Toxic Heart (19 page)

My eyes begin to sting. I close them and reach out, hoping I can make it to the loophole. A hand grabs my ankle from behind, and I kick, breaking free.

But only for a second.

Fingers claw at my feet and I propel myself forward in the water, toward the burning green circle. I feel a whoosh of air as the loophole closes itself behind me, and then—

I fall onto a stretch of cobbled pavement, gasping for air.

I’m still for a moment; then I push myself up. I’m not even wet. There are only a few streaks of dried mud on my right leg. I’ve lost my cap, but Davida’s box is still safe under my arm.

And then I hear more footsteps. A block away, I see my brother’s men gathering at the opening to the Block, scanning the water for any sign of …

Me
. They’re looking for me.

I turn and sprint in the opposite direction, down a narrow sidewalk, over a rickety bridge to a more populated street—anywhere someone might be able to help me.

“There!” I hear the men shouting. A chill shoots up my spine.

I’ve been spotted.

I run until my lungs ache, then stop to catch my breath. At least for now, I don’t hear any of Kyle’s men.

I see the remains of a row of brownstones: a tattered blue-and-white awning, a broken door, faded old posters with pictures of Violet Brooks above the slogan
VOTE FOR CHANGE
. Some of them have been graffitied over, but I can still make out Violet’s effervescent smile, which only saddens me.

I recognize the street: this is Columbus Avenue. Where Lyrica lives.

The last time I was here, I searched for her address—481 Columbus Avenue—only to discover that it didn’t exist. Until she made her house visible to me the same way Turk made the rebel hideout appear out of thin air.

Does she know I’m here? That I need help? Why has the loophole brought me here—and how did it get there in the first place, in time to rescue me?

I find the gate that I remember was next door to Lyrica’s orange stucco house, practically hidden in a heap of tumbled bricks. I look to my right, where there used to be a brick town house.

Now there’s
half
of a brick town house, the inside torn open, exposing plumbing and wooden beams tangled into one large, messy knot. Not far away, I hear shouts—I can only assume they’re coming from my brother and his men.

With the box Kyle gave me still tucked under my arm, I hurry to the side of the town house and run my fingertip along the rough, broken edge, just like I did the first time I came here.

That time, the two houses groaned open, revealing Lyrica’s hidden abode, red candles flickering against the glass of the two front windows.

This time, I wait.

And wait.

Nothing.

“Come on, Lyrica!” I shout, hoping she can hear me. “I need help!” I pound on the bricks in frustration, bruising my hands, but I don’t care.

Suddenly, one of the bricks falls to the street, making a noise.

I’m about to pick it up when I see a slip of yellow paper flutter from the hole where the brick was. I pick it up and unfold it.

I rush to the end of the street. On my left is another row of brownstones, ravaged to the point that they no longer resemble their former selves. In fact, there’s only one brownstone that looks remotely intact.

I stop directly in front of it.

The three-story building looks like it was hit by a wrecking ball—the entire right side is missing, the windows blasted out. All
that’s left is a mound of peeling brown paint and a faded number near the entryway: 520.

The mail slot
, I think. Where is that?

I step over the broken pavement, moving toward the crumbled, gray concrete steps. I can hear shouting behind me; have I been spotted?

Carefully, I make my way up the steps to the door, which is hanging on its hinges and covered with a layer of grime. There’s a thin slot that seems to yawn like a hungry mouth.

Here goes nothing
. I slide the paper into the slot.

And wait.

Seconds go by and nothing happens.

“Hello?”

I crane my neck, trying to see inside the empty brownstone. “Lyrica?”

This is stupid
, I think. I hear Kyle’s men more clearly now, shouting “Find her!” and “She can’t be far!”

I can’t stay here any longer. I’ve already wasted too much time. I pound down the steps and back onto the street, searching for somewhere to hide. And as my feet touch the sidewalk, the ground beneath me begins to shake. It feels like the vibration that comes from a Plummet Party, when the ground opens up and a building from the Aeries collapses into nothingness.

Only now nothing is disappearing. Rather, something is coming into view.

My vision begins to blur. Invisible hands seem to be parting 520 and the brownstone on its left. It’s strangely quiet—only a
swish of wind and the hint of a groan as the buildings shift apart and Lyrica’s house drops in.

It’s immediately familiar, with the same orange stucco walls, the same flickering red candles in the windows.

I hear the soldiers’ footsteps behind me now, pounding the pavement like a herd of elephants. Lyrica is standing in the doorway, breathing heavily. “Come on, child,” she says, reaching out her hand. “We don’t have all day.”

I step inside. Lyrica closes the door behind me, and I feel the floorboards beneath my feet shake the same way the ground shook right before the house appeared.

“What’s happening?” I ask.

“That’s just us moving again,” Lyrica says.

I notice that, aside from the location, nothing about the house has changed. There are still candles everywhere, their tiny lights dancing at my arrival, and the walls are still a cozy burnt sienna, covered with framed pictures. I notice one with swirls of color—bursts of bright red and yellow twisting together like flames—that move around a figure that I now recognize as one of the seven Sisters.

“What do you mean?” I ask. “Why is your house moving?”

Lyrica smiles at me. She’s wearing a silk dress the color of a robin’s egg that flows down to her ankles, making her look like some kind of water creature. The blue contrasts nicely with her toffee-colored skin and the ceramic beads threaded through her mass of gray hair. She looks older than I remember. Worn-out.

“Come,” she says, steering me down the hallway, into the same sitting room she brought me to the last time I was here. It hasn’t changed much: the same tapestries coloring the walls and tiny green and yellow Chinese paper lanterns strung across the ceiling, the same glass orb dangling in the center of the room like a light fixture, only there’s no bulb and it seems more for decoration than anything else. I recognize some of the charcoal swirls and symbols sketched on the walls from the mystic compound.

