I step toward her and extend my arms, palms up. Then I shut my eyes. Davida’s fingertips brush mine and my skin begins to buzz. I feel a pull, as if something inside me—my blood, my organs, my soul—is being yanked out through my pores.
The pull subsides and settles into a warm throbbing that isn’t entirely unpleasant. Just strange. Every strand of hair on my body feels alive, and there is a crackle of energy in the air around me.
“Open your eyes,” Davida says.
When I do, I am staring at myself: at my wavy brown hair, still wet from the shower, at my hazel eyes, irises alert with green flecks, at the turn of my nose and the sharp cut of my cheekbones, at my jaw and my lips and my white, white teeth.
Davida looks just like me.
“I can borrow someone’s appearance,” Davida says. The only thing about her that isn’t me is her voice. “Cast a disguising glamour on myself and others. That’s my talent.”
Tentatively, I reach out and touch her, running a finger from her temples to her chin, softly, slowly, and down her neck to her collarbone. This is my body. How strange!
There is a rustling outside, from the balcony. In a blur of color, Davida is herself again; the change happens so quickly it’s remarkable. She rushes over to my bed and puts her gloves back on.
I go over to the windows and open them, stepping out onto the balcony in my bare feet. No one is here.
“False alarm,” I say. “Too many mystics coming to visit lately. Puts me on edge, I guess.”
Davida climbs out behind me and scans the balcony. She points to a tiny green pill lodged between two paving stones. “A mystic wouldn’t be taking Stic.” Davida holds the pill up to the light, then shoves it in her pocket. “Only someone who needed a power boost to get to this balcony in the first place. Somebody is spying on you. Or trying to, at least.”
She pulls me back inside, shutting the windows behind us. “Don’t open these again,” she instructs, fixing the latch. “I mean it.”
The next morning, Thomas shows up uninvited to escort me to work.
“You really don’t have to come with me,” I say as we leave my apartment building. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since Bennie’s party. My father’s man Stiggson trails a few feet behind us. Klartino and my father left a few minutes before us.
“Don’t be silly. I’ve been waiting for a moment alone with you.” Thomas takes a bouquet of white roses from behind his back. “Pretty, huh?”
I study them. “Did you know that in the War of the Roses, giving someone a white rose was a sign of betrayal, like a warning that soon after, that person would be killed? Are you trying to tell me something?”
“Geez, of course not, Aria,” Thomas says. His grin falters as he tosses the flowers to the ground. “What’s with you?”
“What’s with me?”
He reaches for my hand, but I pull away, walking a few steps ahead of him over one of the silvery bridges glinting in the light of the morning sun. The air is sticky-hot. We’re silent for a few moments, and then he stops me outside the rail station.
He pulls a tiny velvet box out of his pocket. “Here. Maybe this’ll cheer you up.”
I take the box from him and open it. Inside is the most gorgeous engagement ring I’ve ever seen. The central gem, an oval-cut pink diamond, is surrounded by a cluster of tiny rubies and white diamonds.
It stares out at me from the plush box, mocking me.
“It took longer than I expected, but the jeweler finally finished the engraving.” He takes out the ring, and shows me the inside: Aria & Thomas is etched lightly into the band. Then he slips it onto my finger. I want to protest, but Stiggson is watching. “I’m so sorry about the party,” he says. “It’s not what you think. I hope you didn’t tell anyone.”
I laugh. “What is it, then?” I ask, keeping my voice down. “And no, I didn’t. But not because of you—I don’t care what you do, Thomas.”
“She came on to me,” Thomas says. “You have to believe me, Aria. I would never cheat on you. I love you—”
“Don’t,” I say, holding up one of my hands. “Don’t say that. You don’t mean it.”
“But I do,” he says urgently. “I love you, Aria.”
“You wouldn’t have cheated on me if you loved me. That’s not how love works.”
Thomas rolls back his shoulders in defeat. “What do I have to do to convince you that I’m telling the truth?”
