The Unbound

TWELVE

THE MAN with the knife is lying at my feet.

His nose is broken. Blood is gushing down his face, and one of his legs looks like it’s bent at the wrong angle. His switchblade is jutting out of his thigh. I don’t remember stabbing him or even touching him, but my hands say I did. My knuckles are torn up, and I have a shallow cut on one palm—probably from the switchblade. At first, I’m only aware of how numb I feel and how slowly time is moving. And then it slams into me, along with the pain radiating across my hands and through my head. What have I done? I close my eyes and take a few steadying breaths, hoping the body will just disappear—this will all just disappear—but it doesn’t, and this time the breathing doesn’t help me remember. There’s just more panic and a wall of black.

And then I hear sounds of a struggle and remember the guy with the metal pipe, and I turn to see him being strangled by the golden man.

The golden man is standing there with his arm calmly wrapped around the thug’s throat, pulling back and up until his shoes skim the ground. The thug is flailing silently, swinging his arms—the pipe is lying on the path a few feet away—as he runs out of breath. As the golden man tightens his grip, his sleeve slides up and I can see three lines cut into his skin.

Crew marks.

I was right.… Oh, god, I was right. And that means a member of Crew just saw me do…this. I don’t even know what I did, but he saw it. Then again, he’s currently strangling someone in front of me. But I bet he at least remembers doing it.

The thug stops struggling, and the golden man lets his body fall to the ground.

“I hate fighting humans,” he says, brushing off his pants. “You have to work so hard not to kill them.”

“Who are you?” I ask.

His brow crinkles. “What, not even a thanks?”

“Thanks,” I say shakily.

“Welcome. Wouldn’t be much of a gentleman if I didn’t lend a hand.” His eyes drift down to the man at my feet. “Not sure you needed it, though. That was quite a show.” Was it? He reaches out. “Let me see those hands.”

His fingers nearly brush my skin when I jerk away. He’s not wearing a ring.

“Ah,” he says, reading my distrust. He produces a silver band from his pocket, holding it up so I can see the three lines etched on its surface before he slides it on. This time when he holds out his hands, I reluctantly give him mine. His noise is low and steady as a heartbeat through my head.

“How did you know?” he asks, turning over my hands to check for broken bones.

“Posture. Attention. Ego.”

He smiles that half smile. “And here I figured you just saw the marks.” He runs his thumbs over my knuckles. “Or, you know, there’s the fact that we’ve met.”

I wince as he traces the bones in my hands.

“In your defense,” he adds, “we weren’t formally introduced.”

And suddenly it clicks. When Wesley and I were summoned to the Archive last month to explain how we’d allowed a teenage History to escape into the Coronado, the golden man was there. He came in late and flashed me a lazy smile. When he heard how long Wesley and I had been paired up before we let the History escape—three hours—he actually laughed. The woman with him didn’t.

“I recognized you,” I lie.

“No you didn’t,” he says simply, testing my fingers. “You thought I looked familiar, but there’s a big difference between knowing a face and placing it. Stare at anyone long enough and you’ll start to think you’ve seen them before. The name’s Eric, by the way.” He lets go of my hands. “And nothing’s broken.”

“Why have you been following me?”

He arches a brow. “Just be glad I was.”

“That’s not a good enough answer,” I snap. “Why have you been following me?”

Again, that lazy smile. “Why does anyone do anything for the Archive? Because they’re told to.”

“But why?” I press. “And who told you to?”

“Miss Bishop, I don’t think now’s the time for an interrogation,” he says, gesturing to the bodies and then back to me. I look down again at my blood-covered hands. They’re shaking, so I curl them into fists, even though it sends sparks of pain across my skin.

“I want an answer.”

Eric shrugs. “Even if it’s a lie?”

The man with the knife in his leg begins to stir.

“You should go home now,” says Eric, fetching the piece of pipe and wiping the prints with his sleeve before tossing it back to the ground. “I’ll take care of these two.”

“What are you going to do with them?”

He shrugs. “Make them disappear.” He rights my bike and walks it toward me.

“Go,” he says. “And be careful.”

My hands are still shaking as I wipe them on my shirt, mount the bike, and leave.

On the way home, as my body calms and my mind clears, the memories begin to trickle back in flashes of color and sound.

The crack of bone as my free palm came up under his nose.

The cry and the cursing and the blind slashing of the switchblade.

The snap of his knee as my shoe slammed into the side of it.

The silent moment when the switchblade tumbled from his hand into mine.

The scream as I drove it down into his thigh.

The crunch of my fist across his face as he crumbled forward. Again. And again.

Seconds, I marvel. It took only seconds to break so many things.

And even though I couldn’t remember at first, I’m not sorry I did it. Not even a little. I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to make him regret the way he looked at me, like I wouldn’t be able to fight back, like I was weak. I look down at my raw knuckles as I ride. I’m not weak anymore…but what am I becoming instead?

