The Unbound (15 page)

By the time Dad gets back, Wes has managed to cover himself in an impressive number of Post-it notes, each labeling a muscle (I don’t have the heart to tell him we’re studying blood flow right now). Dad takes one look at him and
almost
smiles. And when it takes Wes half a dozen tries to affix a yellow sticker to the place between his shoulders, I end up laughing until my chest hurts, and for a while I forget how much trouble I’m in and how tired I am and how much my arm hurts.

I make it to dusk, but even with Wesley’s company, I’m starting to fade. Mom is back home and making no attempt to hide the fact that she’s hovering. Every time I yawn, she tells me I should go to bed. Tells me I need to sleep. But I can’t. I know Dallas said I had to confront my problems, but I just don’t have the strength to face another nightmare right now. Especially now that I know I’m capable of doing actual damage to myself. And maybe to others. I would rather be exhausted and awake than a danger and asleep, so I brush off her concern and crack open a soda. It’s halfway to my lips when she catches my hand, filling my head with her high, worried static as she pries the can away and replaces it with a glass of water.

I sigh and take a long sip. She passes the soda to Wes, who makes the mistake of yawning as he takes it.

“You should head home,” Mom tells him. “It’s getting late, and I’m sure your father is wondering where you are.”

“I doubt that,” he says under his breath, then adds, “He knows I’m over here.”

“Mom,” I say, finishing the glass of water, “he’s helping me study.”

“Does he know you’re
here
here?” she presses, ignoring me. “Or does he think you’re upstairs with Jill?”

Wesley’s brow furrows. “Frankly, I don’t think he cares.”

“Parents always care,” she snaps.

“Honey,” says Dad, looking up from a book.

They’re talking, all three of them, but the words begin to run together in my ears. I’m just thinking about how strange it is when my vision slides out of focus.

The room sways, and I grip the counter.

“Mac?” Wes’s voice reaches me. “Are you okay?”

I nod and set the glass down; or at least I mean to, but the countertop’s not where I thought it was, and the glass goes crashing to the floor. It shatters. The sound is far away. At first I think I’m about to have another blackout, but those happen fast, and this is slow like syrup.

“What have you done?” Wes snaps, but I don’t think he’s talking to me.

I close my eyes, but it doesn’t help. The world sways even in darkness.

“The doctor said she needed to—”

Everything else is far away.

“Allison,”
growls Dad. I drag my eyes open. “How could you—”

And then my legs go out from under me, and I feel Wesley’s arms and his noise wrap around me before the world goes black.

A
T FIRST,
everything is dark and still.

Dark and still, but not peaceful.

The world is somehow empty and heavy at the same time, the nothing weighing me down, pinning my arms and legs. And then, little by little, the details begin to come back, to descend, rise up, wrap around me.

The open air.

My racing heart.

And Owen’s voice.

“There’s nowhere to run.”

Just like that, the darkness thins from absolute black into night, the nothingness into the Coronado roof. I am racing through the maze of gargoyles, and I can hear Owen behind me, the sound of his steps and the grind of metal on stone as he drags his blade along the statues. The roof stretches to every side, forever and ever, the gargoyles everywhere, and I am running.

And I am tired of it.

I have to stop.

The moment the thought hits me, I slam to a halt on the rooftop. My lungs burn and my arm aches, and I look down to find the full word—
B R O K E N
—carved in bloody, bone-deep letters from elbow to wrist. I search my pockets and come up with a piece of cloth, and I’m halfway through tying it around my forearm, covering the cuts, when I realize how quiet the roof has gotten. The footsteps have stopped, the metallic scratching has stopped, and all I can hear is my heart. Then, the knife.

I turn just in time to dodge Owen’s blade as it slashes through the air, putting a few desperate steps between our bodies. The gargoyles have shifted to form walls, no gaps to get through: no escape. And that’s okay, because I’m not running.

He slashes again, but I grab his wrist and twist hard, and the knife tumbles from his grip into mine. This time I don’t hesitate. As his free hand goes for my throat, I bury the blade in Owen’s stomach.

The air catches in his throat, and I think it’s finally over—that I’ve finally done it, I’ve beat him, and it’s going to be okay. I’m going to be okay.

And then he looks down at me, at the place where my hand meets the knife and the knife meets his body. He brings his hand to mine and holds the knife there, buried to the hilt, and smiles.

Smiles as his hair goes black, and his eyes go hazel, and his body becomes someone else’s.

“No!” I cry out as Wesley Ayers gasps and collapses against me, blood spreading across his shirt. “Wesley. Wesley, please, please don’t…” I try to hold him up, but we both end up sinking to our knees on the cold concrete, and I feel the scream rising in my throat.

And then something happens.

Wesley’s noise—that strange chaotic beat—pours into the dream like water, washing over his body and mine and the rooftop, filling it up until everything begins to dim and vanish.

I’m plunged into a new kind of darkness, warm and full and safe.

And then I wake up.

