Toxic Heart (6 page)

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.

It grows from a tiny speck to the size of my thumbnail, and then even larger, stretching out like taffy until it is no longer a circle but more of an oval. A head pops out, followed by arms, then legs.

It’s a human figure, glowing red.

It rushes toward me from the back of the street in the painting, dodging figures who turn their heads as this red man surges forward.

Then it grows again and shifts. Changes from red to silvery-white.

It’s no longer a person, I realize. The shape becomes so large that it’s almost too big for the frame. It’s a motorcycle.

One that, despite being made up of painted dots, clearly belongs to someone I know.

Turk.

My body seems to fight off whatever stuff the mystics have been injecting me with. I feel
alive
.

There’s a roar as the motorcycle blasts out of the painting and into the room, and it is indeed Hunter’s best friend astride the bike, which stops on the expensive-looking Oriental rug. Turk has the same black Mohawk I remember, sheared close to his scalp at the sides and spreading up toward the ceiling, the platinum tips so
bright they make my eyes hurt. His tattoos pulse, and the fire-breathing dragon on his right arm actually seems to be billowing smoke from its mouth.

There’s a familiar glint in Turk’s eyes and a wide smile across his face.

Thomas’s eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets. “What the—”

But Turk cuts him off by slewing his bike sideways. The white motorcycle pivots on its wheels, and the chrome-covered back knocks Thomas right on his pretty-boy face, slamming him to the floor. He goes stiff and I know he’s unconscious. No one comes running into the room, which means the guards must be out of earshot.

Turk hops off the bike and frowns in my direction. Then he stares down the two mystics, who have frozen in fear. He pulls out a long black pistol and raises it in the air. It’s as narrow as my pinky and nearly twice the length of any handgun I’ve ever seen—there’s no hammer, only a barrel, a stock, and a trigger. Can it even hold a bullet?

“You two are on the wrong side.” He moves the gun between the mystics. One of them drops the needle she’s holding and trembles with fear.

Turk pulls the trigger.

He shoots.

Instead of bullets, thin green rays of mystic energy appear, spiraling out to connect with each mystic right in the center of their chests.

There’s a loud clap as their skin flashes a sickly yellow color.

Their eyes roll back.

And they drop to the floor next to Thomas, unconscious.

“Sweet,” Turk says. “I hate traitors.”

He rushes over and removes the strange helmet from my head. “You okay?”

I nod. He undoes the bands around my wrists, then my legs. I sigh with relief as I flex my fingers and toes and fill my lungs with air. My body feels lethargic from the injections, but otherwise, I’m all right.

“Thought I might find you here,” Turk says. I am so happy to see him I could cry. Again.

“How?” I ask.

He nods toward one of the pictures. “We’ve worked hard to get our mystic paintings into the homes of all the best and brightest of the Aeries. It makes it easier to spy on people. And,” he adds, “it allows us to sneak in through the occasional loophole.”

I can’t help but laugh. Thomas was right when he said mystics are good at art—he just didn’t know
how
right he was.

“Come on,” Turk says, helping me out of the chair. His touch jolts me at first—the mystic energy running through him could kill me—but I watch his expression and I can tell that he’s controlling himself. That he won’t hurt me.

“Hunter told me this business of touching humans takes getting used to,” he says. “Didn’t realize how right he was.”

Hunter
. Hearing his name makes me thankful that my memory hasn’t been erased but incredibly upset that he lied to me. I need to see him.

“I’ve missed you,” Turk says softly. He grips the handlebars of his bike and throws one leg over the seat. He pushes a button and
a metal rod comes out from one side of the bike. Turk yanks it into his hands, and his fingertips glow green as he stretches the metal, working it like putty, forming a …