The Unbound (17 page)

“Any time.”

Wesley watches Cash go. “You like him,” he says quietly.

“So do you,” I say. “He’s a nice guy.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“I know what you mean.” I do like Cash. He’s normal. And when he’s around, I almost forget that I’m not.

“I would have been here sooner,” says Wes, “but it appears my access to your territory has been revoked. Any idea why?”

I frown. Agatha.

“Maybe they decided it was time to hand me the reins,” I say as casually as possible. “How did you get here, then? Did you drive?”

“For your information, I took the bus.”

I shudder at the thought. So many people in such a tiny box. But Wes has always been better with contact than I am. After all, he’s the one who taught me how to let the noise wash over me, how to float instead of drown in the current of people’s lives.

“Talk and work, kids. Talk and work,” calls Berk from the other end of the counter. Wesley smiles and ducks under the bar.

“So,” he asks, softer, “how did you sleep last night?”

The rooftop and the gargoyles and Owen’s knife all flash through my mind.

“Awful at first,” I say. “But then…” I feel my face warming. “I heard your noise, filling my head, and the nightmare just kind of fell apart.”

“I wasn’t sure what to do,” he says, pouring himself a drink. “You called my name.”

“Oh,” I say, as he takes a sip, “that’s because I killed you.”

Wes nearly chokes on his coffee.

“It was an accident,” I add. “Promise.”

“Great,” he says, knocking his shoulder against mine, briefly filling my head with rock and bass and drum. “Let’s see if we can keep you nightmare-free.” He pulls back a little. “Oh, and I talked to Amber. I asked her to let me know if Detective Kinney gets any leads. She said he’s gotten really tight-lipped, but that she’ll try to keep me posted. I think she thought I wanted to know because of Bethany.…”

I’d nearly forgotten about their history. “I’m sorry about her,” I say. A void is a rip in the world. It only stays open long enough to drag something—
someone
—through, and then it seals. Once a person is gone…

“Yeah. Well. I don’t understand the
why
, but you’re right about the
what
,” says Wes. “I swung by her house to see if anything stood out.”

“And?” I ask.

“Something’s definitely off. It’s in the driveway, right next to the car. I couldn’t look right at it.”

A breath of relief escapes. I didn’t realize how badly I needed someone else to see the voids. Just then, my mother comes over. “Wesley,” she says by way of hello as she scoops up two drinks from the counter.

Wes ducks back under the counter and nods. “Hi, Mrs. Bishop.”

She seems nervous, and he seems tense, and I remember him growling at her last night, when the world began to tilt.

What have you done?

But in the unbalance, I see an opening. “Hey, Wes is going to watch Jill for a while. Can I go with him?”

It’s the first thing I’ve said to her since last night, and I can see the struggle play out across her face as her eyes flick from Wesley to me (or at least to my apron, my collar, my jaw). She doesn’t want to let me out of her sight. But if she says no, it’ll only cement her as the villain. We’re teetering at the edge of something high and steep, and neither of us wants to go over. Part of me thinks that after last night, Mom has already jumped, but I’m offering a rope, a chance to climb back up onto the ledge.

I can tell she wants to take it, but something stops her. I wonder if it’s Colleen’s voice in her head, warning against the pitfalls of lenient parenting and encouraging vigilance.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.…” Mom looks around the café, but Colleen’s an hour away, Berk’s staying out of our family drama, and Dad’s not here to back her up. If he were, I’m pretty sure he’d side with me.

“I’ll keep her out of trouble, Mrs. Bishop,” offers Wesley, flashing her a small, genuine smile. If he’s surprised by my inviting myself along, he never shows it. “Promise.”

Mom shifts her weight, fingers curled around the coffee cups. A man at a corner table flags her over. “Okay,” she says at last, still not looking at me. “But be back down in an hour,” she adds. “In case it gets busy.”

“Sure thing,” I say, ducking under the counter before she can see the relief splashed across my face.

“And Mac,” she says when Wes and I are nearly to the door.

“Yeah?”

I’m sorry.
I can see the words on her lips as she looks at the space a foot to my left, but she can’t say them. “One hour,” she says again for emphasis. I nod and follow Wes out.

