Toxic Heart (22 page)

I’ve snuck out because I’m convinced I must find Davida’s heart and place it in the reliquary. Davida died an honorable death defending Hunter and me, and I must do the right thing and make sure the mystic tradition is carried out properly. Maybe then she can rest in peace.

I tread carefully, as nothing in the Depths is properly lit.
Garbage and broken bottles are scattered across the street, while dirty children rush past me, running along the bridges that cover the canals. The old Aria might have judged them, assuming they were out stealing food or picking pockets. I hope I understand their plight better these days. Even though I’ve thrown in my lot with the mystics, I’ve never gone hungry.

A few of the intact buildings have candles on the windowsills, and I can see shadows moving inside. Some people must be home. Wet shirts flutter on droopy clotheslines, and somewhere in the distance I can hear a lazy saxophone.

“Pennies, miss? Pennies?” A homeless woman approaches me, sticking out her hand.

I drop a few coins into her palm. “Thank you,” she says, then rushes into an alley. I walk along the street, peering into the canals and trying to find the spot where Davida’s murder took place. I pass a few empty storefronts, their glass windows broken, until I come across a strip of stores that seem to be open. One of them has
STORE
written in thick black paint across the dirty awning.

I step inside.

It’s longer than it is wide, and while it’s not full of customers, there are more people here than I expected—ten or twelve. There are aisles and aisles of everything imaginable: shampoo, soap, razors, washcloths, towels, sheets, bottles of water and soda and beer. There’s a refrigerator that holds meat and other perishables. There are T-shirts and pants and first-aid kits and mystic lightbulbs.

There are more-exotic goods, too, with hefty price tags: cooling patches like the one Kyle was wearing, mystic-infused decals in
various designs that act like temporary tattoos, dresses and shirts made with mystic dyes that change color every hour, clothing lacquered with mystic energy so it can never get wet.

Toward the back is a glass case full of firearms, many of which seem mystically enhanced: guns with extra-long barrels, black ray guns, and a selection of knives with ivory- and jewel-encrusted handles.

Behind the counter is a man in his twenties, metal piercings through his nostrils and eyebrows. He’s watching an overhead TV and drumming his hands on his knees.

I look up at the screen. It’s me.

The station is running video footage of me having my head shaved at the triage center. I’m smiling, and all the people around me are chanting my name. The video is wobbly, as if someone had recorded it on a TouchMe.

“As you can see,” a female newscaster is saying, “Aria Rose clearly supports the rebel movement. Here she is shaving her head in solidarity with those who’ve removed their hair to address vermin issues in the Depths.”

Great. Just as Hunter suspected—shaving my head turned out to be a political move.

I spot an aisle with shelves of wigs of various colors, near the beauty products. I walk over and scan the collection: long and short hair, blond and brunette, curly and straight. This store has practically everything.

Feeling bold, I grab a platinum-blond wig that looks like it would come down to my chin. Then I stroll over to the counter.

“Anything else?” the guy behind the counter asks. He looks
at the TV, then at me. He doesn’t say anything, but I can tell he recognizes me.

“Do you have any swim goggles?”

He points to a shelf behind him that has cigarettes, lighters, and tiny bottles of booze.

And goggles.

Weird.

“Take your pick,” he says.

I point to a cheap-looking pair of black goggles, which he grabs and rings up for me. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” I say, reaching into my pocket for a few coins.

The cashier raises his eyebrows. “Not interested in getting wild?” he asks so that none of the other customers can hear. He flicks his tongue ring against his front teeth. “I’ve got Stic.”

“No thanks,” I say. I pay my bill and grab the goggles and the wig, shove them into my bag, and leave.

Outside, I stroll along a cobblestone street, looking for a familiar landmark. The canal is mere feet away, and I can hear the swishing of the water slapping against the concrete; the tangy smell of seaweed and garbage fills the air.

A few feet ahead stands a streetlamp I think I’ve seen before. The light has been broken, but I recognize the unusual design on the base. Is this where Davida was shot?

Everything from that night is a blur. Escaping my parents and fleeing to the Depths. Rain teeming down, lightning fracturing the sky, the heat, the soaring of the sirens. My father ordered police boats to search for me and Hunter, and though we didn’t know it, there were gunmen not too far behind.

I close my eyes, and the memory comes to me:

A circle of gunmen surrounds us
.

“Hunter!” I scream
.

“Aria!” he calls back, but then his voice is muffled. A gag has been shoved into his mouth, and I see Stiggson and Klartino saying something to him. In the distance, I think I see Davida at the edge of the street, near one of the gondolas
.

One of the men pulls a bag over Hunter’s head and clamps his hands behind his back with a pair of silvery handcuffs. He is carried aboard one of the police gondolas that followed us, then tossed belowdecks like a piece of cargo
.

Someone shuts the hatch, and the boat pulls away from the dock, heading off to deeper water. There’s a crunch behind me, as if someone has just stepped on a branch or broken a piece of pavement
.

I turn my head
.

My father emerges from the shadows. “You’re going to watch this. As a lesson.”

I shake my head no and close my eyes
.

“Open your eyes, Aria.”

Grudgingly, I do
.

The boat slows. My father calls out a few orders; the men get Hunter from the hold and wrestle him into a standing position. The bag is yanked off his head, and I see his face—that gorgeous, beautiful face—look for me in vain. One of the men presses his gun to the back of Hunter’s head
.

“You’ve led us on quite a chase,” my father says, “but this is where it ends, with the death of your mystic boyfriend. You will marry Thomas, our family will unite with the Fosters, and Garland will win the election. That is how this story ends.”

