“Look, Aria. What do you want me to say? That I’m sorry?” Thomas wipes his mouth with his napkin. He looks exactly the same as he did when we first met, on the night of our engagement party. Despite his recuperation from a serious bullet wound, he’s well built and still picture-perfect handsome—smooth cheeks, a multimillion-dollar smile.
He’d be a great catch if he weren’t such a jerk.
“I’m not sorry,” he continues.
“How did you find me?” I ask. “Hunter told me—I thought I was—”
“Safe?” His eyes seem to glimmer. “We tracked you.”
“How?”
“God, you’re daft,” Thomas snarls. “With a tracker.”
“But how—”
“I have bigger concerns than you figuring out how I found you, Aria.”
“Oh?” I say. “And what are those?”
He stabs a finger at me. “Your family has turned against mine. Again. And vice versa. Now that Garland is dead, it’s every man for himself.”
This doesn’t surprise me. It was nearly impossible to believe that my father, crime lord of the West Side, would have wanted to unite with George Foster, his East Side equivalent, in the first place. The families have been enemies for generations.
Now that Thomas’s older brother, Garland, is gone, and marrying me off to Thomas didn’t work out … both Dad and George Foster must figure they’re better off alone.
“This isn’t a game, Aria,” Thomas says sternly. “Do you have any idea what this boyfriend of yours is actually doing?”
“Fighting for equality,” I say. “For what’s right. Which is more than I can say for you.”
Thomas gives me a wolfish smile. “And what do you think I’m doing?”
I shrug, once again acutely aware of how much of my skin he can see in this dress. “Probably selling Stic on the black market. Just like your father does. And mine.”
Thomas laughs at me, loosening his tie and unbuttoning the top button of his dress shirt. His cheeks are flushed from the wine. “Wrong. The mystics are rebelling. Which means they’re no longer being drained. Which means no more mystic energy to make into Stic and sell.”
“I know that,” I say. “But surely you have some hidden supply.”
“Why?” He leans back and quirks an eyebrow. “Want some?”
“Of course not. You’re disgusting.”
Thomas licks his lips, which are stained a dark purple. “I love it when you talk dirty to me.”
“We’re in a war, Thomas,” I say, growing more and more exasperated. “Your brother died. People are out there right now fighting for equality—”
“Screw equality.” Thomas throws his napkin on the table and pushes back his chair. “This city is an absolute mess. Manhattan has never seen a problem like this before. We’ve always been a city-state that the rest of the country looks up to. Our parents might not like each other, but we’re mostly equal in power and wealth. More importantly, we’ve always taken care of our business on the inside.”
He steps toward me; I can smell the wine on his breath. “ ‘Don’t show weakness, Tommy.’ That’s what my father always taught me. Because once somebody sees a weak spot, they know exactly where to attack.”
“Who are you talking about, Thomas? The mystics?”
He shakes his head. “People outside … they’re watching us. Word has started to spread about the rebellion. We’ve tried to limit press access, but there have been leaks.”
I don’t understand. “So?”
“So,” Thomas says, “Los Angeles, Chicago … pretty soon they’re going to offer us their ‘help,’ which really means they’re going to move in their own troops and take over.”
“Why would they do that?” I ask.
“Imagine how it would look to the rest of the world if the rebels win. Mystics everywhere will start demanding all sorts of crazy rights. There will be more wars. No one wants that to happen, so New York will be vanquished by foreigners and the entire city will be wiped clean, everything hushed up. And then we’ll all be slaves.”
Thomas moves over to one of the blacked-out windows and gazes out as though he can see Manhattan. “The Aeries must win this war. If we don’t, it will mean the worst for all of us—mystics, humans, Aeries, Depths.… Everyone will suffer.” He turns to me, suddenly looking exhausted. “Can’t you see what you’ve done?”
I avert my eyes, not wanting to feel sympathy for him. Truthfully, I haven’t thought about how outsiders might be watching our city, waiting to pounce on us, to infiltrate. To conquer.
