Toxic Heart (35 page)

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.

For the middle of the day, there aren’t many people in sight, which is good: they must have seen my video and evacuated. At least, I hope they did.

“Almost there,” Turk says.

The inside of my mouth is a jumble of flavors, the intense sweetness now bitter and sour, as though I have just eaten a lemon.

How much time do we have?
I think.
How much time, how much time?

My thoughts are jumping on a miniature trampoline inside my skull. My nose feels stuffed; I sneeze and bloody mucus sprays from my nostrils.

“Bless you,” Turk says. I wipe the blood with my sleeve.

Turk’s concerned eyes multiply from two to four, then six: they start at his hairline, then continue down to his chin. They all blink at me simultaneously. “Aria?” His voice echoes. “Aria?”

I shake my head and look at him again—now he only has two eyes. Strange.

“What did you do?” Turk says. His gaze travels from my face down to the open reliquary, the open cooler. “Open your mouth,” he instructs.

I shake my head.

Turk swerves the bike to avoid colliding with one of the triangular PODs that run from the Depths to the Aeries. “Aria, open your mouth!”

He stops the bike midair and we hover over a canal. “Take the handles,” Turk says to Jarek. Then he leans over and pries open my jaw. “Stick out your tongue,” he says.

I shake my head and try to bite down on his fingers, but he’s too swift for me—he gives my tongue a gentle pull and tilts back my head.

“Your tongue is blue,” he says. He stares down at the empty cooler. “Aria, you didn’t. Tell me you didn’t—”

“Guys.” Jarek cuts him off. He nods ahead, in the distance.

The Empire State Building. The perfect meeting ground, halfway between the Depths and the Aeries, one of the few buildings that remain practically unchanged over time. Before the expansion upward, the Empire State Building was one of the tallest skyscrapers in Manhattan, reaching almost fifteen hundred feet into the sky. A famous landmark, it was left intact as the Aeries were built above it: a relic of old Manhattan before the city was ushered into a new era. The pointed tip of the broadcast tower points toward the Aeries, practically shouting
Look up!

I expect the area surrounding the building to be deserted—evacuated.

But in fact, it’s quite the opposite: it’s full of people.

Thousands of them.

Men, women, and children line the streets of the Depths,
packed together like sardines. Mystics and humans both are standing in gondolas in the water, sitting atop one another’s shoulders on the sidewalks, poking their heads out of windows.

The bridges and raised walkways are flooded with people holding up multicolored signs and shouting so many different things that it’s impossible to decipher a clear message.

Above us, I can see people crowding the silvery bridges in the Aeries, leaning forward and participating in the biggest rally I have ever seen. The Empire State Building is swarmed.

My mind clears for a moment, and I feel a surge of pride for my city.

Instead of heeding my webcast prompting them to flee, hundreds upon hundreds of Depths
and
Aeries dwellers have flocked here. Ignoring their own safety, they are chanting, and at last I understand their words:
Peace! Peace! Peace!

“Whoa,” Turk says. “This is intense.”

The lines of people snake through the canals and streets. From our view in the air, they look like ants—thousands and thousands of them clamoring to show their support for their city, for restoring Manhattan to its former glory.

Before the mystic drainings. Before the war.

Before the Conflagration.

There’s no way Hunter can set off this bomb.

This is a good thing.

This is the thing that might save us.

Turk grips the handlebars tightly as we zip up to the observation deck at the top of the Empire State Building, where the summit is
to take place. We pass the main deck on the eighty-sixth floor and zoom to the very top, the deck just below the needle. Somehow, a camera captures us on Turk’s bike; our image is streamed live on all the JumboTrons in the area.

I stare at an oversized screen on the side of a building on Fifth Avenue and catch a glimpse of myself: My eyes are darting everywhere, glazed over like I’m high. My cheeks have turned bright pink; I look sweaty and disoriented. My wig is blonder than I remember, poking out from underneath my helmet.

