“Aria, come sit!” Markus says, but one of the women shushes him.
“That’s okay,” I say. “I’m gonna go upstairs and relax. I’ll see you later.”
He nods, focusing on his food.
I take my plate and leave the room, the floorboards creaking with each step. It’s almost seven-thirty.
This farmhouse was built over a century ago, and everything inside it is part of a life and a time that I know nothing about. The walls are beige, accented with mystic symbols for protection and health: Metal and wood carvings of large, open eyes, inlaid with turquoise and ruby-colored stones where the pupils should be. Dozens of charcoal drawings of silhouetted female figures, waves of hair cascading down their backs, palms pressed together—the Sisters, one of the older mystics told me when I asked her who they were, but she didn’t elaborate.
The furniture here is simple and rustic: wooden chairs and stools; cots stacked against the walls in case unexpected visitors show up, needing a place to stay. Before the war, the farmhouse was a place where rebels could rest for a night or two. Because the rebels are mystics who refuse to register with the government to have their powers drained, if they’re ever caught, they are jailed and then executed.
There are some unexpected touches to the farmhouse: the ceiling has exposed wooden beams with brown knots and whorls that look even darker against the stark white paint. It’s the exact opposite of the décor I was used to in the Aeries—rich, exotic colors, gorgeous imported tapestries, sleek silver buildings and bridges. Still, there’s a quaint charm here that I admire.
I pass a room where a few sick-looking elderly mystics are tucked into narrow cots, covered to their necks with blankets. A mystic with blond hair down to her waist is crouched on her knees, feeding a woman from a soup bowl. I seem to recall hearing that the blonde’s name is Sylvia.
“Can I help?” I ask when she sees me staring.
The mystic shakes her head and returns to feeding the woman. I continue down the hall, wondering how many other injured mystics there are back in Manhattan, not strong enough to fight or flee.
To the right is a door I have never opened; it’s bolted shut and supposedly leads to a musty basement with an underground tunnel to the other side of the farm. In case we’re ever raided, Shannon told me the first day I got here. She hasn’t spoken of it since. Because mystic power is detectable, even when the women here do regain their powers, they’re not allowed to use them in the compound for fear that my family or the Fosters will track the energy and locate the hideout. If there ever is a raid, I hope the tunnel is big enough for everyone.
At the end of the hallway is a steep staircase. My room is on the top floor of the house, and I share it with a girl named Nelsa, who seems two or three years younger than me. I don’t know for sure because she has never spoken a word to me. Not even hello.
When I reach my door, I knock gently in case Nelsa’s there, then enter the room. It’s empty.
I place my food on a simple brown desk with an ancient computer on it. The monitor is twice the size of my head, maybe even three times, thick and boxy and gray. It makes me miss my TouchMe.
I press a button on the back and the screen comes to life. There’s only one thing I look forward to each day, one thing that has made the past few weeks bearable: my seven-thirty p.m. video chat with Hunter. For these few minutes I can see his face and ask him how he’s doing.
And when I can return to the city.
I wait impatiently as the computer whirs to life, rumbling the way a dinosaur might upon waking after a long slumber. I key in my username and passcode and wait.
Ding. Hunter is online. And he’s messaged me. I click on the message and the screen opens up. There he is.
“Aria? Can you hear me?”
He’s wearing a bright blue shirt with an open collar, exposing his neck and the top of his tanned chest. His blond hair is typically messy. He pushes it back and smiles. “Aria?”
“Yes,” I say, feeling the familiar fluttering in my stomach that happens whenever I see Hunter.
His blue eyes seem to lighten as he leans forward. “Hey, you.”
“Hey yourself,” I say. “How are you? How was your day?”
He frowns. “Not great. But it’s better now that I see your smiling face. Gosh, I miss you.” Behind him are the things I’ve gotten used to seeing each time we talk: a bookshelf filled with ancient leather-bound books, a rectangular wooden table piled with topographical maps and TouchMes and coffee cups.