It’s the middle of the night, and Wesley’s hand is tangled with mine. He’s in a chair pulled up to my bed, slumped forward and fast asleep with his head cradled on his free arm on the comforter. The memory of him crumpling to the concrete almost makes me pull away. But here, now, with his hand warm and alive in mine, the scene on the roof
feels
like it was just a dream. A horrible dream, but a dream—already fading away as his noise washes over me softer and steadier than usual, but still loud enough to quiet everything else.

My head is still filled with fog, and the hours before the nightmare trickle back first in glimpses.

Mom pushing the water into my hand.

The tilting room.

The breaking glass.

Wesley’s arms folding around me.

I look down at him, sleeping with his head on my covers. I should wake him up. I should send him home. I slide my fingers from his, and for a moment he rouses, drags himself from sleep long enough to mutter something about storms. Then he’s quiet again, his breathing low and even. I sit there, watching him sleep, discovering yet another of his many faces: one without armor.

I decide to let him sleep, and I’m just about to lie back down when I hear it: the sound of someone in the room behind me. Before I can turn, an arm wraps around my shoulders, and a woman’s hand closes over my mouth.

Her noise crashes through my head, all metal and stone, and all I can think as her grip tightens is that it takes a cruel person to sound like this. It’s how I imagine Owen would have sounded when he was alive, before his life was compiled and his noise replaced by silence.

When she leans in to whisper in my ear, I catch sight of the blue-black fringe that sweeps just above her black eyes. Sako.

“Don’t scream, little Keeper,” she whispers as she hauls me backward, out of the bed and to my feet. “We don’t want to wake him.”

Her hand falls away from my mouth, her arm away from my shoulders, and I spin on her in the dark.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I hiss, almost soundless, still dizzy from whatever Mom put in my water.

“Trust me,” growls Sako as she grabs my arm and drags me across the room. “I’d rather be a thousand other places.”

“Then get out,” I snap, pulling free. “Shouldn’t you be hunting down Histories?”

“Haven’t you figured it out yet, little Keeper?” she says, driving her Crew key into my closet door. “We hunt down
people
for the Archive. Only some of them are Histories.”

I barely have time to pull off my ring before she turns the key, opens the door, and shoves me into darkness.

Agatha is waiting.

She’s sitting behind the front desk in her cream-colored coat, her red hair sweeping perfectly around her face. One gloved hand turns through the ledger like it’s a magazine, while Roland stands at her side, looking stiff and pale. His attention snaps up when Sako drags me in, but Agatha continues to play with the pages of the massive book.

“See, Roland?” she says, the heavy paper crinkling under her touch. “I told you Sako would find her.”

Sako nods a fraction. Her hand is still a vise on my shoulder, but nothing filters in with her touch now. The silent buffer of the Archive surrounds us. Only the Librarians can read people here.

“She was asleep,” says Sako. “With a boy.”

Agatha raises a brow. “I’m so sorry to disturb you,” she says in that milky voice.

“Not at all,” I say tightly. “I would have come sooner, but I was indisposed, and my doors were out of reach.” Only Crew can turn any door into an Archive door. I turn to Sako. “Thanks for the lift.”

Sako smiles darkly. “Don’t mention it.”

Roland’s eyes have locked onto the bandage wrapping around my right hand and up my wrist—
You should see my other arm,
I think—and they hover there as Agatha quietly shuts the ledger and rises to her feet.

“If you’ll excuse us, I think it’s time for Mackenzie and me to have a little chat.”

“Requesting permission to be present,” says Roland.

“Denied,” she says casually. “Someone needs to watch the front desk. And Sako, please stay. You might be needed.” Agatha points to one of the two sentinels by the door. “With me, please.” I stiffen.

“I really don’t think that’s necessary,” says Roland as one of the two black-clad figures steps forward. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen one move.

“I hope it’s not,” says Agatha, “but one should always come prepared.”

She turns toward the open doors behind the desk, and I scramble to pull my thoughts together as I follow. Roland catches my shoulder as I pass.

“Do not grant her permission,” he whispers before the sentinel gives me a push through the doors.

I pad barefoot through the atrium of the Archive, the white of Agatha’s coat in front of me, the black of the sentinel’s cloak trailing behind, and for the first time, I feel like a prisoner. As we turn down one of the halls, I catch sight of Patrick standing at the edge of a row of stacks. His eyes follow us—curious, but otherwise unreadable.

Agatha leads me into a room with no shelves and two chairs.

“Have a seat,” she tells me, waving at one as she takes the other. When I hesitate, the sentinel forces me down. His hands stay pressed onto my shoulders, holding me in place until Agatha says, “That won’t be needed,” and then he takes a step back. I can feel him looming like a shadow behind the chair.

“Why am I here?” I ask.

Agatha crosses her legs. “It’s been nearly a month since our last meeting, Miss Bishop. I thought it time for a checkup. Why?” she says, tilting her head innocently. “Can you think of any other reasons I’d summon you?”

A pit forms in my stomach as she pulls a small black notebook from the pocket of her coat and opens it with a small sigh.

