The Unbound Page 18

  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.

  “Someone I met was abducted,” I say, the words coming out too cautiously. “I thought I might be able to see something the cops had missed. The man, Gregory Phillip, went missing from his home. The room where the abduction took place was trashed, and the police didn’t have any leads. They couldn’t make sense of the evidence, couldn’t figure out how the man had vanished. Because they couldn’t see it. But when I broke in, I saw it clearly.”

  “Saw what, Miss Bishop?”

  “Someone had made a void.”

  Agatha’s eyes narrow. “That,” she says, “is a very serious accusation.”

  It is. Voids can only be made using Crew keys, the only people given Crew keys are Crew, and Agatha is personally responsible for every member of this branch, Keeper and Crew alike. Which is why she should be more interested in finding the person behind this than in burning me.

  “I understand the severity—”

  “Do you?” she says, rounding her chair. “Do you truly know what you’re suggesting? Voids are tears in the world. Every time one is created, it puts the Outer and the Archive at risk. As such, the intentional creation of one is punishable by alteration. And you think that a member of Crew would disobey the Archive—disobey me—and create such a tear in the Outer in order to dispose of one human?”

  “Three,” I correct. “There have been three disappearances in the last week, and I believe voids were created in every instance. And I’m not convinced the Crew responsible is doing it for themselves. I think it’s possible that someone in the Archive has given them the order.”

  “And why on earth would someone do that?”

  “I think”—god, I sound mad; I can barely will the words out—“someone’s trying to frame me.” Agatha’s eyebrows go up as I add, “I crossed paths with each victim before they vanished.”

  “And who would want to frame you?” she asks, her voice dripping with condescension.

  “There are members of the Archive,” I say, “who disapprove of your initial ruling. Those who are opposed to my continued service.”

  Agatha sighs. “I’m well aware of Patrick’s feelings toward you, but you honestly believe he would break Archival law to see you terminated?”

  I hesitate. I’m not sure I do. It was easy to believe he would send Eric to find evidence, but I have a harder time believing he would plant it.

  “I don’t know,” I say, trying hard not to waver. “I’m only telling you what I found.”

  “You must be mistaken.”

  “I know what I saw.”

  “How can you?” she counters. “Voids are not truly visible, to anyone. You got a bad feeling, you thought your eyes slid off a bit of air, and you assumed—”

  “I read the wall. The memories surrounding the creation of the void were all ruined. Whited out.”

  She shakes her head. “Even if there was a void, how do I know you aren’t to blame? Do you have any idea how rare a void door is? You’ve already been tied to one—”

  “I was doing my job.”

  “—and now this. You yourself said three disappearances, and you crossed paths with each.”

  “I don’t have a Crew key.”

  “There was another one, was there not? On the roof? The one belonging to that traitorous History? What happened to it?”

  My mind spins. “It got sucked into the void,” I say, “along with Owen.”

  “How convenient.”

  “I could have lied, Agatha,” I say, trying to stay calm, “and I did not. I told you the truth. Someone is defying you. Defying the Archive.”

  “Do you think I would allow such crimes and conspiracies to happen under my nose?”

  I stiffen. “With all due respect, less than a month ago a Librarian plotted to unleash a restricted History into the Outer and tear down an entire branch from the inside, and she nearly succeeded. All of it under the Archive’s nose.”

&
nbsp; In a flash, Agatha is upon me, pinning me to the chair, her fingers digging into my wounded forearm. Tears burn my eyes and I squeeze them shut, fighting back the dizzying dark of a tunnel moment.

  “Which is more likely?” she says, her voice a low growl. “That a member of the Archive is conspiring against you—out of personal distaste or retribution, fashioning some elaborate scheme to have you found unfit, constituting treason—or that you’re simply delusional?”

  I take a few shaky breaths as the pain sears across my skin. “I know…you don’t want…to believe—”

  Agatha’s nails dig into my arm. “My position is not built on what I want to believe, Miss Bishop. It is based on truth and logic. It is a very complicated machine I help to run. And when I find a broken piece, it is my job to fix or replace it before it can damage any other parts.”

