Mystic City (18 page)

“This is the only part of the Block that wasn’t flooded,” Hunter says, “which is why there’s still grass and trees.”

The grass is mostly green with dried patches of yellow and brown; still, it’s so soft to walk on that I want to slip off my shoes and run across the lawn in my bare feet. “This is nothing like walking in the Aeries,” I shout over the carnival noise.

The trees here are long and tall, with curving, knotted branches and leaves that spread into a canopy over the Great Lawn. In the distance, water has actually pooled in the middle of some of the lower portions of ground, creating tiny blue-green ponds scattered with lily pads. A long iron bridge covered with moss and tangled ivy covers a grander canal that runs along the far side of the lawn.

On the horizon are both the city—the foundation of the towering skyscrapers—and clusters of rocks where couples are resting, leaning back and staring at the sky.

Hunter laughs. “Having fun?” He looks stunning in the light, and for a moment I forget to breathe.

“Aria? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” I say, waving him off.

We’re walking through an aisle of makeshift booths, and then we turn the corner. To his credit, Hunter does a good job of steering me away from the crowds.

“I think I need to rest for a minute,” I say.

“Wait.” Hunter takes my hand again. “I know just the place.”

He leads me away from the carnival, through a cluster of trees
and toward what appears to be a miniature mountain. “What is this place?” I ask.

He grins. “Belvedere Castle. It was built a while ago, in the late nineteenth century. It’s something, isn’t it?”

The structure before me is practically out of a history book: the façade is made of stones of various shades of gray, and there’s a corner tower with a conical cap. The castle is enormous, rising over the Great Lawn, where the carnival is set up. It is almost hidden in a quarry of rock, with Gothic arched windows and parapet walls that glimmer like watchful eyes. There is something both spooky and majestic about it—a throwback to another time, another century, situated in the heart of the Block; a hidden jewel amid so much despair.

“It’s falling apart,” Hunter tells me. “Crazy unsafe. But sometimes I like to come here to sit and think.” He glances back at me. “Probably sounds silly to you.”

“Not at all,” I say.

We stand still, next to each other, studying the castle for a few moments. “Hunter, there’s something I want to ask you. I’d like to know …”

“Just spit it out, Aria.” Hunter roughs up his hair and stares at me with his powerful blue eyes. “What is it?”

“What’s it like to have mystic powers?” I ask.

“
That’s
what you want to know?” He looks a bit relieved.

I think about Lyrica, and Turk, and whoever must have erased the memories from my mind. “Yes,” I say. “I know it’s illegal and all, but I’m curious.”

Hunter leans back against a tree and shoves his hands into his pockets. “For me … it’s normal, I guess. I’ve never known any other life.”

“But what’s it
like
?” I move closer. We’re only a few inches away from one another. “When you healed me, and when you touch me—I
feel
something. Do you feel it, too?”

He nods. “Every mystic has a different kind of power. They’re like personalities, I guess. No two are the same. They reach maturity around the age of thirteen.”

“What’s yours?” I ask. “Healing?”

“Most mystics can heal,” he says, “that’s just part of our blood. My powers are pretty useless, I guess. I got them when I was twelve—a year earlier than most of my friends. For example, I can walk through walls.”

“You can walk through walls? Show me!”

“Oh, so now I’m some sort of freak you can order around for your amusement?”

His words make me feel awful. “No, that’s not what I meant at all. I’m sorry—”

“Aria, I’m kidding!” He takes his hands out of his pockets, rubs them together. “Relax. Wanna see me walk through something? No problemo.”

The tree that Hunter has been leaning on is thick and gray, with scaly bark and branches like claws. The trunk is six feet across, easily three times his size.

He strolls forward, a fine green glow around his figure. Then, as though there’s no tree there at all, he passes right through it. For a second he goes translucent, almost invisible, and I hear a slight
whoosh: and then he’s on the other side, the green glow fading away like the afterimage when you look into and then away from the sun. Magic.

“That was incredible!”

“Thank you, thank you,” he says, taking a bow. “I’m here all night.”

Then he walks right through the same tree again. It happens so quickly I can’t really see what happens or how his particles rearrange themselves. They just do.