I think for a moment. “My letters.”
“Huh?” Thomas says, confused.
“Bring me the love letters I wrote you. I want to see them.”
Thomas rubs his forehead. “Aria, what are you talking about?”
“Love letters—I found them in my bedroom.”
I wait for his response. Does he know about the letters? If he’s able to produce them, well … that changes things. But if he’s not, it only confirms my suspicion that our relationship was completely fabricated by our parents. That we probably never even met before the night of our engagement party.
Thomas looks up at me, frowning. “I—I don’t have them. I didn’t save them.”
“Oh.” I decide to give him one more chance. “What did you call me in the letters? What was your name for me?”
Thomas raises a hand to my forehead. “Are you sick? Do you have a fever?”
“No,” I say, shaking his arm away. Even if he didn’t save the letters, if he’d written them, he’d know to call me Juliet. “Are you a drug dealer?” I’m surprised I even asked—but there you have it.
“What?” he asks, his eyes widening in shock. “What are you talking about?”
“Are you a drug dealer?” I repeat. “Do you deal Stic or anything else?”
He shakes his head violently. “Of course not.”
“Then why did someone at Bennie’s party tell me you do?”
Thomas opens his mouth, but no words come out. “I don’t know,” he says eventually. “But whoever it was … they were lying.”
I clench my hand into a fist. “Why would someone lie about that to me?”
We stand together in silence. Thomas hooks his thumbs in his belt and stands incredibly still, looking like a lost boy. I shake my head, pushing past him and into the station, Stiggson on our heels. “Don’t call me until you have an answer,” I tell him.
When Stiggson isn’t looking, I slip off the ring and hide it in my clutch.
Later that night, after work, dinner, and a session with a dress designer who draped me in fabric swatches and took all my measurements, when I still haven’t heard from Hunter and I am beginning to go crazy with worry, I sneak into the Depths.
Kyle is out with Bennie, my parents are at a political strategy session with the Fosters, and I’m home alone. I haven’t heard a peep from Thomas. Tonight, Violet Brooks is speaking at a massive rally in the Magnificent Block. I saw news coverage at work with the details; everyone was buzzing about it. Attending will be dangerous, but surely Hunter will be there. And going is my best shot at finding him.
I dress in dark, loose-fitting clothes and wear my hooded cloak despite the heat. I brush my hair forward so that it covers most of my face, and hope I won’t be recognized. I’m about to sneak down the back elevator when I feel a tap on my shoulder.
I spin around. It’s Davida. She’s wearing her uniform, plus a thin cloak—much like the one she made me, the one I lost the first time I went into the Depths.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“I’m coming with you.”
“What? No. It’s too dangerous.”
“I know where you’re going, Aria. And it will be safer if I’m there with you.” She pauses. “No secrets, remember?”
I nod. Davida knows the truth about Hunter and me, and I know the truth about her. “Fine,” I say. “Besides”—I give her a tiny grin—“I could use help with directions.”
We each use a pair of gloves to fool a POD scanner, then hire a gondola to the Magnificent Block. We disembark ne
ar where Lyrica lives and head over a series of bridges, over the alleyways of water, and into the Block itself.
“This way,” Davida says. It’s so much easier to navigate these streets with her by my side. She makes sure to keep us out of the light, hidden in shadows—safe. If anyone recognizes me, tonight of all nights, well … who knows what could happen.
We enter the Block and I’m startled by its beauty: dozens and dozens of men and women are ahead of us on the walkways, carrying bits of mystic light ensconced in tubular holders.
“Here,” Davida says, passing me a tube from a man standing behind us, who’s carrying extras. She holds it in front of her face; the tube emits a soft white glow that plays across her features. I glance ahead, at all the lights and the people moving toward the Great Lawn. The glow from the tubes trickles into the night sky, reflects off the creaking metal walkways, and glints off the surface of the oily water beneath.
