Lyrica is practically on her toes, her arm reaching toward the ceiling, fingers extended. She stretches out her arm until—
She makes a fist and the connection between her and the orb is broken. There’s a huge flash as the rays of energy fizzle and pop like burned-out lightbulbs.
And then she sinks to the floor.
“Lyrica!” I say. The strange connection between us is broken, and I no longer feel the effects of the mystic energy. “Are you all right?”
She stares up at me with glassy eyes. “Yes. Just … tired.”
I help her to her feet and sit her back in her chair. Her face is ashen; she takes a few deep breaths, and I fetch her a glass of water. When I return from the kitchen, some of the color has returned to her cheeks.
“I’m not as young as I used to be,” she says, drinking. “But you have been tagged, Aria.”
“Hunter checked, though,” I say again. I let my eyes wander over my arms, hands, legs. “Where is it?”
Lyrica lowers her eyes. “On your spirit, Aria.”
“You mean my soul?”
She nods. “I am sorry to have to tell you. But at least now you know.”
Thomas. He knew there was a tracker on me. Could he have done this? “Was it done by Thomas?”
“Who?” Lyrica asks.
“Thomas Foster. My ex-fiancé … He lives in the Aeries.”
She considers this. “I can’t imagine anyone except a mystic being able to do this. It is powerful, dark magic.” She glances up at the orb hanging from the ceiling, then back at me. “Do you want me to get rid of it?”
“Yes,” I say. “Please.”
Lyrica cracks her knuckles. “Then I will. It may be useful, though. You should keep the trace. I can transfer it to an object.” She points to the chain around my neck. “Your necklace. May I use it?”
I take the silvery heart out from beneath my shirt. “Seems fitting,” I say, unclasping the locket and handing it to Lyrica.
Lyrica takes the necklace. “Close your eyes,” she instructs.
I do.
She grips the necklace with one hand and my shoulder with the other. I expect to feel a burst of heat, of electricity—what it normally feels like when a mystic touches me—but instead I feel … cool. Like every inch of me is being rubbed with ice cubes. Suddenly there’s a pain in my stomach, like something rotten is twisting inside me, trying to escape.
My lungs begin to burn.
It feels like something is being ripped from inside me.
My mouth opens instinctively. Lyrica removes her hand from my shoulder and I double over in pain. She presses one fingertip to my forehead and my body begins to heat up; the warmth starts in my toes and spreads up my legs, into my torso.
“All right.” Lyrica removes her finger and stands back. “You can open your eyes.”
I look around, and my body seems to return to normal. Lyrica hands me back the locket. It’s freezing.
“This carries the trace now,” she tells me. “Be careful.” I slip the locket back around my neck, securing the clasp. It’s warm to the touch, heating the skin just below my throat. “It is time for you to go now, Aria Rose.”
“How do I get back?” I ask. I have no idea where Queens is or what it’s like.
“You’ll see,” Lyrica says cryptically, leading me out of the sitting room and back to the front entrance of her house. She hands me a crumpled tote bag for the reliquary. I carefully place it inside and sling the bag over my shoulder.
“Thank you,” I say. “For your help—all of it. You’ve been so incredibly kind to me.”
Lyrica smiles at me, and I realize her eyes are wet. “Of course, child.”
She pounds her foot loudly on the floor, and there’s a shift like the one when I arrived. The house is moving.
I turn the doorknob. Fresh air rushes inside; I look out and see that we’re no longer in Queens, wherever that is. We’re near the area formerly known as Times Square, looking out onto a narrow street and a canal bustling with energy—I recognize it immediately. A few feet away I spot a dock where a handful of gondoliers are waiting for passengers. Luckily, I still have the half-empty pouch of coins in my pocket.
“Goodbye, Lyrica,” I say as I head down the stairs to the street.
“Aria?”
“Yes?” I say, glancing back.
“Many of the men in your life want to use you,” she says, shielding her eyes from the sun. “What do you want?”