Where this room is, I don’t know.
“I miss you, too. So much,” I say. “Are you still not going to tell me where you’re living these days?”
He nods. “It’s for your own safety.” In case we’re hacked.
When Hunter dropped me off here at the compound, he promised that we would speak every day until it was safe for me to return to Manhattan. Just thinking about the day he brought me here—his sweet kisses on my lips, the urgent goodbye—makes me miss him even more.
“I know it’s only been two weeks since we’ve been together,” Hunter says, “but it feels like two years.”
“I was just thinking the same thing,” I tell him. “Why was your day not so great?”
“Your father.” Hunter clasps his hands behind his head.
My father. I picture Johnny Rose in my head: the strong, stern face that rarely smiles, the slicked-back hair, the crisp tailored suits. A successful businessman who owns half the city. He’s also a drug runner and a thug. When he found out I was seeing Hunter behind his back, he had a doctor erase my memories of our relationship and replace them with fake memories of Thomas Foster, trying to make me believe I had always loved him.
“He’s not backing down,” Hunter says. “I’m trying to recruit mystics from outside New York to come and help, but people are hesitant to get involved. They think it’s too dangerous, that Manhattan is a lost cause for the rebels. That I should move on.” Hunter’s lips are drawn into a tight frown, his brow furrowed and tense, but he’s still the handsomest thing I’ve ever seen. He takes my breath away—even on an old, fuzzy computer screen. Thank God I found my memories and realized that it was Hunter I had loved all along, not Thomas.
And now we are together.
And yet … still apart.
“When are you going to let me come back to the city?” I ask.
“I know you want to help, Aria. And that’s great. But it’s safer for you there. The city has changed. It’s dangerous. Kyle is acting as the Rose front man—and we both know how he feels about you.”
“Yes,” I say. “My brother hates me.”
“I didn’t mean that. He doesn’t understand you.”
“He doesn’t want to,” I reply. “He’s happy being my father’s lackey. But what does he have to do with me coming back to Manhattan?”
Hunter thinks about this for a second. Instead of answering me directly, he says, “Do you think the rebels should win this war, Aria?”
The question catches me off guard. “Of course,” I say. “You know I do.” Ever since I found out that mystics aren’t horrible, thieving criminals like I’ve been taught my whole life. I no longer support my parents’ politics.
Hunter unclasps his hands and leans forward, a serious expression on his face. “Say that you do.”
“Say what?”
“That you want the rebels to win the war. Please.” He sucks in a breath of air. “I need to know that you believe in me, in what I’m trying to do.” The pools of his blue eyes make me want to melt. “Please?”
“Okay, I want the rebels to win the war.”
Hunter’s expression changes—there’s a hint of the crooked smile I’ve grown to love. “And that you renounce your parents.”
“Why do you want me to say that?”
“Please,” Hunter says urgently, leaning forward in his chair.
“All right,” I tell him. “I renounce my parents. Hunter, what is this all about?”
“I
just need to hear you say it, Aria. I know that sounds weird, but … you make me feel like I can do anything.”
He’s made requests like this before. I figure he simply needs support from his girlfriend, which is understandable. His mother just died, and now all these rebels are relying on him to lead them against the people of the Aeries. If hearing me say that I hate my parents—which, for the record, I do—will help him, then I’m all for it.
“I loathe what my parents have done to the mystics and to the poor people of Manhattan,” I say. “You know that. I would do anything to help you defeat them.”
Hunter’s entire face brightens, and I see the boy I defied my family for. I fought so hard for the memories my parents erased—how Hunter and I met, our first kiss, the way my hand felt in his, how he made me laugh so hard that it hurt—that now I cherish every second with him.
But this isn’t enough.
“I have to see you or I’ll go crazy,” I say.