My mouth has gone dry, my jaw slack. I’m parched, craving water, soda—anything to wet my lips. My nostrils are full of the scents of the city; fog coats my skin like a slick moisturizer, and every hair follicle on my body seems to be tingling. My hand is nearly healed; only a speck of black remains in the center of my palm. I flex my fingers—they feel stronger than ever before, full of power.

Something about the moment makes me think of Patrick Benedict, the mystic who saved my memories and turned out to be one of my greatest allies, before he lost his life at the hands of Elissa Genevieve. I wonder if he would be proud of me.

The cycle exhales a burst of fire as we descend. A metal railing lines the observation deck like a fence—presumably so that tourists don’t fall over the edge as they’re snapping pictures.

We land behind a wall that extends onto the deck, so we’re hidden from view. Turk silences the bike and extends the kickstand, then helps me out of the sidecar. “Aria,” he says as I take off my helmet, “I don’t even know what to say to you right now. You shouldn’t be here. What you did was dangerous.”

Turk gazes at me with a concerned expression. “You could die,” he says softly. “Ingesting so much mystic energy … Your body is on overload. I’m a healer, but even I can’t help you, Aria. You need someone older, more powerful than me.”

“Later,” I say. I feel pins and needles in my legs. I try to walk but can’t keep my balance. Turk catches me before I hit the ground.

“Brrr!” I say. “It’s cold, isn’t it?”

Turk blinks. “It’s sweltering hot, Aria.”

“It is?” It feels like someone is rubbing dozens of ice cubes all over my body. I’m so cold my teeth begin to chatter.

“Stay here,” Turk says to Jarek. “With the bike. I’m trusting you.”

Turk and I peer around the wall. Light from the sun and the surrounding city brightens the observation deck. The view looking down is full of windows and metal and water and people, all covered in a thick white haze.

“Who’s there?” someone calls. Thomas—I recognize his voice.

“Me,” I say, holding up my hands. For a second, they blaze green; then the color disappears. No one but Turk sees—I hope. I look around for Hunter. Is he already standing out there with Thomas and Kyle?

Turk glances at me. “Keep quiet about what you’ve done,” he says. “For your own sake.”

We step out past the wall, so we’re in full view. I check my belt, feeling for my kendo stick and my gun—just in case.

Immediately, I see Hunter, Thomas, and Kyle standing together.

“Aria?” It’s Hunter. His dirty-blond hair is messy over his forehead, and he’s wearing his all-black fighting gear: long pants
and sleeves with a fitted metal-plated vest. “What are you doing here?”

So many words rush to my tongue that none of them come out. I stand there, speechless.

“Nice video,” Thomas says suddenly. I’m not sure what he was expecting at the summit, but he’s dressed as though he’s about to attend a fancy dinner party: a sleek black tuxedo, with a thin tie, a stark white dress shirt, and a cream-colored vest half hidden beneath his jacket. His dark hair is combed nearly and parted on the side. Even his shoes are freshly shined. “It deserves an award. Maybe … Most Desperate Newcomer?”

“This is hardly a time for jokes,” Kyle says angrily. He has two black eyes and a purplish bruise on the side of his face, likely from when I smacked him with the IV stand. He’s wearing the Rose family officer’s uniform, the crest above his heart gleaming in the light.

He motions to the throngs of people in the buildings above and below us. “I’ve been working so hard to get control—you shave your head and send one little crybaby message and suddenly everyone loves you.” He purses his lips. “I hate you.”

I hate you, I hate you, I hate you
. The words repeat themselves on loop in my head; I picture my mother, my father, and Kyle standing next to me on the roof. In one swoop, I mentally push them over the edge, and they fall to their deaths.

Hunter peers out at the city, at all the people who now know of his plan. He gestures into the air. “This is all your fault, Aria. I had everything under control, I was picking up where my mom left off, I was taking care of things—and then you go and cause
this
.”

“Calm down, Hunter,” Turk says.

“Stay out of this, mystic,” Kyle sneers. He cocks his head at Hunter. “You measly little prick. A bomb? What’s the matter? Too scared to fight us like a man?”