Still, who cares what the rest of the world is thinking? Don’t mystics deserve the same chances for health and happiness as anyone else?
That is what Hunter is fighting for. What I am fighting for.
Thomas is the cruel one. He sent troops to kidnap me, troops who murdered innocent women and children. Children like Markus.
“You’re being selfish, Thomas,” I say. “This is bigger than just us. It’s bigger than Manhattan. Let me go. Please. If you ever cared about me at all—”
“You don’t get it, do you?” Thomas says scornfully. “I never cared about you, ever. I used you to get what I wanted, Aria, and because of your stupid mystic boyfriend I never even got that.” He approaches me and grabs my shoulders. “You disgust me. You’re tainted goods, Aria Rose. And don’t act like you’re above doing whatever it takes to get what you want. You’re just as conniving as I am.”
I’m aghast. “I am nothing like you.”
Thomas raises his eyebrows. “No? Then what’s with all the video propaganda?”
I have no idea what he’s talking about. “Are you drunk?”
“Don’t pretend to be dumb, Aria. It’s not flattering. Besides, you’re not that smart to begin with.” Thomas walks over to one wall and presses a nearly invisible touchpad. A large square of gray cement retracts into the ceiling, revealing a TouchMe screen that must be two or three feet high and just as wide.
Thomas keys in a password and the screen comes to life. “Search Aria Rose,” he instructs the TouchMe.
“Searching,” the automated voice replies.
A queue of over a dozen videos appears instantly. Thomas selects the first one. It’s me, back in my room at the compound, mere hours ago, before the fire, saying something.
I hate what my parents have done to the mystics and the poor people of Manhattan. I would do anything to defeat them.
Thomas clicks on another video. I recognize the shirt I’m wearing. That was almost a week ago.
My parents want to exploit everyone in Manhattan. To side with them is to deny yourself basic rights. Join the rebels.
Thomas pauses the video. His eyebrows pinch together as he watches my expression. “Should I keep going?”
My mouth is suddenly dry. Hunter has been recording our chat sessions, editing them down to short clips. I remember the times he asked me to tell him how much I hated my parents, how I supported the rebels. A sour taste fills my mouth, and I feel like I’m going to throw up.
Since the mystics are already with us, I can only assume the videos are being broadcast across the Depths as a way to rally the nonmystic poor in our favor.
Hunter has been using me. I can’t believe it.
I keep my features blank. I don’t want Thomas to see the surprise on my face. The guards are still lined up against the far wall of the room, watching us. I wonder what they think of me. Dumb little rich girl.
“Don’t pretend that isn’t you, Aria,” he says.
“I won’t.” I cross my arms in front of my chest, wishing I weren’t wearing an expensive red party dress, especially one with a plunging neckline and no back.
“How about one more?” Thomas scrolls through the screen until he finds a video that looks like it was posted almost two weeks ago—one of my first nights at the compound. I look upset. I hate my family, I hear myself say. Don’t trust anyone in the Aeries!
“Those are quite some professions of
hatred for your family,” Thomas says. He presses a button and the TouchMe disappears into the wall. “And mine.”
“Well,” I find myself saying, “you all did terrible things.”
He cocks his head. “Did we? Here’s the thing, Aria: as naive as you are, people in Manhattan seem to like you. They relate to you. Not only in the Depths, but in the Aeries as well. Somehow, I came out as a bad guy in all this—”
“Gee, I wonder why,” I say.
Thomas grabs my shoulders again. He’s about an inch from my face, the tip of his nose practically touching mine. His breath smells of Cabernet. “Don’t,” he says, “interrupt me.”
Then he kisses me.
I slap him across the cheek. He pulls away and rubs his jaw. I wait for him to order his guards to move in on me, but he doesn’t. He just laughs.
“You always were feisty, Aria. I like that. Even though you sicken me.”
“So why am I here? Why do you care about any of these videos?” I stare down at the shimmering skirt of my dress. It feels impossible to be taken seriously when I’m dressed this way. If I get out of here alive, I will never wear a dress again. “Let me go.”
“Tell me where Hunter is,” Thomas says.