Hunter laughs. “I know how you feel.” He presses a hand over his heart. “I miss you so badly it hurts. But now that you know the truth about me, about us … now that you feel everything you used to feel, we have all the time in the world. I know it might not seem that way right this instant, Aria, but it’s true.” He pauses, and for a second it seems like he gets teary-eyed. “We fought your parents and we won. We got your memories back. Now we need to fight this battle.”
“I agree with you completely!” I say. “That’s why I want to come to the city.”
He shakes his head. “Aria, we’ve been over this—”
“Come on, Hunter. Nobody even wants me here anyway. Shannon is an evil—”
“Be nice to Shannon,” Hunter tells me. “She has your best interests at heart. I know she can be a little—”
“Rude?” I interrupt. “Heinous?”
Hunter sighs. “I was going to say prickly. But that’s just her way. It’s not personal.”
“It feels personal.”
“She’s just trying to help,” Hunter says. “I swear. And when you’re back in Manhattan, the first thing I’ll do is sweep you into my arms and kiss you like a madman. Until then, this will have to do.” He blows a kiss into the computer screen. “I’ve gotta go, Aria. We have another meeting in a few minutes. A bit of good news: we’ve been in communication with some of the mystics in Chicago. They want to help us.”
“That would be great,” I say. “But I still want to be with you.”
“I know,” he says. “I want that, too. I just can’t bear to put you in danger. After my mom … if something happened to you, I’d never forgive myself.” He gets silent for a moment, and I can tell he’s hurting. “You understand that, right?”
“I love you, Hunter,” I say. “I … understand.”
“I love you, too. Until tomorrow,” he says. “Good night.”
My screen goes dark. I stare at it, wishing Hunter would return, but all I can see is the shadowy reflection of my own face, alone.
After a too-brief shower, I dry off and put on a fresh pair of sweatpants and a clean white T-shirt. I step into the hall and find the rest of the house bustling with activity: I can hear children whining as their mothers ready them for bed, and from the kitchen a teakettle wails like a siren. Tall fans stand by the walls, barely moving the humid air.
I pass a few bedrooms, stopping when I see a short, thin woman standing in the doorway of my room.
Frieda.
She looks old, her skin weathered and faded. She’s wearing a shapeless dress that flows down to her ankles. It was white once, but now it’s torn and stained, making her look like a sickly ghost. She is staring at me with her mouth gaping, her pink-yellow gums exposed. Her eyes are so dark that it’s impossible to tell the difference between her pupils and her irises—they look like dull black buttons.
“Who are you?” Her voice is rough, like it’s been mixed with rocks.
“It’s okay, Frieda,” I say. “I’m Aria. And remember, this isn’t your room.” I point to the open door a few feet away. “That’s your room.”
I gather she has dementia of some sort, though she’s actually one of the healthier elders at the compound. She doesn’t move.
“Is everything okay, Frieda?” I ask gently. “Would you like me to help you?”
Frieda just stares at me. She doesn’t even blink. “What did you do with her heart?”
I take a small step forward. The poor woman has really lost it. “Come on, Frieda. Let’s get you back to bed.” I reach out to take her arm, but she jerks away violently.
“The heart. You didn’t just leave it there, did you?” says Frieda, visibly distraught. “It is the source of her power! And Davida was one of the most promising young mystics.…”
I stiffen at the mention of Davida. My former servant. My friend who sacrificed her life so that Hunter and I could be together.
I peer into Frieda’s eyes. Maybe she isn’t as crazy as she seems. “Did you know her?” I ask.
For a moment, Frieda seems incredibly lucid, and then her eyes glaze over. “The heart,” she mutters. “Where is the heart?”
“Her heart was in her body,” I say, thinking back to that night, when Davida took on Hunter’s appearance and allowed my father to shoot her, saving Hunter’s life.
“Her body was lost,” I add. “In one of the canals.”
“No!” Frieda shouts. Her black eyes are open wide as she presses her frail hands to her cheeks. “A mystic’s heart is never lost. You must find it.”
I’m about to ask her what she means when the floor starts to shake.
I cover my ears as a burst of red explodes around me and the farmhouse goes up in flames.
