Toxic Heart (26 page)

“Is that your name?” I ask.

He shakes his head.

“Okay,” I say. “Well … is that another person’s name?”

He nods.

Not much of a talker
, I think. “A person you know?”

He nods again.

“And he can help me?”

The gondolier shrugs. “If anyone can, it’s Donaldio. He’s the oldest sailor I know.” He motions to the gondola. “He still pilots one of these, though not often. Mostly keeps to himself.” The gondolier grips the boat’s wheel with one hand. “I’ll take you to him.”

I sit at the front of the boat as we navigate the Depths, drifting past brownstones and half-destroyed buildings with boarded-up windows and doors, down narrow waterways and underneath bridges, until I’m no longer sure where we are.

The water smells salty and dank. The gondolier stands behind me, making no sound. Finally, we turn onto a tight canal wide enough for maybe two boats to pass through at once. Metal doors open directly onto the water from dilapidated brownstones. The canal is so narrow and the buildings so tall that the sun is mostly blocked out, and the water is bathed in shadows.

The gondolier stops in front of a blue door. “Knock twice,” he says. “Go on.”

I stand up in the boat, careful not to topple over. Who is this Donaldio? Can I trust him? I lean forward and rap my knuckles on the door.

Too late to worry about it now
.

I’m still touching the door when it swings open. “Will you wait for me?” I ask the gondolier.

He wipes his forehead. “No.”

“Name your price,” I say. “Please wait.”

He thinks for a moment. “Five,” he says, holding up his open hand.

I have twice that in my bag. “Two now, three later.”

“Deal.” I give the gondolier some money and he helps me out of the boat and into the open doorway. I take a deep breath and step inside.

“Hello?” I call, but there’s no answer.

I can’t see much—just a darkened hallway. I reach out, feeling along the walls to make sure I don’t trip. “Hello? My name is Aria.… I was told to look for Donaldio.”

Stupid
, I think immediately. I shouldn’t have used my real name. “Hello?”

I take a few more steps; then the walls on either side of me end. I still can’t see anything, but I can sense an open space before me. “Hello?”

No answer.

“It’s just that, well … I really need your help.”

Nothing. He must not be here. Great. Just my luck.

I’m about to turn around when a bulb in the center of the ceiling clicks on. The room is washed in jaundiced light. Directly underneath the bulb is a tiny, shriveled man who looks like a peanut.

I presume this is Donaldio.

He’s the size of a child, puckered like a raisin, as though he’s been in the bath for days. A blanket is draped around his shoulders—something blue and red, woven with pictures that look like hieroglyphics. His irises are an inky black, his skin so thin that I can see the blue veins running down his forehead and cheeks.

Behind him, wooden beams stretch up the windowless walls; there’s a mattress on the floor, and clothes are strewn everywhere, alongside stacks of papers and topographical maps that tower almost to the ceiling.

“Donaldio?” I say.

The man nods. “Aria, did you say?” His voice is high-pitched and faint.

Now it is my turn to nod. “Yes,” I say. “I was given your name—someone said you might help me.”

The man blinks. “That depends,” he says, “on what you need help with.”

I find myself wishing for the comfort of Lyrica’s home. “I lost something in one of the canals,” I tell him. “I’m trying to find it, and I’m hoping you can help me figure out where it might have drifted to. I’ll pay you.”

I feel myself wince after I say this last part. I hope I have enough coins left.

“And what is it that you lost?” Donaldio asks.

I can’t reveal the truth—that I’m searching for a mystic heart. It sounds crazy, and if Donaldio is a mystic himself, surely he wouldn’t approve of someone like me going after such a sacred thing. “Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters,” he says. “The circumference of the object, its weight … those things will affect my mapping.”

I have no idea how much a mystic heart weighs.

Donaldio stares at me, expressionless. “If you want my help,” he says, “tell me what you are looking for.” He raises a thin arm and points down the hall. “Otherwise, leave.”

I bite my bottom lip. I have no choice but to spill the truth—all of it. “A friend of mine died a few weeks ago,” I say. “Her body fell into the water.”

“So you’re looking for the body?” Donaldio shakes his head. “The water would have decomposed it, I believe.”

We’re both silent.

“Well,” I say, “that’s not all.”

“Oh?”

“My friend was a mystic. I’m looking for her heart.”

Donaldio’s eyes widen.

“I’ve never seen one before,” I say, “and I have no idea what they look like. But I need to find it. It’s important to me. She died protecting me, and I need to do this for her. For her family—to set things right.”

Donaldio presses his hands to his mouth for a moment. “Do not worry,” he says. “I know the size and weight of a mystic heart.”

I step closer. “Are you a mystic?”

“No,” he says. “But I have had many close dealings with them, and I support their cause. They are the reason I am still here.”

“They protect you?” I ask.

“How old do you think I am?” Donaldio lets his hands drop to his lap; I study his face, trying to guess.

“One hundred or so?”

He laughs—a high-pitched squeal. “You flatter me. You see, Miss Aria, I have extended my life via donations from mystics who value me and my knowledge.”

“Donations like Stic?” I ask.

“Nothing like that,” Donaldio says, his voice growing serious.
“Come.” He pats the floor next to him, which is covered in papers. I move them away and sit. He seems even tinier up close.

“Mystics have inhabited Manhattan since the Second World War, but I have been around for much longer. Many consulted with me when they first arrived, new immigrants from all over Europe, before Ellis Island closed its doors in 1954. New arrivals
still
consult with me—and for that, they pay me with tiny bits of their life force.”

“Back to my friend’s heart,” I say, uncomfortable with this knowledge.

He nods. “Many things control the currents in the canals,” he says. “And there are many different kinds of currents. Perhaps you have learned of ocean currents, directed by the winds.”

“Not really,” I say.