We move at a slow pace as the crowd grows. At last, we reach the open space where the carnival was held—only now a stage has been set up, and there are thousands of people crowded around it.
“It’s not just mystics here tonight.” Davida leads me to a spot on the lawn where we’ll have a good view of Violet. “The poor, too, who live elsewhere in the Depths—actually, the crowd is mostly made of nonmystics, which is a pretty good thing. We need all the support we can get.”
I glance around for Hunter or Turk, but don’t see them. I wonder if Davida’s family is here. I pull my cloak tighter, making sure to hide my face, and tip my hood back slightly so that I have a better view of the stage.
Violet Brooks’s amplified voice rings out through the night. “It is time that we are free people,” she is saying, “that we are treated like equals.”
There is a roar from the crowd.
“We should not be drained of our life force. We should be revered for it! We mystics were the ones who helped build Manhattan and its sister cities, Los Angeles, Chicago, and Austin, and made it possible for society to thrive despite the rising water levels and the dire effects of global warming. We built the Aeries. We healed the sick. We made the Damascus iron and steel, the metals that support the weight of the elite.
“And what is our reward? Required drainings—which will be increased if Garland Foster is elected. Those in the Aeries look at us like batteries: things to charge their city. They look at us and see a cheap energy source. But we are not batteries! We are people!”
Davida raises the light in her hands; a few others raise their lights, too. “She’s trying to motivate registered mystics to actually vote,” Davida says. “Technically, if you’re registered with the government, you have the right to. If she can win over the poor and get the mystics to actually place their votes, we’ll outnumber the people in the Aeries. But usually no one votes, because the only options are, well …”
I shrug. “Don’t worry. I get it.”
Violet continues, “But now you have a real choice: elect another of those evil leeches who have sucked this city dry? Or a mystic, who understands your suffering and sacrifice?”
Violet Brooks raises her hands over her head and the crowd erupts in applause. In her simple black blazer and pants and her white shirt, she looks like a tiny speck of a person from where we sit. What can she possibly hope to do to stop the Roses and the Fosters? But the deafening roar of approval makes clear her power: she may be tiny, but behind her stand thousands.
“When I am elected, I will stop the drainings! There’s already enough energy on reserve to last a century—they drain us now to keep us weak. Because they fear us.
“Manhattan, it is time for a change. When I am elected,” Violet continues, “no longer will mystics be segregated. No more will the rich live high above and the poor down below. We will be one city—united by our love for New York and for each other.”
The crowd hoots and hollers in response. Some boys around our age stand on each other’s shoulders and wave their lights in the sky. Next to me, a woman and her husband are clutching each other, smiling.
It’s here, in this moment, surrounded by people I have never met and listening to Violet speak about a future Manhattan with equal rights for every citizen, that I realize I want Violet to defeat Garland and win the election—no matter what that means for my family. I hear myself cheering with everyone else.
“She has a way with words, don’t you think?” Davida says.
“Definitely.” I inch closer to her, our arms touching. “I’m glad you came with me. It means more, listening to this with you here.”
Davida smiles—her lips curl up and her face radiates happiness. As soon as she does, I realize how distant we’ve become over the last few years. How much I’d like for us to be friends again.
“I’m glad I came, too,” she says.
At the podium, Violet stands proudly, pumping her fists high in the air.
And then she drops to the ground.
The noise of the crowd is so loud that it’s difficult to tell what’s happened at first, but then I hear it distinctly: the sound of gunshots ripping through the sky.
“Get down!” people start shouting, and then there’s a suffocating commotion as the people around me try to evacuate the lawn. People who were cheering only moments before have gone wild, almost feral. The crowd surges around us, squeezing my chest and lifting me off my feet. “Davida!” I scream. “Davida!”
Violet Brooks is hustled offstage, likely to safety. It’s the last thing I see before the hood of my cloak falls forward, over my eyes. Bloodcurdling screams pierce the air; it sounds like people being trampled underfoot.
