years ago. Now it’s a filthy beige, with large red block letters:
TKTS
.

“There?”

Turk nods. “Come on. But careful.” He steps in front, motioning for us to follow; behind him, we stand pressed up against the wall of one of the buildings. There’s a drooping awning overhead that’s providing us with some well-needed shadow: the center of Times Square is bright, brighter than I anticipated. We’ll have to stay around the edges so as not to be seen.

Turk listens carefully, then signals for us to proceed. I make sure I don’t step on anything that might break and give us away. The closer we get to the
TKTS
sign, the more voices I hear. I look out toward the middle of the square.

And that’s when I see him. A block away.

“Come on, boy,” someone says. Hunter’s head is down, his arms cuffed behind his back. His shoulders slump forward; he shuffles his feet as if it’s painful to walk. There’s a guard on either side of him, Stiggson and Klartino following directly behind. My father and George Foster walk a few feet ahead, bodyguards flanking them, along with Thomas, Garland, Kyle, and Benedict. None of the women are there.

I cover my mouth so they can’t hear me gasp.

I poke Turk in the back and we stop in our tracks. Elissa, too. “What’s happening?”

“Shhh,” Turk hisses.

We press so close to the building that I can feel the bricks making imprints on my back and the palms of my hands. From this angle, we can see Hunter and my father’s crew, but unless they come around the corner and run smack into us, we should remain out of sight.

We watch as the guards pull Hunter toward one of the buildings with a faded gold door. The windows are blackened with grime. “Is it this one?”

Hunter studies the door for a second. He’s barely recognizable, his face is so bruised. His forehead is sliced open, his cheeks red and swollen. His hair is streaked with blood and matted to his head with sweat. My stomach feels like it’s being wrung out. I might be sick.

“Don’t recall,” Hunter mutters.

My father strolls over to him, lifts his chin in the air with one finger. The sleeves of Dad’s dress shirt are rolled up, exposing his
thick forearms and the corded muscle there. Hunter tries to look away, but Dad grabs his jaw. “Look at me,” he instructs.