The Unbound

TWENTY-NINE

“ARE YOU AFRAID of dying?”

Wesley and I are sprawled out in the garden a week and a half before school starts. He’s been reading a book to himself, and I’ve been staring at the sky. I haven’t slept in what feels like days but might be longer, and the question slips through my mind and out my lips before I think to stop it.

Wes looks up from his book.

“No,” he says. His voice is soft, his answer sure. “Are you?”

A cloud slices through the sunlight. “I don’t know. I’m not afraid of the pain. But I’m afraid of losing my life.”

“Nothing’s truly lost,” he says, reciting Archive mantra.

I sit up. “We are, though, aren’t we? When we die? Histories aren’t us, Wes. They’re replicas, but they’re not us. You can’t prove that we are what wakes up on those shelves. So the thought that nothing’s lost doesn’t comfort me. It doesn’t make me any readier to die.”

Wes sets the book aside. “This is kind of a morbid topic,” he says. “Even for you.”

I sigh and stretch back out on my stone bench. “Our lives are kind of morbid.”

Wes goes quiet, and I assume he’s gone back to reading, but a minute or two later he says, “I’m not afraid of dying, but I’m terrified of being erased. Seeing what it did to my aunt…I’d rather die whole than live in pieces.”

I consider him. “If you could leave the Archive without being altered, would you?”

It is a dangerous question, one I shouldn’t ask. It whispers of treason. Wes gives me a cautious look, trying to understand why I’m asking.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “It doesn’t work that way.”

“But if it did? If you could?”

“No.” I’m surprised by the certainty in his voice. “Would you?”

I don’t answer.

“Mackenzie?” he prompts.

“Mackenzie, we’re here.”

I blink to find the car sitting in the Hyde School lot. Wes is twisted in his seat, looking at me. “You okay?” he asks. I will myself to nod and offer him a reassuring smile, then climb out of the car. With my back to Wes, I slide the silver ring off and loop it on my necklace chain, wishing I could cling a little longer to the buffer and everything that comes with it. But I can’t afford to miss Owen.

“Wesley Ayers!” calls Safia from the edge of the parking lot, “you look ridiculous.” All four of them are there waiting for us: Saf and Cash with gold streaks in their rich, dark hair, Amber with blue ribbons and butterfly patterns on her cheeks, Gavin in green, thick-framed glasses that take up half his face.

Wes runs a hand over his black spiked hair. “You say ridiculous, I say dangerous.”

Cash arches a brow. “Dangerous as in, you could probably impale a low-flying bird?”

“Love the horns, Mackenzie,” says Amber.

“I thought you had a date, Safia,” I say.

“Yeah, whatever, I bailed.”

“She wanted to be with us,” says Amber. “She’s just too proud to admit it.”

“Is that my car?” asks Cash.

On campus, the buildings are dark, but the light from the festival glows against the low clouds, and the air is filled with the distant thrum of music—nothing but highs and lows from here. We reach the front gate with its wrought iron bars and its sculpted H—abandon all hope, ye who enter here—and pass through. Then we head down the tree-lined path toward the main building and around it, the noise growing louder and the lights growing brighter as we approach. When we pass into the glowing center of campus, Fall Fest rises up before us.

Silver, black, green, and gold. The colors trail in streamers down the building fronts to every side and across the lawn, forming a colorful canopy. Lanterns hang from the trees, lights line the paths, and the grass below the streamers is filled with students and edged with booths. The music seems to come from everywhere, not the way it does when I touch Wes—not filling my bones—but simple and normal and real and loud and all around. A group of girls in brightly colored wigs is perched on a bench eating and laughing, a huddle of boys is playing booth games, and a ton of students decked out in wild makeup and glittering accessories are dancing. The air is alive with their bodies and voices.

Teachers dot the crowd, chatting with one another—none of them with face paint or fake hair, but all in dark clothes like shadows cast around the festival. Mr. Lowell and Dallas hover in front of a booth; Ms. Hill and Ms. Wellson sit on a bench at the edge of the grass dance floor. And there, leaning against a drink stand, is Eric. I tense when I see him, looking grim as he surveys the crowd. I should have known he would be here, watching. But is he still acting as Roland’s eyes? On the other side of the lawn, Sako sits perched on the edge of another bench. She is definitely here for Agatha. I scan the crowd for any other vigilant eyes and spot a third—a man I’ve never seen before, one with dark skin and Sako’s same cold grace—which means that somewhere there’s probably a fourth, his partner, but I don’t see her. Everyone else looks like they belong. And really, somehow, so do the Crew.