“
Y
OU’RE IN A HURRY,”
says Wes once we’re on the grand stairs.

“Things to do, dear Wesley.”

“I’m intrigued,” he says. “But you know, when I said I was going to watch Jill, I didn’t intend it as a euphemism. Not that I’m averse, it’s just—”

“There are two Histories on my list,” I cut in. “And my parents have been playing warden and watch all weekend. I needed an excuse to get away so I could track the names down.”

“Is that all my company is to you?” he asks with mock affront. “An excuse?”

We reach the top of the stairs, and I take his chin in my hand, rock music singing through my fingers. “If it makes you feel better,” I say teasingly, “you’re a very pretty excuse.”

His brow crinkles. “I would have preferred
dashing
, but I’ll take it.”

My hand starts to slide away, but he catches it, holding it gently against his jaw. He gazes down through his black lashes, flashing me a sultry look. Even though I know he’s playing, I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks. Finally his hand slips away; but as it does, his fingers graze my forearm and I pull back, wincing.

Wesley’s flirting dissolves into a frown. “I don’t think you should be hunting.”

I sigh and head into the stairwell. “I don’t have a choice.”

“I could do it for you.”

I shake my head. “You no longer have access to my territory.”

“You could loan me your key.”

“No,” I say simply, pushing open the door to the third floor and heading down the hall. “I need to do it myself.”

“Wait,” he says. “Just wait.” I drag myself to a stop beside the painting of the sea. My hour of freedom ticks away inside my head. Wes runs a hand through his hair. “You’ve been through a lot,” he says. “Just give yourself a break.”

“I can’t,” I say simply. “The Archive won’t. I have to do this. It’s my job. If I can’t hunt, then I don’t deserve to be a Keeper.” I realize with a sinking feeling that it’s true. I have to prove that I can do this, that I’m not broken. Agatha’s not convinced, and right now, neither am I. But I can’t give up. As badly as I want a normal life, I don’t want to lose this. Lose myself. Lose Wes.

“I won’t be long,” I say. As I tug my ring off and pocket it, my senses adjust to the hall, to the keyhole now visible in the wallpaper crease, and to the closeness of Wesley’s body, humming with life.

He frowns, tugging off his own ring. “I’m going with you.”

“What about Jill?”

He waves a hand. “It’s Jill. She’s got her nose in some book. She couldn’t care less if I’m there to watch her turn the pages.”

“You don’t have to come,” I say, sliding my key over my head and slotting it in the wall.

“But I am,” he says matter-of-factly as the Narrows door spreads, stainlike, over the wallpaper beside us. “Listen. I get that you need to do this, but it’s been a bad few days, and I don’t want you going in there by yourself, okay? Besides, I told your mom I’d keep you out of trouble, and this has trouble written all over it. So if you’re determined to go stomping around the Narrows, then I’m going with you.” His crooked smile flickers back to life. “And if you try to stop me—well then, I’ll scream.”

“You wouldn’t,” I gasp.

“I would. And you’d be surprised how far my voice carries.”

“Fine. You can come.” I sigh and turn the key in the Narrows door. “But don’t get in my way.”

Wes starts forward and then stops, remembering something. “What about your summons?” he asks. “Don’t you need to report?”

I hesitate. “I already did,” I say slowly. “I spoke to Agatha last night.”

“And? Did you tell her about the voids? Your theory?”

I nod, half expecting Wes to tell me I should have kept my mouth shut, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t know Agatha, not the way I do. To him, she is the assessor. The authority. The Archive. It probably wouldn’t occur to him to keep it a secret.

“She wasn’t very happy,” I add.

“I bet,” says Wes. “What did she say?”

I will tear your life apart, moment by moment, to uncover your guilt.
Because you have proven one thing tonight, Miss Bishop: you are guilty of
something. Maybe it’s the voids, or maybe it’s madness, but whatever it is,
I will find out.

“She said she’d take care of it.”

“Well…” Wes rubs his neck. “I guess that’s a relief? I mean, this is Agatha. She’ll get to the bottom of it, one way or another.”

“Yeah,” I say, opening the door. I have a sickening feeling he’s right.