“Remarkable,” I find myself saying. “It’s hard to believe.”

“Aw, shucks,” Hunter says. “You’re making me blush.”

“What other kinds of powers are there?”

“You’re not really interested in this, are you?” he asks skeptically, tilting his head. “You’re just being polite.”

“No, don’t be silly,” I say. “This is fascinating.”

He begins walking toward the castle. I follow, stepping over leaves and roots and fallen branches.

“Some mystics can take on the glamour of someone else,” Hunter says, navigating a flight of stone steps. “So you can look like a different person. But eventually it wears off. Other mystics can use their energy to affect the weather, or even the air surrounding them.” He waits for me to catch up. “I know a girl who can spin a tornado out of thin air,” he says, “and someone who can start a fire”—he snaps his fingers—“like that.”

“Can you fly?” I ask. “I’ve heard mystics can.”

Hunter shakes his head. “Myth. The only things that can fly are birds. Well, and Superman.”

“What about breathing underwater?”

“I can’t,” he says, “but my friend Marty can. Only for a few hours, though.”

“Hours?”

Hunter chuckles. “Yup.”

“What else?”

“All kinds of stuff,” Hunter says casually, counting off on his fingers. “Mystics can heal wounds—which you already know. Create light. Manipulate water. Some mystics are able to create illusions or change a solid to a liquid. Some have superhuman strength and speed. Others can use their powers to make magical barriers, which we call shields, to protect areas so that nonmystics can’t enter them.”

I’m amazed at how different all the mystic powers are from one another.

“Mystic energy can act as an enhancer,” Hunter tells me as we walk, climbing the rocks toward the castle, “which basically means that if a metal is coated in mystic energy, it can’t be broken by anything other than another piece of mystic-coated metal.” He stops for a minute. “A mystic-made weapon is beyond dangerous.”

“Is there anything mystics
can’t
do? I mean, besides fly.”

Hunter thinks for a moment and scratches his chin. “No mystic can bring someone back from the dead.”

“I’d hope not. That would be … scary.”

“I’m probably making it sound more glorious than it is.” Hunter steadies himself on a jagged rock, then jumps to another one. I follow his lead. “Plenty of us have really lame powers. I know this girl Nelly whose hand acts like a steam iron. Great against wrinkles but not much else. Or this dude Enrico who can
juggle egg-sized balls of light. Whoop-di-doo.” Hunter rolls his eyes, and I laugh.

“Why are all the powers so different?”

Hunter shrugs. “But no matter what the power is, it doesn’t mean a mystic has more or less energy inside. Every mystic burns as hot as a furnace.” He tugs on the bottom of his shirt. “Until they’re drained, anyway.”

Before I know it, we’re standing at the foot of the castle, underneath an enormous stone arch. From here I can see the entire carnival, the colors and the lights, the Magnificent Block ignited with festivities.

“This is gorgeous,” I find myself saying.

I think I hear Hunter say
You’re gorgeous
under his breath, but his eyes are elsewhere, looking up at the tower. “You know, all those things I just told you about—mystics can’t do them anymore. Because of the drainings. We used to be great people who helped build this city. Now look at us—reduced and powerless. This carnival, this bit of excitement … it’s the happiest I’ve seen anyone all year.”

It’s not fair
, I find myself thinking. I don’t want to be a part of this problem—I want to help fix it. “But how can we know that if mystics kept their powers, they wouldn’t revolt against the Aeries and kill everyone? I mean, look at the Conflagration: mystics bombed a building and hundreds of people died.”

Hunter looks at me quizzically. “Aria, is that what you think happened?”

“Of course that’s what happened.” My tone is so certain that I can’t help but second-guess myself. “Isn’t it?”

“The bomb
was
made of mystic energy,” Hunter admits, “but it was made by mystics who betrayed their own kind, who were working for the government. It was the excuse the Aeries needed to crack down on mystics everywhere. They’re the ones to blame—those few individuals. Not the entire mystic population.”

I feel like I’ve been hit in the head. “What kind of people would be so awful?”

I think of my own parents. Of what Lyrica told me. If they’re responsible for tampering with my memories … are they any worse than the mystics who betrayed their own kind?