  She lets go and turns away.

  “I’m not broken,” I say under my breath.

  “So you claim. And yet the things that come out of your mouth are madness. Am I correct,” she says, turning back to me, “in assuming that you still refuse to grant me access to your mind? That you make this claim against the Archive, against Crew, against me, and yet you deny me the ability to find you innocent or guilty of the charges you put on those around you?”

  I feel sick. If my theory is wrong, then I’ve also signed my execution, and we both know it. I force myself to nod. Agatha looks past me to the sentinel.

  “Go get Sako,” she says.

  A moment later, I hear the door close. Agatha and I are alone.

  “I will start with the Crew then,” she says, “because none of them would be foolish enough to deny me permission. And when I’ve scoured their minds and found each and every one of them loyal and innocent, 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.” She takes my chin in one gloved hand. “Maybe it’s the voids, or maybe it’s madness, but whatever it is, I will find out.” Her hand drifts down my jaw to my collar. “In the meantime,” she says, guiding the key out from under my shirt, “I suggest you keep your list clear.”

  The threat is clear and cold as ice. If you wish to remain a Keeper.

  The door opens, and Sako stands there waiting.

  “Take Miss Bishop home,” says Agatha smoothly, her hand abandoning my collar. “And then come back. We need to talk.”

  Something flits across Sako’s face—curiosity, confusion, a shade of fear?—and then it’s gone and she nods. She slides her key straight into the door behind her, takes my elbow, and pushes me through.

  An instant later, we are standing in my bedroom again, Wesley asleep with his head on the bed and Sako’s noise rattling through my body. Her metal and stone clanging become coiled annoyance waste of space what did she do guarded what does Agatha want now could have a night with Eric his arms wrapped around warm golden and strong and safe, and when she lets go of my arm, I’m surprised by how strong Sako’s feelings are for him.

  “Get out of my head, little Keeper,” she growls.

  I slide my ring back on, wondering how much of my mind she saw. She turns on her heel and vanishes the way she came, and I’m left standing there in the dark.

  My arm aches, but I can’t bring myself to inspect the damage, so I sink onto the bed and rest my head in my good hand. I wish that Da were here to tell me what to do. I’ve run out of his prepackaged wisdom, his lessons on hunting and fighting and lying. I need him.

  As the quiet settles around me, the panic creeps in. What have I done? Bought myself a few days, but at what cost? I’ve made an enemy of Agatha, and even if my theory’s sound and the Crew behind the voids is found, she will not forget my refusal. And if my theory’s wrong? I squeeze my eyes shut. I know what I saw. I know what I saw. I know what I saw.

  Music fills my head, strong and steady, and I look down to see Wesley’s hand wrapped around mine, his eyes bleary but open. He must misread the shock and fear in my eyes for the echoes of a nightmare—how I wish this were still a bad dream—because he doesn’t ask what’s wrong. Instead he climbs onto the bed beside me and rolls me in against him, his arms wrapped around my waist.

  “I won’t let anyone hurt you,” he whispers sleepily into my hair. And all I can think as his music plays in my head is that this is how Sako saw Eric in her mind: like a shield, strong and safe. This is how Crew partners feel about each other. But we are not Crew. We may never be now. But tonight, I let myself pretend. I hold on to his rock sound and his touch. I let it surround me.

  Ten minutes later, the first name appears on my list.

  TWENTY

  WHEN I WAKE UP, Wesley’s gone. There’s nothing but a dent on the comforter to show that he was ever here. It’s late, light streaming in through the windows, and I lie there for a moment, sleep still clinging to me—dreamless, easy sleep, filled only with music—and savor the calm. And then I move, and pain ripples sharply down my arm and dully through my shoulders, and I remember.

  What have I done?

  What I had to, I tell myself.

  The Archive paper sits on my side table, tucked beneath The Inferno. At least there’s still only the one name.

  Abigail Perry. 8.