He raises his hand into the air—a signal
.

There is a flare of light and the sharp report of a gunshot
.

Hunter’s body falls forward, hits the side of the gondola, then folds over and drops into the water with a sickening splash
.

Only it wasn’t Hunter’s body—not really. Davida was there, and she’d snuck belowdecks. While Hunter was paralyzed by the quicksilver handcuffs, she used her mystic powers to take on his image. She hid him and the gunmen shot her instead of Hunter.

Davida’s power was uniquely rare: she could take on the full appearance of another person just by touching him. I remember the first time she demonstrated this for me in my bedroom as clearly as if it happened only yesterday.

Hold out your hands
, Davida had told me,
and close your eyes
. Her fingertips had brushed mine, and then my entire body began to buzz like a beehive—I felt a pull stronger than anything I’d ever felt. Like something was digging down deep inside me and drawing out everything in my body that made me
me
.

When I opened my eyes, I was staring at myself: at my wavy brown hair, my hazel eyes, my face and my teeth.
I can borrow someone’s appearance
, she said.
Cast a disguising glamour on myself and others. That’s my talent
.

The memory dissolves, and now I open my eyes for real. I’m back in lower Manhattan. In the streetlight, I recognize the blotchy red awning of a storefront, its glass cracked into an intricate spiderweb design.
Yes
, I think.
This is familiar
.

I rush to the corner of an alley, a tunnel of blackness.
This is where Hunter gave me back the capture locket
.

Across the street is an old-looking wooden dock where a fleet
of gondolas is tied up for the night. I blink, and I can practically see Stiggson and Klartino gagging Hunter and pulling him away from me.

I rush toward the edge of the street—in my mind’s eye I see the police gondola Hunter was taken aboard, the hatch he was tossed down.

Where Davida was hiding, waiting to save him.

This is it. I can sense it: the spot where she was killed.

I glance around. It’s dark out; there’s little risk of being seen. I debate whether to take off my clothes so they don’t get wet, but the water in the canal is so gross-looking that I decide to leave them on.

I set my bag down on the edge of the street, in the shadows where I don’t think it will be stolen. I tuck the wig inside and pull out the goggles I bought in the store, snapping them over my eyes. I remove my shoes and socks, and dip my feet into the water.

Holy Aeries, that’s cold
.

I give myself to the count of three. One, two, three—

Then I push off and dunk myself in the water.

I’m immediately grateful for the goggles. With my eyes protected, I can actually open them, though the salty water is so cloudy it’s hard to see. I swim down, my hands scouring muck and dirt and bits of dead plants, but the canal doesn’t seem to bottom out.

How am I supposed to find a heart?

I return to the surface and take a deep breath. Then I dive back down. My fingertips scrape something rough, like rock, and I figure this must be the bottom. But even if there is a heart down here, how will I find it? Will it be … whole? Or will it be goopy
and falling apart? What if a fish or some other water animal pecked it to nothing?

Or will there only be Davida’s skeleton, her heart washed away completely, like a stone or a piece of garbage?

I shiver at the sickening questions that run through my head. Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea.

I come back up for air and make one more attempt, but the only thing I manage to grab is a pebble. Not much I can do with that.

I swim over to a dock where a handful of gondolas are tied up for the night and hoist myself onto the wooden deck. I squeeze my shirt and shorts, trying to get the water out. Thankfully, no one has taken my bag. I slip on my socks and sneakers; then I stuff the goggles back into my bag with the wig and the reliquary.

I stare at the canal, which ripples silently. If Davida’s heart is still down there, I must find it. But how?

Most of the gondoliers are off duty, but I find one who lets me off in front of the empty space where the rebel hideout is concealed. It’s the middle of the night; everyone inside must be sleeping. My initial plan was to call Turk and have him come out and get me, but now that I’m standing on the street corner, a thought has occurred to me.

I glance down at the chain around my neck. The trace that Lyrica removed from my spirit and placed in the locket is made of mystic energy.

The energy should allow me to cross through. Right?

I squint, trying to see where the mystic force field begins, but I
can’t. If I attempt to pass through and the locket
doesn’t
work, will I be electrocuted?

Okay, Aria
, I tell myself.
Just walk
.

I remove the locket from my neck and hold it out in front of me, so that it sticks out farther than my fingertips. I inhale and take a step forward. Then another.

Nothing.

I glance down at the locket.
Don’t fail me
.

Another step. Then another, and suddenly I feel a whoosh of air and a firm pressure squeezing me. There’s a pop and the feeling of a large, invisible hand gripping my body—and I’m through the force field.

Before me is the brownstone. I’ve made it.

I rush up the steps. Inside, I’m thankful for the cool air and my safe return. All the lights are out. The door closes behind me and I tiptoe through the foyer, about to head upstairs, when a lamp clicks on.

Hunter is standing in the living room with a look on his face that I can’t read. “Care to tell me what you’ve been up to?”

I’m still wet from the canal, and I must look incredibly guilty. “Just swimming,” I say.

Hunter gives me an incredulous look. “Swimming?”

“That’s right.” I rest a hand on the banister. “It’s … part of my training with Shannon.”

“No, it’s not,” Hunter says. He’s wearing a gray T-shirt and faded jeans. It’s the most relaxed I’ve seen him, actually. He almost looks like his old self. His blond hair is swept off his forehead. His blue eyes sparkle. “Why are you lying to me?”

I don’t
want
to lie to Hunter. I want us to have an open, honest relationship. But he isn’t open and honest with me.

“You don’t trust me,” I say. “You’re just as bad as my father.”