But there is no sign of Owen. Not yet. Even with the whole school here and everyone decked out with crazy hair and strange eyes, I know I’ll spot him at a glance.

The party starts at seven. The show’s at eight.

What is he planning? A cold shiver of dread travels down my spine. What if the gamble’s too great? What if I’m making a horrible mistake?

Amber and Gavin link arms and head for the nearest food stand, and Safia grabs Wesley’s sleeve and demands a dance.

“It’s tradition,” she says. “You always dance with me.”

Wesley hesitates, clearly not wanting to leave my side. And if I’m being honest, I don’t want him to leave, either. I’m struck by the sudden fear that if he does, I won’t have a chance to… To what? Say good-bye? I won’t say that anyway.

“Go on, you two,” says Cash. “Mac and I will get along fine.”

Safia pulls Wesley into the throng, and Cash holds out his hand. “May I?”

I accept, and my head fills with his jazz and laughter and all of his thoughts, and as we dance I do my best to let them be like music instead of words and listen only to the melody. Cash is full enough of life and energy that, as we spin and twirl and smile and sing along, I almost forget. Even hearing his voice and his music and his life in my head for one whole song, I almost forget. That is the beauty of Cash. Another me in another life would have fallen for this pretty boy who looks at me and only sees a pretty girl and helps me pretend for one song that anything could be that simple.

But even if I believed in Owen’s dream of a life without secrets and lies, Cash is not the boy I’d share it with.

Soon the song trails off and a slower one picks up. A senior girl appears at Cash’s shoulder and asks for a dance. Wesley appears at my side at the same time.

“Dance with me,” he says. And before I can say anything, he wraps his arm around my waist and fills my head with his sadness and his fear and—threaded through it all—his ever present hope. I rest my ear against his shoulder and listen to his heart, his noise, his life. Every moment of it hurts, but I don’t let go or push away.

And then, near the end of the song, I see Owen hovering at the edge of the dance floor. His eyes meet mine. My pulse quickens, and I tighten my grip on Wes, gathering up the strength to pull away. I can do this. Whatever I have to do to put an end to this—to Owen—I will do it. I have to. I let him out. I’ll return him. I’ll lay him at the Archive’s feet and earn my life back with his body.

Owen turns and makes his way to the shadow beside the clock tower. The song ends, but Wesley doesn’t let go, and I look up into his dark-rimmed eyes.

“What is it?” he asks.

“You’re worth it,” I tell him.

His brow crinkles. “What do you mean?”

I smile. “Nothing,” I say gently. “I’m going to get a drink. Save me another dance, okay?”

My fingers begin to slide through his. He hesitates and starts to tighten his grip, but Amber grabs his other hand and pulls him toward her. “Where’s my dance, Ayers?” she asks. Our hands fall apart. The music starts up again and I vanish into the crowd, forcing myself not to look back.

Eric’s back is turned and Mr. Bradshaw is trying to strike up a conversation with Sako as I slip away into the dark. Owen is humming (you are my sunshine, my only sunshine…), and I follow the sound of it into the shadows of the clock tower, where I find him leaning against the brick side, turning his knife over between his fingers.

“Hyde School always knew how to throw a party,” he says, eyes lost in the glittering lights.

“Will you tell me now what’s going to happen here? When do we steal the page?”

“That’s the thing,” says Owen, putting away his knife. “We don’t.”

I stiffen. “I don’t understand.”

“There’s a reason this plan requires two people, Mackenzie. One of them distracts the Archive while the other steals the page.”

“You want me to create the diversion?”

“No,” says Owen, “I want you to be the diversion.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re already on thin ice with the Archive, right? Well, if they’re busy dragging you to your alteration, they’re less likely to notice me.”

“Why would they be doing that?” I ask slowly.

“Because you’re not going to give them a choice. You’re going to make a scene. The Archive hates scenes. I’ve already staged it for you.” He toes the grass, and even in the dark I can see wires. Fuses.

“I said I didn’t want anyone to get hurt.”