Lyrica winks at me, and before I have time to answer, she closes the door, vanishing—along with her house—from sight.
“Where have you been?” Ryah asks, dragging me up the stairs.
I glance down at my TouchMe. Still no response from Turk, and I tried calling and texting him. Thankfully, he’s programmed all the numbers I might need into the contact list, so I was able to message Ryah to help me through the force field. She responded immediately.
“I woke up, and you were gone!” Ryah is wearing a tight white T-shirt and cutoff denim shorts with frayed edges. Her hair is as blue as ever, though it’s lying flat across her head, parted at the side. She hasn’t gelled and spiked it yet today. I sort of like it better this way.
It feels like an entire day has passed since Hunter brought my breakfast, but it’s only been a few hours—it’s just after ten a.m.
Ryah shuts the door behind her. “Shannon ate the rest of your bacon before she went off with Hunter.”
Shannon went somewhere with Hunter? “That’s fine,” I say, slipping off my sneakers and leaving them in the foyer. It’s much cooler in here than it is outside. “Where’d they go?”
“There was an … incident,” Ryah says. “On the Lower East Side. I don’t know all the details—only that there was an attack at a grocery store by some of the Foster army. Seems like a few people were killed, but I know Hunter brought troops to assess the damage.”
“Oh,” I say. “That’s horrible.” The bag Lyrica gave me for Davida’s reliquary is heavy on my shoulder.
“Landon and Jarek are out also—the location of one of the Foster army bases was leaked, so they went to confirm the lead before Hunter plans an attack.”
“Why didn’t you go with them?” I ask.
“I was waiting for you!” Ryah smiles. “Turk’s here, too. He’s upstairs. Showering.”
She pauses in the foyer. “I still can’t get used to you being bald. Well, practically bald. You do have a little peach fuzz.” Ryah giggles. “Anyway, Shannon and I woke up and you were gone, and I was like, Oh my gosh, Aria’s been abducted! But then I saw that you’d had breakfast, and then Shannon was like, Maybe she ran away! And I was all like, No! Anyway, I’m just so glad to see you!”
“Thanks,” I say. I’ve never met anyone with quite as much energy as Ryah. I’m still not entirely sure how to act around her.
Ryah rests her hands on her slim hips. She gets a funny look on her face. “Are you going to tell me where you went?”
My stomach jumps. Does Ryah know I went to meet Kyle?
“Just … out,” I say.
I feel bad being cryptic, but I can’t risk her telling Hunter the truth. Then he’d never go to the peace summit.
“Well, the next time you leave, you should let someone know where you’re going,” Ryah suggests.
Turk knew where I was going, I think, but of course I can’t say that. “Is this a prison?” I say. “I always assumed I could do whatever I wanted to.”
Ryah bites her bottom lip. “No, of course it’s not a prison, Aria. It’s just that—we’re trying to look out for you.”
“And I appreciate that, but I don’t need a babysitter,” I say. “I’m going upstairs.”
I don’t wait for Ryah to respond. I know she means well, but it bothers me that she and the others think I need to be watched 24/7, that I can’t go out on my own without a protector or even be alone here unless someone knows where I’ve gone.
I start up the wooden stairs, one hand on the th
ick banister. There’s someone I have to speak with. Now.
I head straight for Turk’s room. I’m relieved he made it out of the Block safely, though I wonder how. I assume he’ll have some choice words for me—for trusting Kyle and endangering myself by meeting him.
I reach the fourth-floor landing and start down the hall. The bedroom door is open about halfway. I’m about to knock when I see someone moving inside—Turk.
He doesn’t see me. He’s wearing a pair of snug navy boxers, toweling off his head after his shower.
He’s stunning.
His legs are incredibly well defined, especially his calves, dusted with light brown hair. His underwear clings to his butt and the backs of his legs like it’s holding on for dear life. Beads of water cascade down his back, falling to the floor as he rubs the towel across his head and his chest.