“My home has always been protected from those who would hunt me,” Lyrica says. “But it is not simply invisible. It can be transported.” She glances toward a window, its shutters tightly closed. “I moved us to evade your brother’s men. Right now, as a matter of fact, we are in Queens.”

I gulp. “Queens? Where’s that? I’ve lived in Manhattan all my life and never heard of it.”

Lyrica shuffles toward the back of the room, toward a champagne-colored curtain. “Many haven’t,” she says. “It’s across the East River from Manhattan. Tea?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer. She disappears behind the curtain and emerges with two ceramic mugs—one white, one blue—and makes her way over to me.

“Sit, dear.” She hands me the blue mug and sticks a finger inside. Not even a second passes before the liquid begins to steam. “There you go.”

I take a seat on the low sofa and bring out the box Kyle gave me, resting it on one of the cushions. Lyrica sits in a wicker chair.

“I have something important to ask you,” she says, sticking her finger into her own mug. Lyrica’s powers extend far beyond heating
a cup of tea, of course, but it comforts me to watch her doing something so simple when this much chaos is going on around us.

“What is it?” I say.

She studies me for a moment, then sips from her mug. “What in the Aeries did you do to your hair?”

I laugh, running a hand over my scalp. “I needed a change. It’s good to see you, Lyrica.” The tea soothes me as it rushes down my throat—I taste honey and peppermint and something fruity I can’t identify. It’s delicious.

I breathe a sigh of relief as I sink into the sofa, knowing that, for the moment, I can relax. I slip my TouchMe from my pocket and send a quick message to Turk.
I’m safe. See you back at the house
.

I glance up and see that Lyrica is examining the wooden box. “Ah,” she says when our eyes meet. “A mystic reliquary. I haven’t seen one of those in ages.”

“What is it?” I ask.

“A place to keep something sacred. Decorated by the Sisters—our holy seven.” Lyrica rests her mug on the narrow mahogany table at her side. “It is believed that they were the first mystics,” she says, “given their powers directly by God himself.”

“It was … Davida’s,” I say, and Lyrica’s eyes light up. “My brother, Kyle, found it in our apartment, hidden in her room, and gave it to me.”

“Interesting,” she says.

“Yes,” I say. “Only, how do you open it?”

Lyrica gives me a smile. “The reliquary will open when it’s ready.”

“How … convenient,” I say. “And what will be inside? Her belongings? She barely had anything.”

Lyrica’s eyes seem to flicker. “One might put it that way. You see, Aria, the power a mystic wields in life is all concentrated in the heart.” She taps her chest. “So when mystics die, their bodies typically explode—like supernovas—and the hearts are destroyed.
What comes from the earth returns to the earth
.” She motions to the reliquary. “A saying of the Sisters. But sometimes, when a mystic dies in unnatural ways—”

“Like Davida?”

“Yes,” she says, “like Davida did, then their hearts live on. They are incredibly powerful, valuable things. Not flesh and blood, exactly, but something else—something that survives even once the flesh decays.”

Davida has been dead for nearly a month. Her body lost to the water. The image of rotting flesh in the canal makes me nauseous.

“It is priceless, a mystic heart,” Lyrica continues.

My family has earned its fortune for decades selling Stic on the black market, so I know that humans will pay thousands and thousands of dollars for even a drop of mystic energy. How much must be contained in a mystic heart?

Lyrica presses her lips together. “In the occasion that a mystic perishes as Davida did, and the body remains intact after death, everyone who loved the person joins hands over it and the power is dissipated into the group. That is how we bury our dead.”

The smell of cinnamon drifts into the sitting room from the scented candles in the hall. I feel incredibly calm.

“How many people are present for that?” I ask, curious. Why hasn’t Hunter ever mentioned this to me?

“The heart is super powerful,” Lyrica says. “So usually it’s a dozen or so. Did Davida specifically leave this reliquary to you?”

“Yes.”

I think about Davida, who left her family in the Depths to live with us. How she would wake me up gently every morning, and we would talk about our lives as she brushed my hair and helped me get ready for the day.
Don’t let your parents get to you
, she would tell me.
You can be whatever you want to be. Do whatever you want to do, Aria. You’re smart. You’re beautiful. You have the world at your fingertips
. She was my servant, yes—but she was also my friend.

It was only recently that I learned the truth: that she was a rebel mystic who carefully hid the fact that she wasn’t drained. That she’d been betrothed to Hunter basically since she was born, but that he didn’t love her. She’d been sent to my family as a spy, meant to report back on the Rose secrets. But she protected me. Covered for me with me my parents. She saved Hunter’s life.

Now she’s gone. All that’s left of her are threads of memories that are woven into my mind, and into the minds of her family, I’m sure.

Threads of memories and a heart.

Lyrica reaches for her tea. “Well, that is a responsibility you are going to have to swallow whole.”

“What do you mean?”

“Davida is trusting that you can take in the power that she’s left for you,” Lyrica says. “Her faith in you is something that you can’t deny but must absorb within yourself.”

Lyrica’s stare is intense
—too
intense. It’s making me nervous. I look at the box, at the intricate carving of the Sisters. “Is Davida’s heart in this box?”

“No, dear.” Lyrica clucks her tongue. “That would be impossible. She died in the water, did she not?”

I remember the scene of her death: how I thought it was Hunter who was being killed, but really it was Davida. Even for mystics, her talent—taking on someone else’s image—was a rarity. My breathing grows shallow and my chest begins to ache. Davida was so brave, so selfless. Even after nearly a month, it’s hard to believe she’s actually gone.