Mystic City (6 page)

I try to whip away, but two of the other boys hold me still. Slowly, the tall boy turns over my arm. He skims the jagged piece of metal over the pink skin that runs from my elbow to my wrist, letting the edge hover over one of my veins. I am trembling now.

“Please,” I say.

He licks his lips with his thick, wet tongue. “Please what?”

“Please don’t hurt me.”

He tilts his head, looking almost puzzled. Then he plunges the metal deep into my arm.

I cry out, watching as my blood spills down my arm, pooling red in my palm.

He yanks out the metal and holds it up to the light. My blood is black along its edge. “Oops,” the boy says, laughing. “Must have slipped.”

I close my eyes, willing the pain to stop. I am going to die here. I am going to die for my stupidity.

A rush of wind hits my cheeks.

I open my eyes, and everything before me is different.

The tall boy who shivved me drops to the ground, and the pressure that was on my arms is gone. A ray of green light whizzes by me, nearly two feet long and as narrow as one of my fingertips. The light cleaves the air with a whoosh, and a high-pitched ting fills my ears.

Then I see a second ray of light, identical to the first. It connects forcefully with the neck of one of the other boys, the one with rust-colored eyes, who blows back and falls to the pavement.

This is when I realize that the rays of light are attached to a boy. They must be some sort of mystic energy—which means this is a rebel mystic. Someone who has not registered with the government, who has illegally retained his powers.

The girls back away and turn; I can hear their shoes clobber the pavement as they run. Then I hear the zip of the mystic’s rays, so green they’re nearly blinding. The mystic whips around me, shielding me from Darko, who has picked up the fallen shiv and is waving it aimlessly through the air.

“Fight like a man, not a freak!” Darko yells.

The mystic just laughs and thrusts his arms into the air. The rays channel into the sky, braiding together from each finger into two thicker beams, one from each hand, like swords of light, wider at the base and sharp at the tip. The pulsing color ignites the sky, casting a greenish glow on Darko and the remaining boy and the lifeless audience of buildings around us.

I am spellbound. I nearly forget that my arm is bleeding. The scene is so magnificent that even Darko stops his slashing and looks up.

This is when the mystic strikes.

In an instant, he cuts the beams from the sky to the ground. The sound they make reminds me of when Kyle and I were younger and used to catch fireflies on the roof, cupping them in our hands and holding them up to our ears. The buzzing is so loud it seems to fill the Depths.

Darko is blasted in the chest. He’s tossed nearly ten feet into the air, his arms and legs moving wildly. Then he falls, and I hear the sickening crack of bones.

The remaining boy has a look of horror on his face. He starts to run, but the mystic strikes him in the back—there’s a thunderous clap when the green beam finds its target, and the boy flops onto the street.

It’s only then that I realize I’ve been holding my breath. I exhale deeply, filling my lungs, and cast my gaze on the mystic, whose rays have retracted and who is standing in the middle of the street with his hands tucked casually in his pockets.

As if he were anyone. As if he were normal.

Rebel mystics are outlaws. They’re dangerous and are to be reported immediately. I know this from a thousand public service announcements I’ve seen all my life. But …

This mystic saved my life.

After a moment, he looks at me and says, “Are you all right?” His voice is deep and smooth as syrup.

I’m shocked by how handsome he is. Clear blue eyes—not as dark as the ocean, but deeper than the sky. Hair that looks touched by the sun, with hints of darker streaks. Thick eyebrows. A straight nose. A square, solid jaw.

“I’m hurt,” I manage to say, suddenly feeling woozy.

“Let me see,” he says. “Hold out your arm.”

He takes my hand in his. A kind of intoxicating warmth spreads through me.

“Hold still.” He touches his fingers to the injury. His hand glows from within, like the inner deep burn of a log pulled from a fire. Its radiance throws everything else into shadow—his bones, his skin, his clothing. For a moment he seems to be made of light.

My skin feels sizzling hot. When he lifts his fingers, I see that the cut has healed. Even the blood is gone.

“I—I—”

He smiles at me. It’s a beautiful, soothing smile.