Turk is lean, all muscle. His body is so perfect it doesn’t even look real. Broad shoulders and a sculpted back that narrows to a thin waist and a V that disappears into his underwear. I have seen boys with good bodies before: Hunter, of course, and even Thomas, but Turk looks like he was painted by an artist or cut from marble. And where there isn’t smooth, olive-colored skin, there’s ink. Not just pictures, but symbols and words.
Most shocking is the image of the Sister.
The tattoo covers most of his back. Etched in black ink are the oval lines of her face, which is void, featureless. Her flowing, wavy hair is emerald green and ocean blue and glittering lavender. The figure’s hands are extended to either side, as though she is waiting for her sisters to press their palms to hers, as they do on Davida’s reliquary.
I’m so intrigued that I don’t move when Turk turns around.
And catches me staring at him.
My skin feels hot, and I start to sweat. I’m so embarrassed.
“Like what you see?” Turk asks.
“No,” I say. “I mean … no.”
He laughs. “Whatever.” He goes over to a dresser and pulls out a black T-shirt and a pair of jeans. “What happened to you?” he asks, slipping them on. “I looked everywhere—”
“I’m fine,” I say. For a second, I debate telling Turk about Lyrica. About the mystic trace on my soul that she discovered. But no—I decide to keep this information to myself, at least for now. “I hid until it was safe for me to come back here.”
Turk swipes a hand over his scalp, as if remembering that he’s practically bald, too. “Safe. Ha. You could have gotten killed. If I hadn’t planted that loophole for you—”
“But it worked,” I say. “Thank you.”
A trickle of water runs down Turk’s cheek, resting at the tip of his chin before it drops to the floor. “A lot of things could have gone wrong,” he says. “I planted it before you arrived. I had to guess which way you’d exit, that you’d be able to swim to it and find it. If you hadn’t, then—”
“I did, though,” I say. “I escaped.”
“Barely,” he says.
“How did you get out of there?” I ask.
Turk waggles one of his eyebrows. “No mud-covered soldiers are gonna do me in.”
I give him a tight-lipped smile. “You haven’t told Hunter about the ambush yet, have you?” I ask.
“No,” Turk says. “Not yet. Why?”
I step toward him. “You can’t say anything.”
A sour expression crosses Turk’s face. “You were practically kidnapped, Aria,” he says. “Again.” He takes a deep breath. “Do you think I’m always going to be there to save you? Kyle lied to you about this meeting—and I kept it from Hunter because I trusted you.” He lowers his voice. “I was supposed to keep an eye on you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Today,” Turk says. “Hunter didn’t bring me with him this morning because he wanted me to look out for you. I went against his wishes, disobeyed him and basically lied to him, and then this happened. If he knew you met up with Kyle …” Turk trails off, casting his gaze out one of the windows.
I can tell he doesn’t like being dishonest with Hunter. Neither do I, of course, but Hunter has been lying to me. Now he’s getting a taste of his own medicine. Surely Turk sees that. “I’m not a little girl,” I say. “I don’t need to be looked after like some kind of invalid.”
“If I hadn’t been there today, you would have been screwed,” Turk says. “Just admit you don’t know what you’re doing all the time. You want to believe the best of people, and I get that—but your brother is an ass. I have to tell Hunter that talking to Kyle isn’t safe,” he continues. “That he can’t be trusted.”
No, I think. This can’t happen. “If you tell him,” I say, taking a step closer, “then Hunter will never agree to the peace summit. Convincing him to compromise with the Aeries is the only way to get this city back on track.”
Turk looks away. His skin smells like apple-scented soap. I pick up his towel from the floor and fold it, hanging it over a chair.
“You don’t have to do that,” he says.
“Look,” I say, ignoring his comment. “There are other people—from other cities—waiting to overthrow Manhattan.”
Turk scoffs. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nobody except us wants the mystics to win,” I say. “Because if they do, mystics in other cities are going to revolt. If it looks like that’s actually about to happen, somebody somewhere is going to wage war against our city. If we’re too busy fighting internally to defend ourselves against foreign enemies, we’ll lose. ‘United we stand, divided we fall,’ ” I quote. “I’m not sure who actually said that first, but … it makes sense.”
