Toxic Heart (2 page)

I think for a second. “Punch?”

Shannon shakes her head. Her red ponytail flicks from side to side. She’s barely broken a sweat.

“Why not?”

There’s a flicker of light in her eyes. “Try to punch me.”

Shannon rushes toward me. I extend one fist in what I think is a solid punch, but she smacks it out of the way, jabbing her knee into my stomach. There’s a sharp pain and I’m on the ground again.

“Ow!” I cover my abdomen with my hands. “What’s wrong with you? Do you get off on hurting me?”

Shannon gives me a wide grin. “
That’s
why you don’t try to punch your opponent. You’re too weak, Aria. What do they teach you up there?” She lifts her chin and stares off into the sky. We can’t see the silvery bridges and magnificent skyscrapers of the Aeries from here, but I know what she’s referring to.

“Not to fight.” I roll to my side and push myself up, wiping my hands on the backs of my legs. If Shannon only knew what my life was like just a few weeks ago—shopping with my friends Kiki and Bennie, parties and dinners every night, servants to administer to my every need—she’d hate me even more than she does now. “At least, not physically.”

Shannon laughs. “I can tell.” She reaches out and yanks on the chain around my neck, which holds the heart-shaped locket given to me by Patrick Benedict. Another ally, now dead and gone.

“Dull,” she says, running her fingers over the tarnished silver. “I would have expected something fancier from you.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” I say, suddenly tired and sore. “I didn’t realize this was a fashion show.”

I glance back at the converted farmhouse, a tall white structure with three stories. You could never tell that more than fifty mystics are crammed inside. This is one of several rebel army command centers outside New York City. Like the others, it is a refuge and a place to prepare provisions to be sent to the mystics who remain in the city—men and women who are fighting to overcome the Aeries and restore equality to the city. Though we haven’t been given much information about the ongoing war, we
do
know that many people have died, that the Depths have nearly been destroyed. Manhattan is no longer the city I remember.

“Are we done for the day?”

“Absolutely not.” Shannon picks up her kendo stick as if it were a feather. “Let’s do leg blocks.”

I don’t even want to know what those are.

“Pretend I’m attacking.” Shannon shifts her weight back and raises the pole behind her head. There’s a moment when the sun catches her brown eyes, making them sparkle, and she looks almost … friendly.

Too bad she’s not.

“If you anticipate my strike,” she says, “you can deflect the blow and knock away my weapon. Let’s try.”

I raise my arm to shade out the sun. “Try what?”

Without answering, Shannon swings her arm down, striking me in the left shin.

“What in the Aeries—”

“Again.” She narrows her eyes. “Too slow. If I’d hit you with any actual force, you’d be a goner.” She pauses, then adds, “A plucked Rose.”

Shannon cocks her head at me. It’s easy to hate her. Aside from her perpetual smugness, she’s beautiful in a way that I will never be. I barely know anything about her—where she’s from, who her family is, what she likes, whether she has a boyfriend. She’s managed to avoid answering any personal questions these past weeks.

Instead, she’s focused on beating me up—
for the sake of the rebellion
.

I point to the yellowish-blue bruises on my arms from our session a few days ago. “I don’t think this is what Hunter had in mind when he left me here for training.”

“This is
exactly
what Hunter had in mind,” Shannon says angrily. “Hunter has a rebellion to lead now. You barely escaped Manhattan with your life, Aria. You have to learn how to protect yourself.”

“I know all that,” I tell her.

I’ve avoided thinking about the battle that killed my boyfriend’s mother, Violet Brooks. She was the mystic hope, the voice of the poor who lived in the Depths, the champion of the oppressed. She stood for everything my parents and the Fosters do not.

I have tried to erase the memory of the gun in my hands as I pulled the trigger and aimed directly at my ex-fiancé, Thomas Foster, then gazed in horror as he dropped to the muddy ground.

I have tried and I have failed. I defended myself that night, and
I certainly don’t need Shannon, whoever she is, throwing it all back in my face.

My eyes travel across the dead grass, away from the peeling white paint of the farmhouse. Behind the field is what used to be an apple orchard. The trees are victims of global warming, their life sucked out by the sweltering heat.

I shift my attention back to Shannon. “Why are you here, anyway?” I ask. “Don’t you have more important things to do?”

