Toxic Heart by Theo Lawrence Read Free Book Online Page A

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 sobright 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 anda 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