The Unbound

TWENTY-EIGHT

WHEN OWEN LOCKED me in the Returns room, my life—thrown onto the walls—began to compile, organize, and fold in. The sensation was strange and dull and numbing.

This is the opposite.

It’s like being turned inside out, exposed to things I don’t want to see, think, feel again. It’s all pulled out of the recesses of my mind and dragged violently into the light.

The pain tears through my head as I see Wesley in my bed my parents together on the couch looking at me like I’m already lost Cash handing me coffee Sako pinning me in the alley carved a line into my skin beating the thug’s face into the park path Roland telling me to lie down and Owen stalking me through the gargoyles killing me in class lifting Ben’s blue bear sitting in Dallas’s chair.

Da used to say that if you wanted to hide something, you had to leave it sitting out, right there on the surface.

“When you bury it,” he said, “that’s when people go digging.”

I think about that the instant before it starts. I think about it while Agatha’s in my mind, the pain knifing through my scalp and down my spine, all the way into my bones. I think about it after—or between—while I’m lying on the cold antechamber floor, trying to remind my body how to breathe.

There is a moment, lying on that floor, when I just want it to be over. When I realize how tired I really am. When I think Owen’s right and this place deserves to burn. But I drag myself back together. It’s too early to stop fighting. I have to get out of here. I have to get back to the Outer. I have to get through tonight. Because one way or another, I will get through tonight.

I struggle to my hands and knees. The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth, several drops dripping from my nose to the antechamber floor.

“Get her back up,” orders Agatha. The sentinels drag me to my feet, and her hand wraps around my jaw. “Why is that traitorous History streaked across your life like paint?”

Owen. I tell the closest thing to the truth that I can manage. “Bad dreams.”

Her eyes hold mine. “You think I can’t tell the difference between nightmares and memories?”

And then I realize something with grim satisfaction: she can’t. Because I can’t. She may be able to look inside my mind, but she can only see what I see.

“I guess not,” I say.

“You think you can hide things from me,” she growls, her fingers running through my hair. “But I’m going to find the truth, even if I have to tear your mind apart to do it.” Agatha’s grip tightens, and I close my eyes, bracing for another wave of pain, when the Archive door swings open behind her.

“I warned you, Roland,” she says without looking back, “that the next time you interrupted me I would have you reshelved.”

But the man in the doorway is not Roland. I’ve never seen him before. There is a kind of timeless poise to the warm brown hair that curls against his temples and the closely trimmed goatee that frames his mouth. A gold pin made of three vertical bars gleams on the breast pocket of his simple black suit.

“Unfortunately, my dear,” he says, his accent unplaceable, “you cannot play judge, jury, and executioner. You must leave some work for the rest of us.”

Agatha tenses at the sound of the man’s voice, her hands sliding from my head.

“Director Hale,” she says. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

Everything in me goes cold. A director. One of the Archive’s leaders. And one of its executioners. Roland appears at the man’s shoulder, and his eyes find mine for an instant, darkening with worry, before he follows the other man—Hale—into the antechamber. The director crosses to Agatha’s side with calm, measured steps, each eliciting a small snap.

“Seeing as my presence has a noticeable impact on your vehemence,” he says, “perhaps it’s best to behave as though I am always in the room.” His steady green eyes slide from Agatha to me. “And I’d advise you to take a little more care with our things,” he says, still addressing her. The sentinels release me, and I will myself to stay on my feet. “Miss Bishop, I presume.”

I nod, even though the small motion sends a wave of pain through my head.

Director Hale turns back to Agatha. “Judgment?”

“Guilty,” says Agatha.

“No!” I shout, lunging toward her. The sentinels are there in an instant, holding me back. “I didn’t make the voids, and you know it, Agatha.”

Hale frowns. “Did she make them or not?”

Agatha holds his gaze a long moment. “She didn’t make the doors, but—”

“I will remind you,” cuts in Hale, “that I only granted you permission so that you could determine if she was behind the void incidents. If she is innocent of that, then pray tell how is she guilty?”

“Her mind is disturbed,” says Agatha, “and she’s hiding things from me.”

“I didn’t realize anyone could hide things from you, Agatha. Doesn’t that defeat your purpose?”

Agatha stiffens, caught between outrage and fear. “She’s involved, Hale. Of that I have no doubt. At least let me detain her until I solve this case.”

He considers, then waves a hand. “Fine.”

“No,” I say.

“Miss Bishop,” warns Hale, “you really are in no place to make demands.”

“I can solve the case,” I say, the words spilling out.

Hale arches a brow. “You think you can succeed where my assessor has failed?”

I find Agatha’s eyes. “I know I can.”

“You arrogant little—”

Hale holds up his hand. “I’m intrigued. How?”

My chest tightens. “You have to trust me.”

Hale smiles grimly. “I do not trust easily.”

“I won’t let you down,” I say.

“Do not let her go,” warns Agatha.

Hale arches an eyebrow. “I can always bring her back.”

“Give me tonight,” I say. “If I fail, I’m yours.”

Hale smiles. “You belong to the Archive, Miss Bishop. You’re already mine.” He nods to the sentinels. “Release her.”

Their hands fall away.

“Hale—” starts Agatha, but he turns on her.

“You have failed me, my dear. Why shouldn’t I give someone else a chance?”