“You’re welcome,” he says. He brushes some of his hair away from his eyes and wipes sweat from his forehead. Then I hear sirens, and a worried look crosses his face. The bodies strewn on the pavement begin to stir. “We need to get out of here before they wake up. Come with me.” He wraps a strong arm around my waist and pulls me to him.

So I do what any girl would do when a gorgeous boy saves her life in the seedy Depths of Manhattan: I let him take me away.

• IV •

“Large cup. Black.”

The waitress nods at the boy, then looks at me. There are no menus here in this tiny shop. It is the kind of place I might have walked right by—inconspicuous and dark on the outside, the words
JAVA RIVER
pressed into the awning.

Inside, though, it is full of light and sound. A handful of plush blue booths are filled with all kinds of people. Mostly families, but there are a few solos eating pastries and drinking coffee. The walls are a creamy color, covered with framed photographs of mountain ranges.

“The same,” I say. The waitress—a blob of a girl with curly black hair and a pierced nostril—nods and ambles away.

I give my attention back to the mystic boy who saved me. “Thank you,” I say. “For … carrying me.”

His face is blank, which makes me feel like an idiot. I haven’t been carried by anyone since I was a baby. Certainly not a boy my own age. And certainly not a mystic.

But when he took me in his arms and led me away from that
terrible scene, I had no fight left in me. I simply closed my eyes, rested my head on his shoulder, and relaxed. It felt good to be able to trust someone—if only for the length of a few city avenues.

The mystic is still expressionless. His hood is up, covering his hair, making him look like he’s trying to travel incognito. He’s not perfect. I can see this now. His nose is slightly crooked, as though he was in a fight and never had a doctor set it properly; an inch-long scar runs just above his left eyebrow. His cheeks are light with stubble. He is rugged-looking, the exact opposite of Thomas, whose hair is always combed, his skin smooth. This mystic boy is something else entirely.

He has the kind of face that takes you by surprise. Earlier, on the street, I thought it was one thing—handsome in a conventional way, like porcelain or the colored diamonds my mother keeps in the Rose family vault. But now I see it is quite the opposite, a face too hard to be pretty, too mysterious. It is the kind of face that sucks you in, makes you want to surrender all that you know, all that you are, just to capture its attention.

It is dangerous, this face, this boy. And not simply because he’s a mystic, though that is danger enough.

He already has a hold on me. I’m not sure if it’s attraction or fear. Or both.

The mystic looks calm. If I didn’t know better, I would never guess that he’s just been in a fight. He’s wearing a red T-shirt and a pair of jeans, and a blue jacket made out of sweatshirt material. He radiates health—and because of that, he stands out here, among other mystics who have had their powers drained.

Typically, those who’ve had their energy removed have a sickly look about them that I’ve noted in pictures and learned about in school, and occasionally seen in person. They’re drained, of course, to protect us against another revolt like the Mother’s Day Conflagration. Without their energy, they can’t hurt anyone, and the people who live in the Aeries are safe.

“Where are we?” I ask.

“Java River,” he says, pointing to the wall where the name is painted.

“I know
that
,” I say, longing for my lost cloak. I’d hide myself in its folds. No one seems to be paying me much attention, but I feel as though all eyes are on me. On us. Maybe I’m just paranoid. “But where
are
we?” I motion to the window. To what is outside.

He leans back. “Oh. We’re near the Magnificent Block,” he says casually.

I feel my eyes widen. “We’re near the Block?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Near. Not
in
. Don’t worry, you’re safe.” He looks at me strangely. “Where did you think we were?”

I can’t answer his question, though I certainly didn’t think we were so close to the Block. I expected the surrounding area to be a little more … run-down, and surprisingly, it’s not. The people here look a lot like me. They look—well,
normal
.

“This is one of the few joints we’re allowed in outside the Block,” he says. “It’s not legal per se … but the owners here are pretty decent. All the other restaurants and stores have checkpoint scanners when you enter to keep out the mystics.”

“Even the drained ones?”

He nods.

“Is that why you brought me here?”

“Sure. Also, I like the coffee.”