“What happened to your hands?” shrieks Mom when I walk into the apartment. She has her phone to her ear and she says a hurried “We’ll talk later” to whoever’s on the other end before hanging up and rushing over.

“Biking accident,” I say tiredly, shrugging off my bag. It’s not a total lie, and I’m not about to tell her that I got assaulted on the way back from her delivery. She’d implode.

“Are you all right?” she asks, taking my arm. I wince, less from my wounded hands than the sudden high-pitched crackle that comes with her touch. Still, I manage not to pull free as she guides me into the kitchen.

“I’m fine,” I lie, holding my hands under the sink while she pours cool water over them. I managed to wipe off most of the blood, but the knuckles are red and raw. “You’re home early,” I say, changing the subject. “Slow day at the coffee shop?”

Mom gives me a quizzical look. “Mackenzie,” she says, “it’s nearly seven o’clock.”

My eyes drift to the windows. It’s halfway to dark. “Huh.”

“You were late, and I started to get worried. Now I see I had a good reason to be.”

“I’m fine, really.”

She cuts off the water and sets to towel-drying my hands, tutting as she unearths a bottle of rubbing alcohol from beneath the sink. It feels nice—not the rubbing alcohol, that hurts like hell, but having Mom patch me up. When I was little, I came home with all kinds of scrapes—the products of more normal childhood escapades, of course—and I’d sit on the counter and let Mom fix them. Whatever it was, she could fix it. After I became a Keeper and started hiding my wounds instead of proudly presenting them, I’d watch her fix Ben, the same worshipping expression in his eyes as she tended to his battle scars.

These days, I’m so used to hiding my cuts and bruises—so used to telling Mom I don’t need her and telling her I’m fine when I’m not—that it’s a relief not being able to hide an injury. Even if I have to lie about how it happened.

Then Dad walks in.

“What happened?” he asks, dropping his briefcase. It’s almost funny, in a sick way, their level of concern over a few cut knuckles. I hate to think how they’d react if they could see some of my larger scars, what they’d say if they knew the truth behind my broken wrist. I nearly laugh before I remember that it’s not that kind of funny.

“Biking accident,” I repeat. “I’m fine.”

“And the bike?” he asks.

“The bike’s fine, too.”

“I’d better check it out,” he says, turning toward the door.

“Dad, I said it’s fine.”

“No offense, Mac, but you don’t know much about bikes, and—”

“Leave it,” I snap, and Mom looks up from her first aid kit long enough to give me a warning look. I close my eyes and swallow. “The paint might be nicked in a couple places”—I had the sense to scuff it up on the sidewalk—“but it’ll live to ride another day. I took the worst of it,” I say, displaying my hands.

For once, Dad’s not having it. He crosses his arms. “Explain to me the physics of this biking accident.”

And doubt, Da said, is like a current you have to swim against.

“Peter,” starts Mom, but he puts up a hand to stop her.

“I want to know exactly how it happened.”

My heart is pounding as I hold his gaze. “The sidewalk was cracked,” I say, fighting to keep my voice steady. “The front wheel of the bike caught. I threw my hands out when I went down, but rolled and caught the street with my knuckles instead of my palms. Now, if the Inquisition and the infirmary are both done,” I finish, pulling free of Mom and pushing past Dad, “I have homework.”

I storm down the hall and into my room, slamming the door for good measure before slumping against it as the last of the fight goes out of me. It feels like a poor take on a teen tantrum, but apparently it works.

Neither one of them bothers me the rest of the night.

Roland frowns. “What happened to your hands?”

He’s waiting in the atrium, perched on the edge of a table with his folder in his lap. When I walk up, his eyes go straight to my knuckles.

“Biking accident,” I say automatically.

Something flashes in his eyes. Disappointment. Roland pushes off the table. “I’m not your parents, Miss Bishop,” he says, crossing the room. “Don’t insult me by lying.”

“Sorry,” I say, following him out of the atrium and down the hall toward the Librarians’ quarters. “There was an incident.”

He glances back over his shoulder. “With a History?”

“No. A human.”

“What kind of incident?”

“The kind that’s taken care of.” I consider telling Roland about Eric, but when I form the words in my head—someone in the Archive is having me followed—they make me sound cracked. Paranoid. The worry’s already showing in Roland’s eyes. The last thing I want is to make it worse. Plus, I can’t prove anything, not without letting Roland into my head, and if I do that, if he sees the state I’m in, he’ll… No, I won’t rat out Eric, not until I know what he was doing there or why he’s been following me.

“Did our lovely new doormen see your hands?”

“The sentinels? No.” Patrick did, though. He didn’t say anything, just looked at me like I was that useless kid again. Bloody nose or bloody knuckles, can’t hold her own. If only he knew how the other guy looked.

“Was it another tunnel moment?” asks Roland.

