Mystic City (11 page)

I feel around in the gloom under her bed and catch my thumb on the pointed edge of a metal box. I grab either side of it and pull until the thing is in full sight. The box is long enough to store a rifle, like the ones my father keeps in a glass case in his library. There are two clasps. I undo them, lift the lid, and peer inside.

Inside are some of the birthday gifts I have given Davida over the years: an aMuseMe with her favorite songs already downloaded, tiny porcelain dolls with beautifully etched faces, a bounty of jeweled rings and necklaces, an electronic reader with some of my favorite books.

And gloves.

Dozens upon dozens of gloves, all black, neatly folded and stacked in pairs. They look as though they’ve never been worn—impeccably clean and pressed, no lines or creases.

I pick up a pair and study them: they are linked together by a tiny metal clasp, which I unhook. They feel odd, soft yet durable, as though you could drag a knife across the palm and the material wouldn’t tear. The oddest thing about them, though, are the fingertips, each of which is decorated with almost imperceptible circular whorls that I’ve never noticed before.

I slip one on, and it fits perfectly. I flex my hands and the fingertip whorls immediately start to warm, filling my entire body with a subtle, inexplicable kind of heat.

I extend my hand and stare: What
are
these?

I rip off the glove and fix it back to its partner. I might as well keep them for a little while—there are so many pairs, Davida will never know if one is missing.

Then I pack up everything as it was and leave.

Back in my room, I tuck the gloves and my clutch safely in the back of my armoire.

After a hot bath, I dress in a worn flannel nightgown and press off my bedroom lights. Then I press open the curtains and watch as the city slowly comes into view. The mystic spires are alight with flashes of color. I study them, hoping their oscillation will soothe me to sleep: white to yellow to green.

The change of colors is so fast it’d be easy to miss. But I’ve been looking at these spires for years.

Eventually I slip underneath my covers, close my eyes, and wait for sleep to overtake me.

“Come,” he says, taking my hand as we move in the moonlight—away from the noises of the main canal, onto a narrow street barely wide enough for us to walk side by side
.

Reflections of the buildings appear on the water. We run over a tiny bridge. He is in front of me, his hair whipping in the wind
.

“Wait!”

“There’s no time. They’re after us.”

He turns to me. I expect to see Thomas’s face—only I don’t. I see nothing more than a dark circle, covered in a veil of fog
.

“Thomas? Is that you?”

“I’m here.” He reaches out and pulls me to him. “Don’t worry.”

I frantically try to wipe away the fog. But the more I try to see him, the darker he becomes, until he’s barely there at all, until he’s nothing more than a shadow
.

• VIII •

“The mystics will ruin us all!” I scream, clinging to Thomas for dear life and pointing at the man with the sallow skin.

“Cut!”

As soon as the cameras stop rolling, a crew of makeup artists rush over to me, blotting the sweat from my cheeks.

Thomas keeps his arm around me, and I survey the scene of the crime.

The rebel demonstration from the previous night has taken out an entire skyscraper. Explosives were detonated from inside—they shot upward, slicing through the building from the Depths to the Aeries. Thankfully, the occupants were mostly commercial; the only folks who lived there were the poor in the Depths, and it seems they’d been given warning and evacuated. Since the damage was done at night, everyone in the Aeries had already gone home. The explosion was mostly for show.

Unfortunately, thirty floors from the top, the walls burst and toppled over onto one of the connective bridges, snapping the wire cables and crushing a family of five who were heading home from dinner.

“Aria,” calls the director of the ad. He saunters over to where Thomas and I are standing—on a bridge perpendicular to the damaged one.

“Yes?”

The director, Kevan-Todd, wipes the top of his shaved head and frowns. “I didn’t find your fear believable.”

I slip off the mask I’m forced to wear to protect me from the still-settling debris. From a distance, my mother and some city officials look on, craning their necks to see if there’s a problem. I want to say that this is ridiculous. There’s an actor named James pretending to be a mystic, his body lathered in foundation to make him look sickly, and Kevan-Todd is worried that
I’m
not believable. But I know the ad is important to the campaign, so I get ready for another take.

Thomas squeezes my hand, trying to comfort me. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I guess I’m just nervous.”

“Why don’t you pretend the camera is your best friend?” Kevan-Todd suggests. “And you’re just having a casual conversation.”

I lift an eyebrow. “A casual conversation about an explosion?”

Thomas lets out a sigh. “Aria.”

“All right, all right,” I say, slipping the mask back on. “I’ll try harder.”

Kevan-Todd whips his head around to the rest of the crew. “Okay, guys. Take nine. And let’s fix the body bags, hmm? We want them to look like real dead bodies, not deflated donuts.”

One of the men rushes over to a group of long black duffels, punching them on the sides to make them seem fuller. I’m not sure
what’s in them, but the people who actually died last night are already in the crematorium. Later today, their ashes will be scattered in the canals, which is where most people dispose of their loved ones.

“Aaannd … action!”

The cameras pan over the wreckage of the building and the bridge, then focus on Thomas. “I’m Thomas Foster,” he says in a slick voice, “and this is my fiancée, Aria Rose. Last night, a mystic explosion took the lives of an innocent family. This is exactly the sort of wicked terrorist bombing that our two families have joined together to put an end to. If elected mayor, my brother, Garland, will fight to keep the Aeries safe. To keep
you
safe.”