Red quickly morphs to black.
All the bulbs in the ceiling have burst, bathing us in total darkness. Glass fragments shower down on me; they cut my skin as I wipe them from my arms. I can’t see anything. I feel hot—hotter than I ever have before. Smoke fills my nostrils and I start to cough, so hard that it’s painful. My back drips with sweat. I can’t breathe, I can’t see, I don’t know what’s happening, and all I hear is screaming.
“Frieda?” I shout, but I can barely hear my own voice over the chaos. Orders are being shouted—“Come quick, Tamra, execute the plan!” “This way! Hold on to my arm and follow me!”—and the high-pitched screams of children fill my ears.
We’re being raided.
My skin begins to burn. My lungs feel raw. The air around me is thick, black. It envelops me. I narrow my eyes to slits and stumble forward, feeling for Frieda, but instead I crash into a wall.
“Frieda? Anyone?”
I feel my way along the wall until I bang into a door. Which should mean the stairs are right in front of me.
“We’ve found them!” a male voice shouts. “Arthur! Here!”
It’s not the only male voice I hear. The house is full of intruders, and they’re coming from below. I don’t want to head downstairs, but where else can I go? I can smell burning flesh, and a not-so-distant roar lets me know the fire is spreading.
I have to get out of here.
I drop to the floor, crawling, searching for the staircase. The floorboards are hot under my fingertips.
I hear a round of gunshots, then a shriek. It’s too late to try for the secret basement tunnel. I have to get outside, past the trees Shannon made me run to this afternoon.
I find the stairs and begin to drag myself down. The screaming is louder, the smoke thicker. Behind me, red and yellow flames lick the doors of the bedrooms and engulf the walls, racing toward the staircase.
“Find her!” shouts a throaty baritone. “Get her out of here alive!”
I know immediately that whoever said those words is talking about me.
There’s a snap and I flick my head upward. The floor above me is caving in.
“Aria!”
It’s Shannon. She’s popped her head out of one of the second-floor bedrooms. I can barely see her face, but I know the sound of her voi
ce.
“Get in here. Now.”
“But—”
“Now!”
I stand up and rush into the bedroom where Shannon is standing. My throat and lungs feel raw from coughing.
“Come on.” Shannon pulls me toward an open window on the far wall.
“I’m not jumping out a window, Shannon!”
“How else are we going to get out of here? I promised Hunter I would keep you safe. So if I say jump out a window, you don’t say no. You say How quickly? Get it?”
Shannon doesn’t wait for a reply. She yanks my arm until I’m at the window and pushes me through. “There’s a ladder welded to the side of the house,” she says. “Grab it.”
I feel for a metal handle and find one. The air outside is cool as I swing my legs around until they find the rungs.
“Move!” Shannon barks.
I begin to climb down the back of the farmhouse. Behind us is a ramshackle barn and, in the near distance, rows and rows of dead apple trees, their white-gray branches gnarled and reaching into the night sky.
This must be where we’ll hide.
My feet hit the bottom rung and I jump to the ground, Shannon right behind me. I can see that the roof of the farmhouse has collapsed. Orange flames shoot into the sky as black smoke pours out of every window, mixing with the hazy air.
The darkness is absolute, so different from the city—there’s no green glow of the tall mystic spires, full of the energy that fuels Manhattan. There is only black night—marred by flames, by the sounds of gunfire and the shrill voices of women and children under fire. I hear a child weeping, and the harsh calls of the men who have attacked, yelling “Where is she?” over and over.
And then there are sharp green rays of mystic energy that shoot into the sky like laser beams.
Some of the women and visiting rebels are fighting.
Now that we’re being raided, there’s no reason for them to hold back their powers. Through a window on the ground floor, I see the figure of a mystic surrounded by smoke. She throws her hands in front of her: razor-thin rays of green energy fly from her fingertips, swirling together into one massive beam and pummeling a soldier in the stomach, knocking him out of view.