I fall to the ground and begin to crawl, yanking back my hood so I can see. I look around frantically, searching for Davida. Where is she?
The rush of people fighting to pass me is too intense—men and women are getting elbowed in the stomach, punched in the face, shoved aside. Instead of trying to leave the lawn, I step back onto a thick patch of grass, toward a cluster of trees.
“Davida!” I spot her a few feet away—she’s okay, and seems to have the same idea I do. A man knocks her to the side as he runs past her. She stumbles toward me, reaching out for my hand. I grab it and pull her back, into the trees.
The crowd surges forward like a stampede of animals. It’s strange to watch from outside, how the faces and bodies seem to blur together until they look like one solid mass.
We catch our breath for a few minutes, and eventually the crowd thins. People pick themselves up off the ground and begin to walk. There’s no more yelling or screaming. Fallen tubes are everywhere, cracked glass scattered across the lawn.
“Are you all right?” Davida asks me, wiping her gloves on her pant legs and whisking off her cloak.
My wrists and elbows are sore, but otherwise, I’m fine. “Yeah, are you?”
She nods. “Did you see what happened to Violet? Is she—”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I hope she’s safe.”
I could have lost my life tonight. And Violet Brooks most certainly could have lost hers, if she hasn’t already. The only people who’d want to assassinate her are my parents and the Fosters.
The realization sickens me. Is there no end to what my parents will do to get their way? Will they stop at nothing, leaving a trail of dead bodies in their wake?
I am racked with guilt. With anger. If my parents tried to kill Violet Brooks tonight, then surely Hunter will be in danger if they find out who he is. They already did … something to me, their own daughter. My father will not hesitate to murder Hunter.
Hunter is good at covering his tracks, at living as a rebel without being caught, even when he’s in the Aeries. At basically disappearing off the Grid. But what if that’s not enough? I will protect him. And I’ll protect the people in the Depths if I can, poor people who want a better life, mystics who want equality.
And most of all, I think as Davida clings to my arm and we exit the Great Lawn, I will protect myself.
• XI
X •
At work the next day, I sit back and watch the higher-ups—two dozen men and women—trickle past my cubicle and upstairs to my father’s conference room for an emergency meeting. Most likely to discuss the failed assassination attempt. Patrick Benedict hustles out of the room with the stainless steel door, and we lock eyes as he passes.
I wait for a familiar sound without even realizing it: the click of the door latch locking behind him. It never comes.
The attempt on Violet Brooks has been all over the newsfeeds: it was confirmed early this morning that one of her bodyguards lost his life; she and the rest of her team escaped unharmed.
I stand up from my cubicle just as my TouchMe buzzes: Kiki. I let it go straight to voice mail. I already owe her a half-dozen phone calls. What’s one more?
The few people who don’t have their noses pressed up against their TouchMes are busy upstairs. A better opportunity may never come.
As casually as possible, I walk over to the water fountain and take a drink. Then, after a moment, I stroll to the keyless door—it is ajar a quarter inch. I have my hand against it and am about to push it open when—
I feel a tap on my shoulder.
I whirl around and see Elissa Genevieve staring down at me. “Here,” she says calmly. “Allow me.” Then she reaches past, pushes open the door, and we’re inside.
I really don’t know what I was expecting.
A secret office where Patrick hid important files on me, on Hunter, or even on Violet Brooks and her father, Ezra Brooks? Assassination plans mapped out and tacked to the walls? An armory full of mystic-powered long-range weapons? Video feeds from every camera in the Aeries and the Depths, tracking every citizen through every step of the day?
What’s inside is nothing like any of that.
I follow Elissa down a long hallway. Our heels clop loudly against the tiled floor, and my breathing is so labored I can hear it. At the end of the hallway is a white door that opens onto a flight of stairs. We descend one floor, and there’s another doorway, this time with a retina scan; Elissa submits her eye; the door unlocks, and she hurries me through before it closes.