My cheeks feel wet, and I realize I’m crying.

“Aria, don’t cry.” Hunter takes my hand to comfort me, and a jolt of energy rushes through me. I pull away.

“I’m sorry. Let me try again,” he says. “I need to figure out how to do this without hurting you.”

Slowly, he turns his palm upward. He’s waiting for me to place my hand in his, but I’m scared. Then I look into his eyes and I
feel
it: Hunter’s not going to cause me any pain. I hold my hand parallel to his, letting him know it’s okay. A gust of wind sweeps around us, making the tiny blond hairs on my arms stand up.

Carefully, he touches me again—first just with one finger, tracing the outline of my hand. The initial jolt subsides to a warm sensation, making me feel like a batch of cookies that have just been pulled from the oven. Hunter’s eyes are focused, his lips pulled together tightly as he presses the tips of his fingers against mine, one by one, until our hands are pressed together.

I study the lines of his face, the curve of his neck, and realize
I’ve never felt this intimate with anyone in my entire life. I feel as if I’m completely naked.

Hunter gently cups my cheek with his free hand. I can feel his breath warming my neck. “This is better, right?”

I try to speak but no words come out. I am flustered, boiling up inside.

He pulls his hand away and steps back. “Tell me about your family.”

“My family? What about them?”

“Your parents. What are they like?” Hunter leads me around the castle, past its crumbling columns. We sit, leaning against one of the walls, and stare out at the night. The light from the carnival and from the nearby spires reflects off one of the ponds below the castle, making the entire area glimmer.

“There’s not much to say,” I tell him. “All they care about right now is the election. They’re so scared Violet Brooks is going to win that they’re making my life a living hell. I can barely leave my room without an interrogation. And Thomas—”

I choke on his name. At first, I was mad at myself for overdosing and losing my memories of our relationship. Yes, there were things that didn’t make sense—the confusing flashes of remembering, the locket, which he didn’t give me—but they were never enough to make me truly doubt I ever loved him. But now that I know I didn’t overdose, that I’ve never used Stic, how do I know that anything I’ve been told about Thomas is true?

And yet: those letters. The passion there was real. How do those fit in with what I’ve learned from Lyrica?

“What about Thomas?” Hunter’s voice is rough, as though he’s holding back emotion.

“We’re engaged. There’s nothing more to say.”

The silence between us stretches on, and I wonder if he heard me.

“Do you love him?” Hunter asks at last.

“What kind of question is that? That’s none of your business.”

“You’re marrying him.” Hunter scoots closer, so that our legs are almost touching. “It should be an easy one. Do you love him or not?”

I sigh. “It’s … complicated.”

“Then help me understand.”

I try to think of something to say, but all I can focus on is the sight of Hunter’s knee next to mine. “I can’t. I don’t understand it myself.” I stare out at the Great Lawn. I feel so at home here with Hunter, even though the Block, the Depths, are as different from the Aeries as anything I can imagine. “What about your family?”

Hunter slumps against the wall of the castle. “What about them?”

“You know a lot about mine, but I know nothing about yours,” I say. “Why all the secrets?”

Hunter opens his mouth to speak, when the snap of a branch echoes in the air. He straightens up and looks around cautiously. “Come on.” He holds out his hand. “Let’s go.”

We walk back through the castle and are about to descend the stone stairs, when we look up, and there is a figure looming ahead of us, backlit by light from the carnival.

“Hunter, what are you doing here?” The voice is feminine yet
strong. “I thought I saw you at the carnival, and then I watched you go up this way. If someone sees you—”

The woman stops in her tracks. I recognize her face immediately: Violet Brooks, the mystic running for office.

She takes one look and clearly recognizes me.

Hunter turns to me and gulps. “Aria Rose,” he says. “Meet my mother.”

• XIII •

A voice in my head screams,
Run!

“I have to go,” I call to Hunter.

“Aria, wait!”

But I ignore him and take off, back through the carnival, over the Great Lawn, outside the Block. To the POD Hunter was going to send me to before. I don’t even glance back at Hunter and his mother to see the shocked expressions on their faces.