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? Thom
as 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.”
“I never knew,” I say, suddenly feeling a crushing guilt. My family does this.
“The drainings leave you weak for months, so weak you can barely walk at first.” He stares at me with an intensity that makes me nervous. “But it’s not about the pain. It’s the whole point. Our powers are like our souls. What your parents—what your government—make us do is killing us slowly and surely. I’ll never register, Aria. Never.”
“I understand,” I say quickly. “Really, I do.”
Hunter walks over to one of the blacked-out windows. “Besides, I have to save my powers in case I need them.”
“Need them for what?”
“Healing a cut on your leg, for one,” he says. “Or in case my mother loses the election.” He comes to where I’m sitting and places a hand on my knee. His touch is like nothing I’ve ever known; each time his skin meets mine, all I want is more, more, more.
“You’re probably wondering why we don’t live together,” Hunter says. “Me and my mom.”
“Well, yes, but—”
“Mystics didn’t always live in the open,” he says. “My grandfather was one of the first to come out.”
“They didn’t?”
Hunter shakes his head. “My ancestors have been persecuted from the beginning of time. We’ve been called everything—witches, warlocks, demons—and killed for who we are. Burned at the stake.”
“So what happened? What changed?”
“Before the First World War, when so many people emigrated to the United States for a better chance, a new life … mystics fled by the hundreds. Ellis Island welcomed us with open arms. We hid at first, establishing ourselves here, but eventually, nobody wanted to hide anymore.” Hunter clenches his fists. “Pretending to be something you’re not sucks the life out of you. Even worse than the drainings.” He relaxes his hands, stretching out his fingers. “There were a few … demonstrations of our power here in the States, and word got to President Truman. He spoke out, welcoming mystics in exchange for our help building up the cities. Once global warming set in, well, we were indispensable.”
“Until the Conflagration,” I say. It happened before I was alive, but this event—the explosion—was when people realized exactly how powerful mystics were, and what could happen if that power was used for evil instead of good.
Hunter nods. “My grandfather was killed in the explosion. My mom has followed in his footsteps, living openly, registering, trying to change the system—but I refused to be drained. I didn’t want to screw things up for her politically, though, and so I ran away, right before I was scheduled to be drained, as my power was cresting. If anyone from the Aeries asked, my mom told them she didn’t know where I was. Eventually people just forgot I existed.”
“And she’s okay with that?”
“She worries about me,” Hunter says. “Wishes we could live together. But some things are more important.”
“Like an election?”
Hunter frowns. “You don’t get it, Aria. This election is the first time we’re being taken seriously. The lower classes, the poor nonmystics, believe in my mother and are actually supporting us. No one has dared to even challenge anyone in the Aeries since the Conflagration, and now … we could win. You see what life is like around here—don’t you think it should change?”
“I—I …” I look away. How can I possibly tell Hunter that I believe in his cause, when it will mean the downfall of my family?
“Look, never mind. I shouldn’t have asked you that.” Hunter softens his voice. “I know why you came here, Aria.”
“You do?”
“You want to know about the loophole to your balcony.”
“Oh,” I say, weirdly relieved. He doesn’t know that my feelings for him are like a drug I shouldn’t have—feelings that I can barely admit to myself, let alone to him.
“But I can’t tell you that,” Hunter says. “There are things that will endanger you if you know them, and I want you to be safe. You have to trust me.”
“I barely know you,” I say.
“That doesn’t mean you can’t trust me.” Even though we’re alone, he lowers his voice. “The rebels are as split as your stupid Roses and Fosters are above. Sorry, I don’t mean you. No offense.”
“None taken,” I whisper.
“My mom leads a peaceful coalition, but there are other rebels who are preparing for a war. You probably already know about the demonstrations—that building that exploded, the family that was killed—but those are nothing compared to what will happen if my mother loses the election. There will be a revolt. And I will be fighting with them.”
I’m speechless. A war? And Hunter will be fighting against my parents?