I’m no longer cold. Now my skin feels like it’s crawling with insects; I want to scratch them off. “What are you going to do?” I say to Hunter. “Kill all these people? Are you going to kill me?”

He looks torn, as though he’s actually considering going forward with his plan.

Thomas chuckles. “I love it when you get self-righteous, Aria. But what exactly are you talking about? Your little boyfriend isn’t going to do anything. Not after the stunt you pulled. Why do you think your brother and I still bothered to show up?”

I glare at Hunter. Where are the rebels? Where is the bomb?

Kyle looks at Thomas, then at Hunter. We all hear the shouting of the people surrounding the building.
“Peace! Peace! Peace!”

“What do we do now?” Kyle says. “I don’t trust you, Foster. And I certainly don’t trust you”—he points to Hunter—“but we’ve got to a figure out a plan. And fast.”

Hunter shakes his head. “I’m not working with either of you.”

Thomas snorts. “Very mature, mystic. It’s not as if any of us is eager to work with the others. Shall we all just walk away?”

There’s a tap on my back. Turk. He pushes me forward. “Go on,” he says.

I turn to my brother. “Kyle, if you call a truce with Hunter, the Fosters will follow. There are ways for both sides of this war to come out ahead.”

Kyle stares at me. “You actually want me to call a truce with
that mystic? Mom and Dad will never go for that. Neither will our supporters in the Aeries. Not everyone thinks like you do, Aria.”

“Really?” I say, looking upward. Kyle raises his chin and stares into the Aeries, where the silvery bridges are lined with people holding the railings and chanting for peace, calling out my name.

“Kyle, if you don’t negotiate a peace, if you keep fighting, there’s a strong chance that the mystics will win. And then we could very well be overtaken by another city anyway,” I say.

Thomas’s eyes seem to blaze with recognition that these are more or less his words, that I remember what he told me. “Everyone needs to give
something
,” he says to the group.

This is it, the moment of truth. Either the three of them will shake hands and everyone will leave this rooftop alive, or …

I shake my head. Can’t think about the alternative. I feel myself warming up, as though I’ve just been stuck in an oven. I have to keep talking, keep them listening to me.

“We know that the Conflagration wasn’t caused by a group of mystics rebelling against the city,” I say. “It was caused by
one
mystic: Elissa Genevieve. She admitted this to me personally. The rest of the population shouldn’t be punished for the evildoing of an individual.”

Thomas narrows his eyes. “But—”

“There are no buts,” I say firmly. I’m sweating now. I see dozens of bright white circles before me. I blink and they’re gone. “Mystics must be recognized as citizens of New York, with the same rights as everyone else. They cannot be quarantined and drained against their will.”

“That’s all fine and good,” Kyle says, “but you’re forgetting
one thing—Manhattan runs on mystic energy. The light-rail, the PODs, our electricity … everything depends on it. We’ve only been able to function these past few weeks because of the extra energy we had stored. But that will run out eventually, Aria, and if the mystics aren’t drained, how will the city function?”

“The mystics have been
over
drained for years,” I say. “The amount of energy the city needs is minuscule compared to what has been taken by our families to sell on the black market.” Tabitha was the first one to tell me about this, back at Java River, and I haven’t forgotten it. “We have enough stored energy to run the city for at least the next few months, I imagine, and we can open up discussions on how to safely harvest small amounts of mystic energy in a nonpainful, humane way.” I look at Hunter, waiting for him to speak. His jaw is tightly clenched. “Does that seem fair?”

“Fair?” He growls. “That my people have been oppressed for decades, that you’re asking me to compromise with the demons who killed my mother?” He glares at me with stone-cold eyes. “I’d hardly say that’s fair.”

I take another step toward him. I want to rest my hands on his cheek and feel his arms around me, but he’ll only push me away.

“What happened to your mother was a terrible thing,” I say. “But she would want this sort of compromise. I didn’t know her well … or really at all … but judging from her values and the way she raised you, I believe it’s true.”

Hunter’s head is down, so I can’t see his expression. I turn my attention to Thomas and my brother. “There should be no more Aeries and Depths,” I say. “Everyone should live together.”