On good days, the stale, twisting corridors of the Narrows put me on edge. Today, they make my skin crawl. Every little sound twists itself into a set of footsteps. A door knock. A distant voice. My pulse inches up before the door to the Outer is even closed, before the little light that snuck through the boundary between worlds is snuffed, plunging us into the key-lit dark.

My wounded arm hangs at my side, aching dully. I force myself to focus on the task at hand instead of the way the pain creeps through my senses, threatening to drag me into a darker place. I can almost feel Owen pinning me against him, his hands over my hands over the knife.…

“Mac?” asks Wes under his breath. I shake myself free of the thoughts. I cannot afford to lose myself here, not with names on my list and Wesley at my back. I can feel him behind me, so close I can almost feel his life radiating off of him like heat. He’s keeping his body tensed as if he thinks I’ll fall, as if he’ll need to catch me.

Two names. Two Histories. That’s all. It ought to be routine. Anger prickles through me. If I can’t do this, I don’t deserve to be called a Keeper.

“I’m okay,” I say, pressing my hand to the nearest wall to hide the fact it’s shaking. I squeeze my eyes shut momentarily. Taking hold of the thread of time, I turn it back, and the Narrows flickers up again in my mind. I roll it backward until a boy flashes into sight. He’s there and then gone just as quickly, but I know where to go next. That’s all I need. One step at a time, one foot in front of the other. I pull away and follow his path around the corner, weaving deeper into the Narrows. Soon I find my stride and forget about the pain in my arm and the whisper in my head that says
broken broken broken
in Owen’s voice.

“See?” I say, pulling away from another wall. “I told you I’d be—”

I’m halfway through the word
fine
when I round the corner and nearly collide with a body. Instinct kicks in, and I slam the form back against the Narrows wall before I’ve even registered how small it is, or the fact that it’s not fighting back. The girl’s shoes dangle off the ground, and she looks at me with wide, terrified eyes, her pupils wavering.

Abigail Perry. 8.

The look in her eyes is like cold water. The spell of the Narrows breaks, the nightmarish echoes retreat, and I remember my job. Not to frighten or fight, but to return. To set right.

“Please don’t hurt me,” she whispers.

I lower the girl’s shoes to the ground, loosening my grip without letting go.

“I’m sorry,” I say as gently as possible. “I didn’t mean to grab you. It’s just, you scared me.”

Her eyes widen a little more, the pupils settling. “I’m scared, too,” she says.

Her gaze drifts to Wesley behind me. “Are you?” she asks him, and Wes, who’s always been more of a return-first-talk-later kind of Keeper, kneels in front of Abigail and says, “I am, but Mac here, she’s going to show us the way out.”

She looks up at me expectantly, and I nod. “That’s right,” I say, still shaky. “Let’s get out of here.”

I find the nearest Returns door and send her through. And in that instant before I close the door—when the hall fills with white light—I think of the day I got trapped in that blinding room and my life played all over the walls before folding in square by square, taking my breath and heartbeat with it. I wonder for an instant if that’s what it’s like to be erased.

But I have no desire to find out.

Two halls away, we run into
Bentley Cooper. 12.
He throws his fists up when he sees us. The kid is all skin and bones and fear, and I can’t help but wonder what kind of short life he had to leave him so defensive. The question softens something in me. I know I shouldn’t wonder; Da used to scold me for my curiosity, but I’m starting to think he was wrong. Caring is what keeps me human. I know caring is also the reason Owen haunts my dreams—if I didn’t let things in, they couldn’t hurt me—but maybe Dad was right. It’s not life unless you care about it.

I put my hands up, like I’m surrendering, and the boy’s come down, and within minutes he’s been led into the light. By the time Wes and I step back into the yellow-papered hallway of the third floor, my list and my head are both clearer. The relief I feel at making it through such a small task is sickening—I hope Wes doesn’t see it. I slide my ring on and sink back against the wall, feeling more like myself than I have in weeks.

“Well, that was fun,” he says casually as he returns his own ring to his finger. “Truth be told, I kind of miss the days when your territory was full of burly knife-wielding convicts. And remember that boy?” he adds nostalgically. “The one who took a jog through the Coronado?”

“Vividly,” I say drily. “I picked the broken glass out of your back. Right before we got chewed out for not letting Crew handle it.”