“I don’t know. He hasn’t told me.” I cross my arms. “And even if he had, I wouldn’t tell you.”
Thomas says nothing as he sits down again and takes a sip from his wineglass. “You know what? I believe you.”
“You do?” I glance around, looking for an exit.
“You probably don’t know anything.”
“I don’t,” I tell him. Does this mean he’s going to let me go? “Honestly.”
Thomas smacks his lips. “My father wanted to blow up your little mystic hideout. Kill you. But I convinced him not to because I think you’ll be useful. And if you don’t have any information to share, then we have nothing to lose by wiping the slate clean.”
I keep my eyes trained on Thomas, but I sense the guards moving behind me. Coming closer. “What?”
“Your memory,” Thomas says. “We erased it before, and we can do it again. This time, though, we don’t need you to believe you’re just a dumb rich girl who OD’d on Stic; we need someone we can use. Like what you’re doing for Hunter. Only we need you to do it for us.
“You will tell the people of Manhattan that you have changed your mind,” Thomas orders. “You’ll say that the rebels are wrong. Selfish. Dangerous. Then we will be married and unite the Aeries—just as we planned. That’s how the Fosters will beat the Roses and the rebels.” He pauses to take another sip of wine. “And I think the less there is in that stupid little head of yours, the better.”
Thomas places his wineglass on the table. Then he snaps his fingers.
Before I can move, hands grab me from either side.
I am dragged into an adjoining room.
Unlike what I’ve seen so far, this new space looks lived-in and enjoyed: there are glossy paneled walls, huge impressionist paintings in gilt frames, soft golden lights embedded in the ceiling, and—on the far end—a cushioned black leather couch. Next to the couch is a bar topped with brightly colored glass bottles, and next to that is a silver refrigerator.
The only thing out of place is the chair, surrounded by a terrifying metal apparatus in the center of the room.
“Let go of me!” I scream, struggling against the guards, but I already know it’s no use. I’m outnumbered by men and woman who would gladly kill me. And worse, now I know Thomas’s sinister plan is to wipe my memory clean. Again.
I won’t escape.
The chair looks like it belongs to another, older era. It reminds me of the mystic draining chair in my father’s office, only wider, with thin metal spikes across the top and long, thick armrests that curl at the ends with straps. There is a black footrest with straps as well, and all along the back the metal has been polished so that it’s as shiny as a mirror.
I squint and see my reflection.
I look terrified.
“Do you like the paintings?” Thomas asks, strolling into the room as though he hasn’t a care in the world. He motions to the frames. “Only the best for Daddy’s new office. His last one was destroyed by rebels, as was our apartment. Thanks for that, by the way.”
I stare at the paintings and realize they are mystic-enhanced, like the ones the Fosters used to have in their home. The colors swirl together like something in Renoir’s worst nightmare. One work in particular catches my eye. It’s Van Gogh—ish; the bold colors and rough beauty are like his Starry Night painting. I watch as the sky darkens from afternoon to sunset.
The guard to my left twists my arm—a jolt of pain shoots up into my neck. “Yes,” I say. “Beautiful.”
“Don’t forget expensive. Hunter couldn’t buy you even one of these.” Thomas sits down on the couch and crosses his legs at the ankles, relaxing into the soft leather. “Those freaks are good for something: art.”
Behind Thomas’s head is a six-foot-square pointillist painting that seems to vibrate. It’s like Van Gogh’s outdoor café painting, only it’s set during the day instead of at night; the sky is a light blue, the cobblestone pavement bright and sunny. The colors ripple, suggesting a breeze.
“So … you like art?” I say, trying for a distraction.
Thomas rolls his eyes. “Oh, shut up, Aria. You’re just stalling, hoping that I won’t strap you into this medieval chair and wash your brain.” He stands and punches a few numbers into a keypad on the wall. “Well … sorry. Because strapping you into this medieval chair and washing your brain is precisely what I’m going to do.”
Two women in bleached-white lab coats appear. I can tell they’re mystics by the green circles underneath their eyes and the yellow pallor of their skin, so thin that the blue veins underneath are prominent—they’ve been drained of their energy.