“No matter.” He reaches for a long sheet of golden paper, unrolling it and stretching it out across the stained wooden floor. It looks like a map of Manhattan.

Donaldio removes a charcoal pencil from underneath his blanket, then begins to mark arrows along the map. “An ocean current is a continuous movement of water manipulated by the elements. Things have changed over the years. Oceans have bled together, lands have been enveloped, the temperature has risen—all of this affects the flow of water.”

“So … how can you figure out where my friend’s heart might have gone?”

Donaldio ignores my question. “A mystic heart is quite a dangerous thing,” he says. “You’ve heard of Stic, it seems.”

I nod.

“That is nothing compared to the power of a pure mystic heart. Most humans will never see one in their entire lives.”

“But you have,” I say.

“Yes.” He pauses. “But I have lived many lives. I have known Manhattan before the Conflagration, before mystics were quarantined and drained. When they were valued for the work they did to enhance the city. I have seen Manhattan when it was one level.”

“No!” I gasp. It seems so long ago it’s like a fairy tale: Manhattan before global warming took hold, before the water broke up the city and mystics helped build it upward. “How old
are
you?”

“Where did her body fall, would you say?” Donaldio asks, ignoring my question.

I lean over him and point to a spot on the map. He continues to make calculations on the side of the paper with tiny scratch marks, following the paths of the canals with his fingertips.

“And how long ago?”

“Just over a month,” I reply.

Eventually, he looks up. “You have a sweet soul, Miss Aria.”

“Oh,” I say. “How can you tell?

“You are not trying to find the heart for power or for greed. You are trying to find it for
good
. And because of that, I will tell you how to do so.”

“Thank you,” I say, feeling a flood of relief.

Donaldio scribbles something on the side of the map, then carefully rips the paper until he has a tiny square in his hand with some markings. “Here.” He hands it to me. “Free of charge.”

I grasp the paper. “You’re too kind.” I stare down at the markings—latitude and longitude, I believe:

“I’m not sure what to do with this,” I say.

Donaldio frowns. “What do they teach in school these days? Use a compass, of course.”

Outside, the gondolier is waiting for me, smoking another cigarette.

“Was he any help?” He flicks ash into the canal.

“Yes,” I say. “He was.”

“Where to?”

I stare down at the paper. Then I take out my TouchMe. There’s a text from Turk:
Where are you?!?!

I ignore it and click through to find a compass app. I punch in the numbers, and it starts spitting out directions. “A left up here,” I say, pointing to where the canal veers into a Y. “Then the first right.”

“Fine.” The gondolier starts the engine and the boat begins to move, wobbling as it picks up speed.
Here I come, Davida
, I think.
Here I come
.

“And a right here,” I say as we turn down a canal that will bring us to the spot Donaldio indicated. We’re on the East Side, near an area of the Depths called Gramercy.

“Uh, miss?”

I glance up from my TouchMe as the boat begins to slow. “What’s going on?” I say.

Stripes of yellow tape run across the canal a few hundred feet ahead of us, blocking entry. From where I’m sitting, some sort of
temporary walls have been inserted into the canal. A long, thick tube runs from the canal to the street, where dozens of men are working.

“Looks like the canal has been drained over there,” the gondolier says. “We’ll have to turn around.”

“No!” I say. “I mean, can you let me off?” I point to the side, where a bunch of gondoliers have gathered to watch.

I pay the gondolier and hop off the boat, scurrying down the dock. A crane is pulling rock from the bottom of the canal and dumping it onto the sidewalk. There are tons of onlookers.

Pushing through the crowd, I try to get as close to the edge of the canal as possible, holding out my TouchMe to see where Davida’s heart should be located.

A few feet away, as I’m wedged between a mother with two children and a couple of teenage boys standing on their tiptoes, my TouchMe beeps.

It says Davida’s heart should be exactly where the canal is being excavated.

“Excuse me.” I turn to the mother. “Do you know what’s going on?”

“Beats me,” the woman says. “Something having to do with the Roses. Kyle Rose made an announcement about an hour ago”—she points to a JumboTron—“that the canal was being drained to ensure that the water was clean, but everyone knows the canals are anything but clean. And no one has seemed to care much before. Maybe they’re looking for gold or something.” She laughs and grips her daughter’s hand. “Though they certainly wouldn’t share it if they found it.”

I thank the woman and snake my way through the crowd. It’s too much of a coincidence that my family would be draining this canal. But how would they know to look for Davida’s heart? What importance would it have for them? And—most importantly—have they beaten me to it?

I’m at the front of the group of spectators, so close I can see the grimy bottom of the empty canal, full of crud and dead fish and tangles of weeds and plants. I scan it, looking for something, anything, that might be a mystic heart.

Someone grabs my elbow. I cry out in pain and stare up at a familiar, slimy face.

It’s Klartino, one of my father’s men.

He snarls. “And what is your business here?”

I’m speechless.

It’s only when he asks me a second time that I realize he doesn’t recognize me. Thank God for the blond wig.

“Uh, well …” I fumble for words, trying to think of an excuse. My father must have learned of the heart. Has he already found it?

“Sister!” I hear someone shout behind me. “That’s my sister!”

I turn around, half expecting to see Kyle.

It’s Jarek. His dark hair is loose, parted in the center and falling over his face. He’s thrown a lightweight button-down shirt over his wifebeater and is wearing a pair of tan shorts.

“
Susie
. There you are.” Jarek grabs my other elbow as Klartino furrows his brow, looking at us with a confused expression. “I’m so sorry,” Jarek continues. “My little sister is …” He taps his head with his hand.
“Slow.”

Klartino grunts. “Pay attention to your brother,” the thug says, letting go of my arm. It hurts where his fingers dug into my skin. “Get outta here.”