I look around. Java River’s customers seem to come from every walk of life: there are girls and boys my own age who don’t seem evil in the least. A group of sandy-haired young men in the window are laughing and playing cards. And at the far end of the long room are a half-dozen oldsters, sipping coffee and watching TV and arguing with each other about what they see there.

Yes, their complexions are wan; their skin is paper-thin. They look weak, fundamentally tired as a result of the drainings. But these people aren’t the menacing individuals I’ve been warned about my entire life—the deviants and drained mystics who supposedly line every street in the Magnificent Block. That is what we were taught at Florence Academy. What I was taught by my parents.

It doesn’t seem fair—if they’re drained, why can’t they go anywhere they want?

The boy seems to be reading my mind. “Not what you expected?”

“No, not exactly.”

The waitress comes with our coffee and sets the mugs down in front of us. The boy immediately takes a sip, but I stir mine with a spoon, waiting for it to cool.

We sit like this for a few minutes. I should be going. It’s late, and I still need to find Thomas. And yet, something about this mystic is compelling me to stay here.

I clear my throat. “Thank you for saving me. And for … my arm.”

The unspoken words are: for using your power to heal me.

I don’t say them out loud, for fear of who might be listening. Rebel mystics are illegal. These are the people my father hunts down on a daily basis. If he knew I was in the Depths, sitting directly across from a fully empowered mystic …

“You’re welcome.”

He leans forward. His irises are speckled with lighter shades of blue around the edges. He sips his coffee.

“My name is Aria,” I say to break the silence.

“Like from an opera.” His voice is so soft I can barely hear it.

“Well, yes, actually. My mother’s a big fan.”

“Any one in particular?”

I squint. “Why, do you know opera?”

“You assume I don’t?”

“Well, it’s just that—”

“I’m a mystic, so obviously it’s impossible for me to have even an
ounce
of culture.” His voice is tired, tinged with bitterness. “What do they teach you up there?” He points at the ceiling, but I know he means the Aeries.

“Listen, that was rude of me. I’m sure you’re cultured, of course you are. I’ve just had a bad couple of weeks, and now a really strange night. I’m sorry.” I take a big gulp of coffee. “So, um, which is your favorite?”

He stares right at me, and I can see him soften a little. Then the right corner of his mouth twitches just a little, and he breaks into an enormous grin. “I was just teasing you, mostly. I hate opera.” He puts his hand over his heart. “I’ve got more of a rocker’s soul.”

He laughs as though he’s really enjoying himself, and his entire face lights up. I start laughing, too—in fact, I can’t stop. It feels so
good
. I can’t remember the last time I laughed like this.

“A rocker, huh?” I repeat with a bit of an eye roll, but he knows he’s got me. I can see it in his eyes. “So … what do you play?”

He gives a quick nod. “Guitar.”

“I love music,” I say, trying to focus on anything—the floor, the table, my coffee—except how he smells, like smoke and sweat and salt from the canals. “My parents gave me tons of lessons when I was a kid—piano, flute, oboe—but I was never any good.”

The mystic raises an eyebrow and looks amused. “I find that hard to believe.”

“Oh?”

He looks me up and down, and I feel practically naked; the intensity of his gaze is so strong I can actually feel my stomach churn.

“I’d imagine you’re the kind of girl who is good at everything you do.”

I know he means it as a compliment, but it makes me think of the overdose. Of failing so completely. Losing my memories to Stic and disappointing my family and Thomas. The scene with Gretchen at the plummet party and the upcoming election.

I shake my head. “Not everything.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m bad at tons of things.” He offers me a smile while tracing the edge of his coffee mug with a fingertip. It’s strange to see his fingers looking so normal when I know what they can do.

“Like what?”

“School,” he says. “I was never good at math. Or science. Or anything, really. That’s why I dropped out.”

I gasp instinctively. “You dropped out of school?”

He chuckles. “There are more important things, you know. At least to some people.”

“I suppose,” I say tentatively. “So what’s important to you, then?”

The boy looks thoughtful for a moment. “Friends. Family.”

“That’s good,” I say, then immediately wonder why it matters to me that we share the same values. It’s not like I’ll ever see him again.