This bothers me. Why, during a rebellion, would anyone still submit to the barbaric ways of the Fosters? Or the Roses?
The traitor mystics don’t make eye contact with me. They look at the guards, who bring me over to the chair and strap me in.
I try to pull away, but it’s no use. The leather straps wrap around my ankles and my wrists, digging into my already chafed skin. One of the mystics opens a black suitcase full of syringes loaded with multicolored liquids.
It’s like what happened in Dr. May’s office—where my memories were initially erased.
“I’ve been told this process hurts,” Thomas says. “A lot.”
As he’s talking, the mystic with the needles swabs my arms and begins a series of injections. Red. Orange. Yellow.
“So I thought I’d hang around and watch,” Thomas continues.
“That’s nice of you,” I manage to say before the other mystic mutes me with a mouth guard. Something is placed over my head and I feel intense pressure against my temples.
“Because I have to say, Aria, you’ve caused me a lot of pain.” Thomas gives me a wicked smile. “I offered to marry you, to be your husband. And you just threw it in my face like you were too good for me.”
I am too good for you, I want to say, but the mouthpiece stops me.
I wiggle my arms, which feel swollen from the shots, trying to see if there’s any slack in the restraints. I can no longer move my head or my neck, and I am staring straight ahead at one of Thomas’s stupid mystic paintings. I want to leap out of this chair and rip it off the wall.
“Almost ready, Mr. Foster,” one of the traitor mystics says.
“Good, good,” Thomas replies. He turns to the silver-clad guards. “That’s all for now. You are dismissed.” They leave the room, and Thomas turns his attention back to me. “Soon you’ll be a whole new girl, Aria. A nice girl who does what she’s told. Doesn’t that sound wonderful?”
I refuse to look at him. I focus on the painting instead. It’s of a cluster of water lilies that seem to sway in an invisible wind. The colors melt from purple to pink to a darkish red, then back to purple. Thomas is still
talking. Tune him out, I tell myself. Just tune him out.
I may only have a few moments left as myself. As Aria Rose. I fought so hard to regain the memories that were stolen from me. It’s not fair that I will lose them again.
No more Hunter. There’s no Patrick Benedict around this time to save my memories of the boy I love and store them away in a silvery heart locket.
No more memories of Kyle or my parents. No more of my friends Kiki and Bennie. No more Shannon. Names and faces of people I will probably never think about again flood my brain, saying their goodbyes. I picture Markus—his shooting makes me think of my father, of how carelessly he shot that gondolier the night he found me in Thomas’s apartment.
Will I miss him? My mother? Kyle?
I don’t know. The easy answer is no, of course—not after what they did to me. How they betrayed me. But it’s more complicated than that. They’re still my family. I once loved them. Maybe I still do.
Why did Hunter make those videos without telling me? Why didn’t he just ask me to make a statement? Is that why he didn’t want me coming back to the city? So I wouldn’t be able to speak for myself?
A wave of nausea overtakes me and I retch. I haven’t eaten since back at the compound, though, and nothing comes up. My throat is sore and I start to cry, even though I want to seem strong.
Maybe Thomas is right, and I have been naive. Thanks to my chats with Hunter, I may even have made things worse here in the city. Maybe not knowing anymore will be for the best, a blessing in disguise.
My eyelids are incredibly heavy, and I fight the urge to close them.
“Once your head is empty, we will turn you into our little spokesperson,” Thomas is saying. “Might as well get some use out of you. And maybe we’ll figure out a way to use the rest of you, too. Why waste such a nice body?”
I cringe. So it won’t be a blessing.
This is it. This is the end.
My eyes find the café painting again.
“Mr. Foster,” one of the mystics says. “We’re ready to begin.”
At least the last thing I look at as myself will be pretty. The yellow awning over the café tables turns to orange to a perfectly baked brown, and I see figures moving, drinking coffee. A dot in the distance—a red circle, maybe a light from a window—begins to burn brightly and expand.