Turk frowns. “Does it?
“Unless we figure this out,” I say, “we could lose New York completely. Who’s to say things won’t be worse then?” I take another step; I’m close enough to touch him now. “Keep this secret from Hunter so that he’ll go to the peace summit. Please.”
Turk clenches his jaw. “Fine. I don’t like this, though, Aria.”
“Thank you!” I let the bag with Davida’s reliquary drop to the floor and wrap my arms around his waist. He tenses, ensuring that his energy doesn’t hurt me. My skin begins to tingle and feel warm.
“I care about you so much,” Turk whispers into my ear. “I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
“I know,” I say. Aside from Ryah, Turk has been the only one who has really looked out for me since I’ve returned to Manhattan. “I care about you, too.”
“Do you?” he asks. An electric buzz washes over me and my skin heats up even more. “Or do you just care about what I can do for you—how I can help you?”
I pull away from Turk. “What do you mean?”
“I’m not your servant, Aria,” he says in a husky voice. “I don’t have to do everything you ask me to.”
“I never said you were … I don’t think …”
“Never mind,” Turk says. He presses his hand to his forehead like he has a headache. “Let’s talk about something else.”
“Okay.” I sit on the edge of his bed. Have I been treating Turk like a servant? I thought we were friends, that he was helping me because he wanted to. “I’m sorry if you feel like I’ve been selfish.”
“I don’t,” he says. “I’m just … tense. Seriously, let’s talk about something else.” His voice softens, and he peers at me with his light green eyes. “Anything on your mind, Aria Rose?”
“Well,” I say. “Yes. There is one thing.”
“Shoot.”
“Remember what I told you about that old woman Frieda from the compound? How she mentioned Davida’s heart?”
Turk nods and sits down next to me.
“I think maybe I should try to find it—the heart, I mean.”
No answer from Turk, but he turns so his face is inches from mine. Our noses are practically touching. He tilts his head and leans forward. He’s going to kiss me.
Just then, Hunter’s face flashes before my eyes: a memory from a few weeks ago, in my bedroom
at my parent’s apartment. I had just swallowed the capture locket and recovered all my memories of how I’d met Hunter. Hunter held me in his arms and whispered, You’ve come back to me.
“Stop,” I say, pushing Turk away. “We can’t do this.”
He looks deeply into my eyes. He’s about to say something when I hear a sound from the doorway.
“Ahem,” Shannon says, staring at us with her arms crossed. She’s dressed in black training gear, her fiery red hair pulled back in a ponytail.
How much did she see?
“Yes?” Turk says, getting up from the bed and wiping his palms on his jeans.
“I just got back,” Shannon says sharply. “Aria, training starts in five.” Then she swivels and marches away.
The two-hour session with Shannon feels more like two days.
The basement training room is wide enough that you can practice without having to really interact with anyone if you don’t want to. The back half of the room is partitioned off as a place for the mystics to hone their energies. The other half—where I’m standing—is covered with mats, and various targets are pinned to the walls. Some show the outline of a person in black, while others look like archery targets, with different-colored circles and a white bull’s-eye in the center.
Shannon has me throw ninja stars at targets, and while my aim is all right, I can’t seem to hit any of the bull’s-eyes. I keep wondering how much she saw upstairs with Turk. Nothing happened, but does she know that?
I throw a star that wedges itself into the wall, between two posters. “Aria!” Shannon hollers. “What’s wrong with you?”
Did nothing happen? I ask myself. Turk tried to kiss me. I pushed him away. But he tried. And that’s not exactly nothing.
“I’m fine,” I say. “The grocery store attack—was everyone okay?”
Shannon shakes her head. “No, Aria. Everyone wasn’t okay.”
“How many people died?” I ask.
“Does it matter?” she replies. “Concentrate on what you’re doing right now.”