Shannon draws back her lips like some kind of feral animal. “You think I want to be here? Training some spoiled little rich girl when I should be off fighting?” She yanks the elastic from her ponytail, letting her thick red hair cascade around her face. “I’m here because Hunter asked me to help you. Unlike you, I wasn’t born into a family of privilege. I never knew my mother.… My father is all I have, and he’s back in Manhattan. Fighting a war
you
started.” She glares at me with a look that chills me to the bone. I’ve known all along that Shannon doesn’t like me—but now I realize she actually hates me. “I should be there.” She spits on the dry ground. “Now run.”

The sun is glowing red and pink. “Aren’t we done?”

“We’re done when I say we’re done,” Shannon says. She points in the opposite direction from the house, where a cluster of dying trees marks the edge of the farmland. “There and back.
Now
.”

“Okay, okay.” I shoot her a dirty look. “I’m going.”

My heart thumps loudly in my chest as I grit my teeth and run. I’ve nearly reached the training ground and am about to black out
when I see a figure approaching me. “Here, Aria,” a timid voice says. “Water.”

I stop running and double over as I catch my breath. “Walk it off, Rose!” Shannon yells. “Walk it off.”

I glance up: it’s a boy, nine or ten at the most. Markus. The only one in the entire compound who’s been kind to me since I arrived. He’s holding out a glass of water.

I kiss his cheek with gratitude, then take the glass and gulp. Some of the cool water spills down my chin, but I don’t care.

Markus laughs. He has floppy brown hair, big eyes, and dark freckles scattered across his skin. He’s adorable.

“That was just what I needed, Markus. Thank you.”

“I figured,” he says, taking the empty glass. “I was watching you from the kitchen. You looked thirsty.”

Shannon struts over to us. “Did Aria make a new friend?
So
sweet.”

Markus is already skipping back to the farmhouse, my empty glass raised high in the air like a trophy. “Bye, Aria!” he shouts.

“Bye!” I shout back, waving until he’s out of sight. Then I turn to Shannon, who is staring at me disapprovingly. “What?” I say. “He’s sweet.” Shannon shrugs. “He’s an orphan. Well, I guess not technically. His dad is alive. But in the city, fighting. Like mine. His mother died in the underground battle.”

“That’s … so sad,” I say, my eyes still on Markus.

“We all try to watch over him,” Shannon says. “He’s not the only kid on this compound with no parents around. We’re all one big family.” She pauses. “Except for you.”

“Gee, thanks.”

She purses her lips. “Well, it’s true. Anyway. Tired?”

I nod.

“Good,” she says. “Now do it again.”

“No.” I shake my head and push past her, starting toward the farmhouse. “I’m done, Shannon.”

“Aria!” she calls. “Get back here. Now! Or I’m telling Hunter.”

“I’ll tell him myself,” I call back. I hear a pattering of footsteps and Markus is right beside me. The sunset has darkened to a mixture of black and blue and deep red. The air is hot but slightly more bearable than it was.

I catch up to Markus. “You hungry?” I ask him.

“Yep.” He rubs his belly. “Starving.”

“Me too,” I say. “Let’s go eat.”

In the two weeks I’ve been at the compound, there has never been a formal meal—something I’m still getting used to. My parents are fond of proper dinners: everyone in their finest clothes, seated around a perfectly laid table, silver glistening, the servants bringing in platters of elegant food. The cooking is done in the kitchen, which is in a separate wing, and no one sees the effort that goes into preparing a meal, only the glorious outcome.

Here, it’s exactly the opposite. People come and go, sometimes staying only a few hours. Bread is baked in the morning and smuggled off the compound and into the city by afternoon. Sometimes there’s a delivery of chicken or fish, and sometimes there isn’t and we eat only vegetables and clear soup.

Tonight there are a few hunks of goat cheese, rolls, and some
cold meats spread on an island in the middle of the kitchen, as well as bowls filled with nuts and boiled potatoes. Markus heaps food on his plate, then rushes into the other room to start eating.

I find a plate and slice a few bits of cheese. Then I grab a roll. I’ve lost more than a few pounds, and it’s not only because I’ve been training and eating less. I’ve also been worrying more. Everyone here has.

Through the kitchen is a dining area with an oval wooden table. Markus is at the far end with a couple of other kids. A few women are eating, but they don’t look up at me when I pass by.

I nod to them. “Hello.”

But no one responds. Everyone here supports Hunter and the rebel cause, but they don’t all support me. In their eyes, I’m the reason their loved ones are dying, the reason they’ve had to flee the city their powers helped build. Most have been here only slightly longer than I have. Signs that they have recently been drained linger in the dark green circles under their eyes, their chalky skin as thin as rice paper. They’re waiting in this refuge until their powers have regenerated so they can fight alongside the rebels.

“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.