Mystic City (22 page)

When the light hits her face, I gasp.

It’s Davida.

She must be here, I reason, to bring food to her mother. But no—if that were the case, she wouldn’t be here at all. Her mother must live with the other registered mystics in the Block.

So what is Davida doing all the way down south?

I’m tempted to call out her name, but I worry that she’ll run away. Instead, I follow her down the street to a cast-iron subway entrance. Green globes are mounted on poles on either side, the paint mostly chipped off. At one time there must have been a stairway descending into the subway, but when the system was flooded, the city sealed off the tunnels, making them impossible to enter.

Only … Elissa Genevieve told me how her team was searching for a way into the underground subway tunnels to flush out the rebels. How all the entrances are blocked with mystic shields. They can’t
really
be impossible to enter, can they?

Davida moves from shadow to shadow until she is right in front of the entrance. She positions herself directly underneath one of the globes and bows her head. Covered in black, she’s practically invisible. She reaches out and touches one of the posts, and the globe on top blazes green for a moment, then returns to normal.

And then she starts to sink.

It happens so quickly—I watch as her legs disappear, then her torso, and finally her face vanishes into the cement, as if the ground itself isn’t solid and giant hands are lurking underneath the pavement, pulling her down.

I wait for a second, checking to see if anyone witnessed this intense bit of magic. But I seem to be alone. The street is quiet, almost too quiet.

I sneak over to the entrance and examine the sidewalk. Rock solid. I stamp on the place where Davida was swallowed up. Nothing happens. I grab the same post she did, but the globe doesn’t light up.

The entryway itself is plugged with cement and sealed off with a metal cover. I kick it with my foot and immediately regret doing so. The cover is completely solid, and now my toes hurt.
Nice going, Aria. Those shoes were expensive
.

I think for a moment. I saw Davida light up the globe with her touch. Why didn’t that happen for me?
She’s a mystic
, I think.
I’m not
.

I wipe sweat from my neck with the back of my hand. I may not be a mystic, but this locket certainly has some kind of power. What if …

A few steps and I plant my feet right where Davida stood, underneath the far globe of the entryway. I unclasp the locket. My stomach fills with a nervous, tingly feeling, but I touch the silver heart to the post anyway: as soon as the two pieces of metal meet, the globe on top ignites with color.

And then the cement and the metal covering beneath my feet liquefy.

The drop is quick. My legs feel like they’re being squeezed in vises; my chest deflates; my arms ache like they’re being pricked with dozens of needles. My entire body is
hot
. I look up as the Depths disappear from view. What if I fall into nothingness—or get stuck? My neck is almost at the pavement now, and I breathe as deeply as I can and shut my eyes.

I pass through.

I hit the ground and open my eyes. I’ve fallen onto a flight of stairs. Above me, the cement ceiling ripples, like a pool of water after you’ve thrown a stone into it. I reach up and touch it. At first it’s solid, but then it flows away from my touch.

I stumble down the stairs, which end on a platform at the mouth of a darkened tunnel. The walls around me are covered with tiny colored tiles, and there are sconces afire with mystic light on either side of me. This isn’t an abandoned station; it’s clear this place is an active hideaway for people who don’t want to be found.

Not people, I think.
Rebel mystics
.

The thought makes me shudder. I recall the ad I filmed in the wreckage of one of their explosions. I’m naive if I think they’re all as nice as Hunter. If Hunter is even nice. Who knows what he wants from me?

What have I gotten myself into? There’s no going back, though—only forward. I’ll find Davida, and she’ll explain everything.

I glance around at what must have been a waiting area for people to board the subway. The ground is slick with grime and eroded from where, at one point, it must have been completely flooded. I walk to the edge of the platform. The subway tracks are full of
muddied brown water. The tunnels seem to run in a continuous long line, but the only way to get down them is to swim.

Then I see a strip of concrete a few inches above the water level. I can’t see far enough to know how long it is, but there’s nowhere else to go. So I start down the tunnel, into the inky dark.

I can’t see Davida, but I hear footsteps ahead of me and assume they’re hers.