“You have to play your part, Mackenzie. Besides, they’re only fireworks. I told you, something short and bright. Flash and show. Once you’ve lit the match—a literal one this time—all you have to do is be ready to run. I’ll take care of the hard part.”

“What hard part?”

“All eyes are on you,” he continues. “Waiting for you to mess up or make a move. So that’s what you’re going to do. And then you’re going to run, and Crew will chase you. And when they catch you—and they will—you’re going to fight back, with everything you have, to the very end.”

My mind spins. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. We are supposed to go into the Archive together. I am supposed to return him. How am I supposed to do that if I’m being executed?

“You don’t want a diversion, Owen. You want a sacrifice.”

“Don’t be dramatic.”

“I am not a martyr,” I snap.

“I won’t let them erase you.”

“Oh, well, if you won’t let them…” I say sarcastically.

“I’ll save you,” he insists. “Trust me.”

I scoff. “You want me to put my life in your hands.”

In an instant, Owen has me back against the brick wall. “Your life has been in my hands since the moment I stepped out of that void,” he growls.

A sickening realization dawns on me. He’s already set the scene. He doesn’t need my consent to make me a diversion. But the only way he’ll come for me is if he thinks I’m worth saving.

But the ledger is on the desk at the very front of the Archive. What’s to stop him from walking in and taking it and leaving without me?

“I won’t,” he says, reading the thoughts through my skin. “I will not leave you behind. I still need you. We are the bringers of change, Mackenzie. But I need you to be the voice of it.”

His hands fall away. He turns toward the festival, and the lights cast shadows across his pale skin. “Change is coming,” he says quietly. “Either the Archive will evolve or it will fall.”

And watching him in that unsteady light, it hits me.

It’s all a lie. His promise of an Archive without secrets, his dream of a world exposed—Owen doesn’t expect the Archive to survive this. He doesn’t want it to. He wants the same thing he’s always wanted: to tear it down. And he thinks he’s found a way to do that—by letting this world do the work.

He doesn’t want change.

He wants ruin.

And I will do whatever it takes to keep him from it.

My mind is spinning, but I cannot afford to let him see my panic. I take a short, steadying breath. “You should have told me sooner,” I say. “For someone who scorns secrets, you sure keep a lot of them.”

He frowns. “I didn’t want you to overthink it,” he says. “But our fates are bound in this. If you fail, I fail; and if I fail, you fail. We are like partners.”

We are nothing like partners, I think, but all I say is, “Don’t you dare leave me there, Owen.”

He smiles. “I won’t.”

And then he crouches and lifts the end of the fuse from the grass. A lighter appears in his other hand. He looks up at the clock tower beside us. Five minutes till eight p.m.

“Perfect,” he says, sliding his thumb over the lighter. A small flame dances there. “Five minutes from the spark.” He touches the flame to the fuse and it catches, a hissing sound running down the line. No turning back now, I realize with a mixture of terror and energy.

“Find the spotlight.” Owen steps out of the shadows and onto the path, but I linger against the building and pull the phone from my pocket. There’s a text from Wesley…

Where are you?

…and I answer back…

Science hall.

…hoping I can at least get him out of the way of whatever’s about to happen. And then I swallow and dial home. Mom answers.

“Hi,” I say. “Just checking in. As promised.”

“Good girl,” says Mom. “I hope you have a great time tonight.”

I fight to keep the fear out of my voice. “I will.”

“Call us when it’s over, okay?”

“Okay,” I say, and I can tell she’s about to hang up, so I say, “Hey, Mom?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you,” I say, before ending the call.

Four minutes till eight p.m. The clock tower looms overhead, fully lit. I watch a minute tick past as students dance and laugh beneath the colored canopy. They have no idea what’s about to happen.

In all fairness, neither do I.

Three minutes till eight p.m. I tell myself I can do this. Tell myself it isn’t madness. Tell myself it will all be over soon. When I run out of things to tell myself, I step out of the shadows, expecting to see Owen, but he’s not there, so I head toward the quad. I only make it a few strides before a large hand wraps around my arm and drags me back into the dark and thought you were clever can’t get past me thought I wouldn’t see the pattern ricochets through my head. Before I can try to twist free, a metal cuff closes around my wrist, and I crane my neck to see Detective Kinney behind me.

“Mackenzie Bishop,” he says, cuffing my hands behind my back, “you’re under arrest.”