I look down at my hands. “I remember what happened.”

We walk the rest of the way to his room in silence. He lets me in, and I see him pull his watch from his pocket and run his thumb over the surface once before setting it on top of the table. Something tugs at me. It’s the same set of motions he did last night. The exact same set. It’s so hard to think of Roland as a History, but the repetition reminds me that his appearance isn’t the only static thing about him.

He gestures to the daybed, and I sink gratefully onto the soft surface, my body begging for rest.

“Sleep well,” he says, folding into his chair. I close my eyes and listen to the sound of him making notes, the scratch of letters on paper low and comforting, like rain. I feel myself sinking, and there’s a moment—one brief, terrifying moment—where I remember the nightmares that wait. But then the moment is gone and I’m drawn down into sleep.

The next thing I feel is Roland shaking me awake.

I sit up, stiff from the fight and from sleep. I study the fresh bruises that color my hands as Roland moves about the room. The relief at having slept is dampened by dread as I think of the slice of conversation I overheard beyond the door.

It’s not a permanent solution.

Roland’s right. I cannot keep doing this. I cannot come here every night. But it’s the only place the nightmares don’t follow me.

“Roland,” I say softly. “If it keeps getting worse…if I keep getting worse…will Agatha…?”

“As long as you keep doing your job,” he says, “she can’t hurt you.”

“I want to believe you.”

“Miss Bishop, Agatha’s job is to assess members of the Archive. Her greatest concern is making sure that things run smoothly, that everyone is doing his job. She is not the bogeyman. She cannot just sweep down and snatch you up and take your mind away. Even though she’d like you to think that.”

“But last time—”

“Last time you confessed to involvement in a crime, so yes, your future was left to her discretion. This is different. She cannot even look inside your mind without permission, let alone take your memories.”

“Consent. How forward-thinking.” But something eats at me. “Did Wesley give permission?”

Roland’s brow crinkles. “What?”

“That day…” We both know which day I’m talking about. “He doesn’t remember it. Any of it.” Did he want to forget? Or was he made to? “Did he give the Archive permission to take those memories?”

Roland seems surprised to hear this. “Mr. Ayers was in very bad shape,” he says. “I doubt he was conscious.”

“So he couldn’t give permission.”

“That would have broken protocol.” Roland hesitates. “Maybe it wasn’t the Archive’s doing, Miss Bishop. You know more than most what trauma does to the mind. Maybe he does remember. Or maybe he’s chosen to forget.”

I cringe. “Maybe.”

“Mackenzie, the Archive has rules, and they are followed.”

“So as long as I don’t grant Agatha permission, I’m supposedly safe? My mind is my own?”

“For the most part,” says Roland, perching on the edge of his chair. “As with any system, there are ways around and through. You’re not the only one who can grant permission. If you denied Agatha access to your mind and she had good reason to believe it harbored guilt, she could petition the board of directors. She wouldn’t do it, not unless she had a strong case—evidence that you had committed a crime or that you could no longer perform your job or be trusted with the things you know—but if she had one…” He trails off.

“If she had a strong case…” I prompt.

“We mustn’t let it come to that,” says Roland. “Every time the board has granted her access to someone’s mind, they’ve been found unfit and been removed from service. Her record means she won’t make the request lightly, but it also means the board will never deny her if she does. And once she has access to your mind—through your permission or theirs—anything she finds there can be used against you. If she found you unfit, you would be sentenced to alteration.”

“Execution.”

Roland cringes, but doesn’t contradict me. “I would challenge the ruling, and there would be a trial, but if the board stands behind her, there is nothing I can do. It is very literally in the directors’ hands. You see, only they are authorized to carry out alterations.”

Da only told me one thing about the board of directors, and that’s that you never want to meet one of them. Now I understand why.

Roland frowns, deep in thought. “But it will not come to that,” he adds. “Agatha is the one who pardoned you in the first place. I doubt she’s looking for reasons to reverse that decision.”

I think of Eric following me. Someone told him to. “Maybe Agatha’s not,” I say, “but what if someone else is? Someone who disagreed with her ruling? Like Patrick. Would he go this far? And if someone handed her a case, would she overlook it?”

“Miss Bishop,” says Roland. “These are not the thoughts to be filling your head with right now. Don’t give her a reason to question her ruling. Just do your job and stay out of trouble, and you’ll be okay.”

His words are calm, but his voice is laced with cracks and his brow is furrowed.

“Besides,” he adds softly, crossing to the side table to fetch his watch, “I promised your grandfather I would look after you.” He slides the silver watch into his pocket. “That’s a promise I intend to keep.”

As I follow him out the door and through the twisting, turning halls, I can’t help but remember that he made a promise to the Archive, too, the day of my initiation.

If we do this, and she proves herself unfit in any way, said a member of the panel, she will forfeit the position.

And if she proves unfit, said another, you, Roland, will remove her yourself.