With a soft splash, I step into warm, shallow water. The ground angles downward, and the water gets deeper and deeper. Another step, and I sink to my calves into the water. If I continue along this route, I’ll have to breast-stroke my way through.

No thanks. I feel along the wall and look up: there’s just enough light to make out rungs set into the concrete—a metal ladder. I slosh toward them, climb up, and soon find myself on a ledge above the tunnel. My shoes are ruined now; I’d kick them off completely, but who knows what I’d step in.

I advance, and a lightbulb embedded in the wall blinks on. The ledge connects to what I can now see is a network of metallic catwalks. These are not the flooded, abandoned subway tunnels we were taught about in school. Someone has put a lot of work into this place—a lot of mystic work. No one else could have done this.

I take another step. Another light blinks on, and the one behind me goes off. There must be a series of lights, all on sensors. Which means that every step I take can potentially alert someone to my presence.

Way up ahead, I see lights blink on and off—those must be from Davida.

I quicken my pace and follow the catwalk along the flooded tunnels, and eventually I reach an archway. On the other side, everything is awash with light. There are many sconces here, many more than in the tunnels, and they burn a bright green, but the color seems somehow soft, not overwhelming.

It seems like I’ve stumbled upon some type of intersection. Below me is a flat square of earth, higher than the water level but lower than the catwalks.

The tunnels continue to run past this place in parallel lines—but to my left and right, parts of the earth have been hollowed out, making it possible to travel from tunnel to tunnel without having to go aboveground. It’s likely that some of the rebels make their homes in these makeshift tunnels. Which means they could be anywhere, watching me. Ready to attack.

I need to get out of sight.

I swing my leg over the railing, figuring I can drop to the ground, where it’s a bit darker, but my dress gets caught, and I’m stuck. The fabric is snagged on a tiny tooth of metal—I tug at it, wrenching it back and forth, climbing back onto the catwalk and trying to free myself without ripping the dress, but I fail utterly.

With a loud noise, the skirt rips hem to hip, and I end up slicing my leg in the process.

“Ow!” I cry out, then cover my mouth with my hand, praying no one heard me. Blood immediately seeps out of the cut, a long line of red up my calf.

This night just gets worse and worse.

Suddenly, there’s a pounding on the catwalk from the shadows straight ahead. It sounds like a herd of elephants.

Someone heard me.

The lights blink on and off so quickly that it’s impossible to tell who or
what
is coming at me. That is, until the light bounces off a familiar head of golden-blond hair.

Hunter.

“Aria?” He’s dressed in a black T-shirt that shows off his muscles, and a slim pair of gray jeans. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Nice to see you, too.”

He blinks. “Sorry. I mean … hi.”

“Hi.”

He smiles hesitantly. “Seriously, though: what are you doing here?”

“I was looking for you,” I say, the words rushing out.

He places his hands on my shoulders and draws me into a hug. “It’s not safe for you here,” he whispers. “Come on.”

Hunter stands back and takes my hand. This time, his touch doesn’t elicit anything more than a tiny spark inside me. It’s a thrilling spark, sure, but it’s not the wild, humming thrill I felt the first time we touched. It’s more like a soft sense of warmth—of comfort. He must’ve learned how to better control his energy.

He leads me along the catwalk. We turn right, down another tunnel. “What is this place?” I ask.

“After the Conflagration,” Hunter says, “all the mystics were forced to register with the government and have their powers drained. But some refused and burrowed into these old tunnels, which were flooded and unsafe.” Hunter smiles and I feel a different kind of warmth. “I say
were
because the mystics cleared most
of the abandoned tunnels. It was the work of decades, and it cost lives. But thanks to their work, the tunnels are here for those of us who want to escape the drainings. Us ‘rebels’ have been hiding out down here ever since.”

It’s grown brighter as Hunter talks, and all of a sudden the tunnel opens up into another subway station. It’s like the station I first saw when I dropped through the seal, only this one is preserved. Lived in. Mosaics cover the walls. I see platforms with benches where passengers used to wait for the subways, polished turnstiles—and an actual
train
with cars.

“Oh wow,” I say, letting Hunter help me off the catwalk and onto the platform.