He pauses, and I wait for him to continue. Kevan-Todd waves his hands frantically, and I realize that I’ve nearly missed my cue.

“The
mystics
will ruin us
all
!”

Then I faint into Thomas’s arms.

“Cut!” Kevan-Todd hollers. He shoots me a tepid smile. “Well … that’s a wrap!”

Thomas yanks off his mask. “Nice job, sweetie.” He kisses my cheek. “I’m going to get some water. You want any?”

“Sure,” I say, distracted by the screams coming from the opposite bridge, where a slew of teenagers have gathered to watch the filming. Thankfully, they’ve been contained and the area we’re in is secure, but I can hear their shouts:

“Aria! We love you!”

“Thomas is so hot!”

“I want to marry you both!”

I have to laugh because I’m so embarrassed. I’ve always been in the public eye, but I’ve never felt like a celebrity before. Two girls wave handmade banners that read:

FORBIDDEN LOVE FOREVER!

It flatters
and
worries me that our romance is more important to people in the Aeries than an explosion. Than death.

I motion to Thomas, wanting to know what he makes of all this attention, only he’s off chatting with some girls who have VIP passes and are holding out TouchMes for him to sign electronically.

My mother approaches and gives me a pat on the shoulder. “You were … good, Aria.” She squeezes out the compliment as if saying it were physically painful. “The ad should be ready to run by the end of the week. We’re going to play it in the Depths, make sure that as many people down there see it as possible.”

Few of the poor can afford their own television sets, so the city has installed jumbo screens in certain high-traffic areas down below for government announcements. I guess those screens will also broadcast the ad.

“I’m going to Olive and Pimentos for a fitting,” Mom continues. “My outfit for the rehearsal dinner is done. Or so I’ve been told.” She rolls her eyes. “You never know with these people. Would you like to come with me?”

I glance back at Thomas, who’s still signing autographs. He and Garland are heading to an election strategy meeting soon, and I’d prefer not to be stuck alone with my mother.

Especially when I’m planning to sneak back down to the Depths.

“Actually, I promised I’d meet Kiki for lunch.”

“I’d rather you not,” she says with a toss of her head. “There’s no one to chaperone you; Klartino and Stiggson are on business with your father.”

“But I don’t need a chaperone.”

“That was before,” my mother says.

“Before what?”

She tilts her head. “Do you really need me to spell it out for you, Aria? Before you
snuck out
after
overdosing
!”

“Mom, I’m sorry. Really.” I give her a pleading look. “Besides, Kiki and I are planning the
wedding
!” It’s surprising how easy it is to make up stories for my mother. “She’s promised to help me figure out who my bridesmaids should be—God knows I can’t remember enough to know who should stand with me.”

My mother rests her palm against my cheek. “Poor thing. A little wedding planning is probably just what you need.” She looks around, as if convincing herself that there are no lurking dangers, then smiles warmly. “Just be sure you’re back in time for dinner with the governor. You know how your father hates for his children to be late!”

Apparently, I need to feign excitement for wedding planning more often. I feel bad for lying to her, but not
too
bad. I kiss her cheek, then say a quick goodbye to Thomas and strike off for the light-rail, waving until they’re out of sight.

And then I’m off to the Magnificent Block.

The gondolier pulls up to one of the blue-and-white hitching posts that dot the edges of all the canals, and the boat automatically stops. “Here you are, miss,” the old man says, looping a rope around the post and dragging the gondola against the elevated sidewalk.

If he recognizes me, he doesn’t mention it. I’ve brushed my hair out to cover my face as much as I can, but I’m still wearing my dress from the filming: yellow jersey studded with Swarovski crystals, a thick turquoise belt with a silver buckle, and high-heeled sandals that tie around my ankles. I am slightly worried that I’m being tracked, but so far I’ve been lucky. Either no one has cared to check any of the POD transit histories as of late, or I have my very own Grid guardian angel.

I’d put my money on the former.

Everything in the Depths is much different in the daylight: the water is dingier and browner, the stench—like rotting fish—worse than I remember, the people oddly cheerier. The streets and raised walkways are aswarm with men and women hustling to and fro with bundles under their arms and children attached to their hands. I hop out of the boat and onto a set of cracked steps. It’s so hot you could fry an egg on my skin.

“Thank you,” I say, dropping a few coins into the gondolier’s palm.

A few feet ahead, I see the awning of Java River and step inside.

The old-fashioned bell on the door jingles. People turn to look, then go back to their cups of coffee and plates of sweets. I warm at the sight—the large booths and framed pictures on the walls, the glass case filled with baked goods near the register, the waitress
with a piercing in her nostril who served me and Hunter the other night.

I sit down in one of the empty booths. “What can I get you?” the waitress asks.

“Water.” Before she can walk away, I add, “And I have a question.”

“Well?” she says, tapping one shoe on the tile. “I don’t got all day.”

I clear my throat. “I was here the other night, with a boy.” She stares at me blankly. “A boy named Hunter. He has, um, sort of blondish hair. Kinda rough-looking, but very handsome. Not a model, but—you know … modelesque?”