Wes sighs. “Crew have all the fun. One day…” He trails off, dragging his attention back. “Well, Miss Bishop, your list is clear, and your mother probably thinks we’ve spent the last”—he checks his watch—“fifty-two minutes engaged in any number of nefarious activities.” He reaches out and messes my hair a little, rock music playing through my head with his fingers.

“Wes,” I groan, trying to smooth it.

“What? I’m only adding authenticity. Your parents already think we’re dating.”

“I told them we’re not. They don’t seem to believe me.”

Wes shrugs. “I don’t care,” he lies. “Gives you a good excuse.”

“You’re not just an excuse, Wes.”

“No, I’m a pretty one,” he says with a wink. “I should probably get going, though. Make sure Jill isn’t trying to act out any of the things in those books of hers. She’s on a pirate kick right now. Made one of Angelli’s cats walk a makeshift plank…” He turns toward the stairs, but stops after a few feet and casts a mischievous glance back my way. “But I could come by later…if you want.”

The thought of a full night of sleep, wrapped in nothing but his noise, makes my heart ache, but I force myself to shake my head. “They’re not going to let you stay a second time.”

“Who says they have to know?” he asks.

“Sneaking into a girl’s room?” I ask with mock surprise. “That sounds like something a boyfriend would do.”

Wesley’s smile tilts. “Just leave the window open.”

I make it back to the café with five minutes to spare, catching Mom’s eye on the way in. If I’m expecting a smile, a welcome back, or an apology, I’m disappointed. Mom’s efficient glance from clock to me to clock to work makes it clear: it’s going to take a lot more than an hour without broken promises to piece our family back together.

The first thing I do when I get back upstairs is slide my bedroom window open (if my parents ask, I can say something about needing fresh air, since this seems like the only way I’ll ever get any), but when I pause to look out and
down
, I realize there’s no way Wes is going to get inside tonight. I rest my elbows on the window and consider the drop until I hear a nervous squeak and turn to see Mom standing in the doorway, looking at me like she thinks I’ll jump.

“Nice night,” I say, pulling my head back in.

“Dinner’s ready,” she says, nearly making eye contact before retreating into the kitchen. Progress.

Dad has insisted on cooking, as if that will mend things. He even makes my favorite—spaghetti with meatballs from scratch—but we still spend most of the meal in a silence broken only by scraping knives and forks. Dad won’t look at Mom, and Mom won’t look at me. All I can think as we sit in silence is that if my life ended right now, there would be this trail of destruction, a wake of ruined trust, and it leaves me feeling empty. Did Da ever feel this way?

Antony Bishop was a flake, and a criminal, and a selfish asshole who
cared more about his secrets and his many lives than his family.

Is that how Dad really saw his father? Is that what he was? What I am? Something that rends the family instead of gluing it together? Ben was our glue. Have we been weakening without him? Or have I been prying us apart?

Halfway through the meal, I feel the scratch of letters on my list again, and my heart sinks. I excuse myself and escape to my room, my father’s command to leave the door open trailing like a weight behind me.

The silence is worse when I’m alone, quickly filling up with
how
s and
why
s and
what if
s. How is Agatha’s search going? Why is someone doing this? What if my theory is wrong? I switch the radio on and unfold the Archive paper. Another name.

Henry Mills. 14.

I slump down on my bed, tossing my good arm over my eyes. Even if I weren’t being watched like a hawk, it would be hard to keep up with names appearing at this rate. Keepers are encouraged to deal with them as quickly as possible, to keep the list from getting long and to keep the Histories from slipping into madness, since they’re harder to handle once they have. But they’re not expected to spend every waking moment standing near a Narrows door, waiting for the call. Then again, their jobs and their lives don’t hang in the balance. Someone else may be able to let the names sit. I can’t. Not with Agatha looking for any signs of weakness.

I sit up, considering the open window. Can Wes really get in? And if so, can I get out?

Eventually Mom and Dad go to bed with their door open, but I’m allowed to close mine, probably because they figure the only way I can get out is through the window, and nobody would be crazy enough to try that. Nobody except Wesley, apparently, who appears around midnight sitting like a specter in the window frame.