“She has a traitor’s heart,” says Agatha. “She will betray you.”

“And if she does, she will pay for it.” His attention shifts to me. “Do you understand?”

I nod, my eyes escaping for a moment to Roland. “I do.”

And then, before anyone can change Hale’s mind, I turn my back on the director, Roland, Agatha, and the Archive, knowing that it won’t be the last time I step through this door, but if my plan doesn’t work, it will be the last time I walk out of it.

Sako is waiting. She slots her key and turns it, holding the door open for me. “I hope you know what you’re doing, little Keeper,” she hisses as she shoves me through.

I stagger forward into the yellow hall of the Coronado before one knee finally buckles beneath me. Pain continues to roll through my head and, desperate for a moment of true quiet, I tug my ring from the chain around my neck and slide it back on for the first time all day. The world dulls a little as I get up and return to the apartment.

“Where the hell—” starts Wes when I open the door. And then he sees me and pales. “Jesus, what happened?”

“It’s okay,” I say, holding up a hand before I realize there’s blood on it.

Wes hurries into the kitchen to get a wet towel. “Who did this to you?”

“Agatha,” I say, taking the cloth and wiping at my face. “But it’s okay,” I say. “I’m okay.”

“Like hell, Mackenzie,” he says, taking the towel from my hand and blotting my chin.

“It’s going to be okay,” I correct.

“How can you say that? Did she get what she wants? Is it over?”

I shake my head, even though the motion sends pain through it. “Not yet,” I say with a sinking feeling. “But it will be soon.” One way or another.

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t worry.”

Wes makes an exasperated sound. “You come home covered in your own blood two days after cutting yourself and say something cryptic about it all being over soon and expect me not to worry?”

My eyes go to the clock on the wall. “We need to get ready. I don’t want to be late.”

“Forget about the damn dance! I want to know what’s going on.”

“I want you to stay out of it.” I close my eyes. “This isn’t your fight.”

“Do you really believe that?” says Wes, throwing the towel down on the table. “That just because you keep me at arm’s length, just because you don’t tell me what you’re going through, that it somehow stops it from being my fight, too? That somehow you’re sparing me anything?”

“Wes—”

“You think I haven’t gone myself to every one of those crime scenes and searched for something—anything—to explain who’s doing this? You think I don’t lie awake trying to figure out what’s happening and how to help you? I care about you, Mackenzie, and because of that, it’s never not going to be my fight.”

“But I don’t want it to be your fight!” I dig my nails into my palms to keep my hands from shaking. “I want it to be mine. I need it to be mine.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” says Wes. “We’re part—”

“We’re not partners!” I snap. “Not yet, Wes. And we’ll never be, not unless I get through this.”

“Then let me help you.”

I press my palms against my eyes. Every bone and muscle in my body wants to tell him, but I can’t. I’m willing to bet with my life, but not with Wesley’s.

“Mackenzie.” I feel his hands wrap around mine, his bass playing through my head as he lowers them, holding them between us. “Please. Tell me what’s going on.”

I bring my forehead to rest against his. “Do you trust me, Wes?”

“Yes,” he says, and the simple certainty in his voice makes my chest hurt.

“Then trust me,” I plead. “Trust me when I say I have to get through this, and trust me when I say I will, and trust me when I say that I can’t tell you more. Please don’t make me lie to you.”

Wesley’s eyes are bright with pain. “What can I do?”

I manage a sad smile. “You can help me put my makeup on. And you can take me to the festival. And you can dance with me.”

Wesley takes a deep, shaky breath. “If you get yourself killed,” he whispers, “I will never forgive you.”

“I don’t plan on dying, Wes. Not until I know your first name.”

He hands me the towel from the table. “You get the blood off. I’ll get the makeup kit.”

“Okay. You can open your eyes.”

Wes holds up a mirror for me to see his work: dark liner dusted with silver and shadow. The effect is strange and haunting, and it pairs well with his own look. “One last touch,” he says, rooting around in his bag. He pulls out a pair of silver horns and nestles them in my hair. I consider my reflection, and a strange thought occurs to me.

When I pulled Ben’s drawer open, his History was wearing the red shirt with the X over the heart. The one he had on when he died. And if things go wrong tonight and I die, I’ll die like this: sixteen and three quarters in a plaid skirt with silver shadow on my face and glittering horns in my hair.

“What do you think?” asks Wes.

“You make a perfect fairy godmother,” I say, looking toward the clock on the wall. “We’d better get going.”

I head for the Narrows door in the hall, but Wes takes my hand and leads me downstairs instead, through the Coronado’s door and out to the curb.

There’s a black Porsche parked there. My mouth actually falls open when I see it. At first I think it can’t be Wesley’s, but it’s the only car around, and he heads straight for it.

“I thought you didn’t have a car.”

“Oh, I don’t,” he says proudly, producing a key chain. “I stole it.”

“From who?”

He presses a button on the key and the lights come on. “Cash.”

“Does he know?”

Wes smirks as he holds the door open for me. “Where’s the fun in that?” He sees me in and shuts the door, jogging around to the other side of the car and climbing into the driver’s seat.

“Are you ready?” he asks. There are so many questions folded into those three words, and only one way to answer.

I swallow and nod. “Let’s go.”