“Preceding the obvious failure to report when summoned…” I bite back the urge to cut in, to call her out on the fact she
knew
I couldn’t come. “…I’ve compiled a rather concerning list of irregularities,” she says, dragging a gloved finger down the page. “We have nights spent in the Archive.”

“Roland’s been training me.”

“The assault of two humans in the Outer.”

“They assaulted
me
. I merely defended myself.”

“And the Archive had to clean up the mess.”

“I didn’t ask the Archive to.”

She sighs. “An arrest for breaking and entering a crime scene?”

“I was never processed.”

“Then how about crimes more pertinent to the Archive?” she challenges. “Such as failure to return Histories.” I open my mouth, but she holds up a hand. “Do not insult me by claiming you were the one to send those lost souls back, Miss Bishop. I happen to know that Mr. Ayers’s key was used to access the Returns in your territory. The simple fact is that you have been neglecting your
job
.”

“I’m sorry. I was indisposed.”

“Oh, I know. Hospitalized. For self-harm.” She taps the paper thoughtfully. “Do you understand why I find that so troublesome?”

“It’s not what you—”

“This is a stressful job, Miss Bishop. I am aware of that. The mind bears as many scars as the body. But the mind also keeps our secrets. A weak mind is a threat to the Archive. It is why we alter those who leave. And those who are removed.” Agatha’s eyes hold mine. “Now tell me, what happened?”

I take a deep breath in. Most people do before telling a lie—it’s an almost automatic physical preparation and one of the hardest tells to break—but I make sure to let it out before starting, hoping the hesitation passes for embarrassment. And then I hold out my right hand. The cuts from the glass are shallow, but I’ve made sure they’re covered, and the bandages wrap down around my wrist.

“Last month,” I start, “when I tried to stop Owen, he broke a few of the bones in my wrist.” I think back to my physiology textbook. “He cracked the radius and crushed the scaphoid, lunate, and part of the triquetrum.” I point out the rough placement of each. “The last two didn’t set properly. There were a few small pieces of bone that never re-fused. They were getting in the way, so I did my best to take them out.” Her eyes drift to the bandages that circle my wrist as she leans forward, closing the narrow gap between us. It’s exactly what I want, her to focus on the hand. She need never know about the bandages on my other arm.

“Why not go to the hospital?” she asks.

“I didn’t want my parents to worry.”

“Why not have
Patrick
see to it?”

“He’s not my biggest fan,” I say, “and I thought I could see to it myself. But I’m afraid the thing about being a teenager is that people tend to notice when you take a knife to yourself, no matter the reason.”

A sad smile touches her lips, and I’m beginning to think she actually bought the lie when she says, “Roll up your sleeves.”

I hesitate, and that brief pause is enough to give me away. Agatha rises to her feet, and I move to rise, too, but the sentinel holds me in my seat as she leans forward and guides up my sleeve—not my right one, but my left—exposing the bandage that winds around my forearm.

“Tell me,” says Agatha, running a finger gingerly over the tape, “did pieces of bone wander into this arm, too?”

“I can—”

But she lifts a finger to silence me.

“I asked you once,” she says, “if you wanted to remember all that had happened to you. I gave you a chance to forget. I fear I might have erred in doing so. Bad memories left in weak minds are like rot. They spread and ruin.”

I grip the chair even though it sends pain up my arm. “I assure you, Agatha, I am not ruined.”

“No,” she says, “but you may be
broken
.”

I cringe. “I am not. You have to believe me.”

“Actually,” she says, tugging on the fingers of one black glove, “I don’t. Not when I can see for myself.”

The sentinel’s grip tightens on my shoulders, and Roland’s voice rushes in my ears.
Once she has access to your mind, anything she
finds there can be used against you. If she found you unfit, you would be
sentenced to alteration
….
Do not grant her permission.

“No,” I say, the words brimming with panic. “You can’t.”

Agatha pauses, her eyes narrowing. “Excuse me?”

“You don’t have my permission,” I say, reminding myself that this is law, even though it feels like suicide. Agatha’s false warmth dissolves, and she considers me coldly.

“You are denying me access to your mind.” It is not a question. It is a challenge.

I nod. “It is my right.”

“Only the guilty plead the Fifth, Miss Bishop. I strongly advise you to reconsider.”

But I can’t. I have chosen my path, and she must respect it. She can’t hurt me, at least not right now. It may only be a reprieve, but it’s better than a sentence. I roll my sleeve down over the bandages, and she reads the gesture for the denial it is.

The sentinel’s grip retreats from my shoulders, and I’m about to push myself to my feet when she says, “We are not done.” My stomach twists as she rounds her chair and curls her gloved hands around the back. “You still haven’t explained the crime scene or what you were doing there.”

Lie, lie, lie
pounds my heart. But a lie has to be as quick as truth, and the fact I’ve paused yet again means I won’t be able to sell a line. She’ll see through it. If I was standing on ice before, my refusal has driven cracks into it.