I run my hands along the side of a silver subway car. The metal is cool to the touch. Its windows have been blacked out, and even though the subway is old and unattractive, especially compared to a light-rail car, I can’t help but be impressed. It makes me long for a simpler time, a time without mystics and Fosters and Roses.

“This is what people used to get around.” There’s a wide smile across Hunter’s face; he seems happy to be able to share this piece of history with me.

“Where are the fingerscans?”

Hunter laughs and points to one of the turnstiles. “No scans. People used to buy tokens that they would drop into a slot, and the turnstile arm would turn.”

I laugh, too. “It cost money to ride the subway? That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s true,” he tells me, resting one of his hands on my back. I
nearly melt at his touch and the power from his fingertips seems to soothe me.

It hardly feels dangerous at all.

“Remember when you asked me at the carnival where I lived? Welcome to my humble abode, Ms. Rose,” he says, bowing like an actor at the end of a play.

“Why, thank you,” I say, curtseying. I giggle, which makes Hunter laugh, too, harder this time. He’s so handsome when he laughs I can hardly stand it. He presses his hand to one of the subway cars, and the door opens. “Want to come inside for a spot of tea?” he says, affecting a British accent.

“I’d love to,” I say.

Hunter extends his arm and I enter the subway car. I nearly faint from shock.

I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this: the subway car is an actual
home
. I’d pictured rebels living in rough-and-tumble circumstances, sleeping in tents on the ground or huddled next to trash can fires, dirty and desperate.

But the inside of this subway car has been converted into an apartment. Not my parents’ apartment, granted, but a comfortable one nonetheless. There’s a kitchen with a breakfast nook, a stove, and cabinets. A long sofa is pushed up against one of the walls, piled with soft-looking pillows, and there are metal bookshelves full of books—plays and novels and collections of histories of Manhattan. A turquoise guitar is resting on a stand next to the sofa; I remember that Hunter told me he loved music that first night at Java River.

“My very own bachelor pad,” Hunter says.

“It’s wonderful,” I tell him. I walk over to a picture of him and his mother. Hunter looks about ten years old; they’re both smiling, seemingly without a care in the world. This is what I love about pictures—the ability to capture a moment in time that you can never get back.

“Aria, you’re bleeding,” Hunter says.

I glance down at my leg—he’s right. The cut looks deeper and more serious than it did before, and a trail of blood has stained my skirt and my skin.

“Stand still,” Hunter says, and presses his hand to my leg. I watch the green glow surround his hand—it feels like a heat lamp has been placed over the cut. My skin seems to sizzle and blaze, and it hurts sharply for a moment, and then the glow is gone and everything is back to normal. No more cut.

Hunter walks over to his sink and dampens a washcloth. He wrings it out, then kneels on the floor and gently wipes the blood off my leg. His touch is delicate as he moves from my ankle to my calf, rubbing in tiny circles, leaving me nearly breathless.

He lifts the washcloth and lightly kisses the spot where the cut was. His eyes are trained on mine, ocean-blue and sparkling with delight. “All better,” he says, standing up and dropping the cloth in the sink.

I’m still standing in the middle of the subway car when he asks, “How did you get down here, Aria? All the entrances are blocked with mystic foils.”

“I followed someone,” I tell him, which is … 
sort of
the truth.
“That person opened up something, and I was able to get through. I was desperate to talk to you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Is everything okay?”

I sit on the edge of his sofa. Where to start—the girl OD’ing on Stic at the party? Thomas OD’ing on Gretchen? Davida skulking around South Street Seaport like a spy?

Instead, I turn the tables on him. “Why don’t you just register? Wouldn’t it be … easier?”

Hunter goes rigid. “Easier? Look, Aria, if I register, then I have to get drained.” He pauses. “Do you have any idea how much that hurts?”

I think of Tabitha, who told me about the lights, and Hunter’s mom—both registered mystics. “Not really. I mean, a little bit.”

He stands. “They hook you up to this horrible machine and stick you everywhere with wires. Then they suck the life out of you—or just about. All your power, everything that makes you who you are—and capture it in some glass tubes. I’ve heard the pain is like knives slicing open every inch of your skin.”