“If anyone sees you down here, there will be trouble,” Hunter says. “Which is why, as much as I would like you to, you really can’t stay.” He leans in and I think he’s going to kiss me on the lips. I close my eyes, waiting, but all I feel is a gentle peck on my forehead. “You’re an incredibly special girl, Aria, but it’s too dangerous for us to be together. You have a fiancé and a life that doesn’t belong with mine. Go back to the Aeries,” he says, pulling away. “Where you’ll be safe.”
His words stab my soul—how can one person go from being so kind to so cold within seconds? “You didn’t seem to mind hanging out with me when you were kissing me on my roof,” I say, trying not to let my voice falter. “What could have possibly happened since then? Did you change your mind because it’s complicated?”
Hunter stares at me silently.
I stand up. “Boys are so … stupid. I thought you were different, but you’re just like Thomas. And my father.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” I say, “that you only look out for yourself.”
Hunter moves in front of me, barely an inch away from my face. “You have no idea what you’re talking about, Aria. You’re so far off from the truth, it’s crazy.”
“Then prove it.”
For a second, I think Hunter is going to take me in his arms and kiss me. But then his expression turns melancholic. “You really have to go,” he says.
He steps back and holds his hand up in the air. He concentrates for a moment; then a green circle of energy, like the one he disappeared into the other night, opens up in the middle of the subway car. The opening of the circle pulses, the energy swirling and growing like flames in a fire.
The loophole back to the Aeries, back home.
If he wants me gone, I tell myself, I’ll go. But not without saying goodbye.
I race forward and plant my lips on his. I kiss him feverishly, as though the end of the world is upon us and there is nothing left but us, together, and this final fiery expression of desire.
The locket comes to life against my chest, searing my skin. I step closer to the fiery loophole and thrust one of my hands inside. My skin prickles and stings; I feel something pulling me inside, away. I look back, over my shoulder, at Hunter.
“Come to my balcony on Monday night,” I say. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
• XVI •
“The girl literally blew up!” Kiki says.
We’re at my kitchen table, eating breakfast on Monday morning. Sund
ay passed in a blur. Thankfully, I made it back safely via the loophole on Saturday night. I had to kick open my windows and accidentally broke the lock, but otherwise? Not even a scratch.
Davida kept to herself all of Sunday; every time I went to her room or tried to find her to ask why she’d disappeared underground, she was nowhere to be seen. My mother and I discussed table settings for the wedding and decided on a floral arrangement for the centerpieces (roses, no surprise there). Garland and his wife, Francesca, came over for dinner and we discussed the election, which is just over a month away. Thomas didn’t come—no doubt he was too embarrassed about what happened the night before.
The tone of the meal was somber. My parents are worried that Violet Brooks actually could win the election—and then what? Garland and Francesca were both nice, but I wish there were something more to them. “I’m incredibly excited about your wedding, Aria,” Garland told me, flashing a bright white smile and grabbing his wife’s hand. “The day I married Franny was the happiest day of my life.”
“Oh, Garland, that’s so sweet,” Franny replied. They reminded me of a young Jack and Jackie Kennedy, only less interesting. And less Catholic.
This morning—Monday, July 18—Kiki showed up unexpectedly, just after my father left early for a meeting downtown. I’m already dressed for work, in a navy-blue pencil skirt and a white blouse with pearl buttons. The locket is still around my neck; now that I know it has powers of some sort, I’m too nervous to take it off. In the other room, Kyle is eating an egg white and broccoli omelet, watching TV alone.
“Really?” I ask. “She literally blew up?”
“Okay, well, she didn’t ‘blow up’ as much as … fizzle.” Kiki bites into an apple. “I was there, of course. Saw it all firsthand. I cannot believe I watched someone OD right before my very eyes. I am so traumatized,” Kiki says, pressing her hand to her forehead.
I’m not sure why Kiki is lying about witnessing the overdose, but she does love being the center of attention. There’s no need to call her bluff. She’s not hurting anyone.