  I pocket the list. The smell of coffee drags me out of bed, and my hand’s on the door before I notice there’s dried blood staining my sleeve. I tug out of the shirt; the outline of Agatha’s grip is nearly visible in the stain. I unwrap the dressing as quickly as possible—my eyes sliding off the gash as if it is a void, something wrong, unnatural, drawing and repelling my gaze at once—and pull a clean shirt on before heading into the kitchen. Dad’s already there, brewing a pot of dark roast.

  “I sent Wes home,” he says in lieu of a good morning.

  “I’m amazed you let him stay,” I say, gingerly tugging the clean shirtsleeve down over the stitches. Maybe out of sight will turn into out of mind.

  “Actually, he kind of refused to leave.” Dad pours me a cup. “After what happened.”

  I take the mug and drag through my thoughts. Past Agatha’s interrogation and Owen’s nightmare to the room tipping and the water glass shattering on the hardwood floor. “How could she, Dad?”

  He rubs his eyes and takes a long sip. “I don’t condone what your mother did, Mackenzie. But you have to understand, she was only trying to—”

  “Don’t tell me she was trying to help.”

  He sighs. “We’re all trying to help, Mac. We just don’t know how.” I look down at my coffee. “And for the record, that was a one-time deal, having your boyfriend stay the night.”

  “Wesley’s not my boyfriend.”

  He arches a brow over his coffee. “Does he know that?”

  My eyes escape to the coffee cup as I remember his arms folding around me, the comforting blanket of his noise.

  “Caring about someone is scary, Mac. I know. Especially when you’ve lost people. It’s easy to think it’s not worth it. It’s easy to think life will hurt less if you don’t. But it’s not life unless you care about it. And if you feel half of what he feels for you, don’t push him away.”

  I nod distantly, wishing I could tell him that I do feel half, more than half, maybe even all of what Wesley feels, but that it’s not that simple. Not in my world. I lean my elbows carefully on the counter. “What are you up to today?” I ask lightly.

  “I have to go to the university for a bit. Left some work there that I didn’t get to yesterday.”

  Because you were playing warden. “And Mom?”

  “Down in the café.”

  I sip my coffee. “And me?” I ask cautiously. The list is like a weight in my pocket.

  “You’ll be with her,” he says. What he means is, She’ll be watching you.

  “I still have some homework to do,” I lie.

  “Take it down there,” he says. His tone is gentle, but the message is clear. I won’t be left unattended. The love is there, the trust is gone.r />
  I tell Dad I need to take a shower first, and he nods for me to go. A small part of me marvels at the fact I’m allowed to bathe without supervision, until I see that they’ve already taken every remotely sharp object out of the bathroom.

  I’m hoping he’ll go on ahead to work and I’ll be able to make a quick detour into the Narrows on my way downstairs, but by the time I’m out of the shower and dressed and my arm and hand are freshly wrapped, he’s waiting for me by the door.

  He ushers me down to the coffee shop like a prisoner, passing me over to my mother’s care. She won’t look at me. I won’t talk to her. I know she wanted to help, but I don’t care. I’m not the only one in this place capable of losing someone’s trust.

  For a woman who won’t look me in the eyes, it’s amazing how she manages to never let me out of her sight. Thankfully the coffee shop is pretty full, and I welcome the lack of eye contact for the first hour as I clear tables and ring up drinks. Berk’s working today, too, which helps. He has a kind of infectious cheer and a hatred for quiet, so he makes enough small talk to cover up the fact that Mom and I haven’t said a word to each other.

  “I hope the guy deserved it,” says Berk when I reach out to take a coffee and he sees my bandaged palm and healing knuckles. “Is that the reason you two are fighting?” he asks, gesturing with a pair of tongs to Mom, who’s retreated by now to the patio to chat with a woman in the corner table, her eyes flicking in my general direction every few moments.

  “One of many,” I say.

  Thankfully he doesn’t ask more about it—doesn’t even assume it’s all my fault. He just says, “They mean well, parents,” and then tells me to take out the trash, adding, “You look like you could use a little fresh air.”

  I weigh my odds for escaping to the Narrows, but they aren’t good. There’s a door in the closet at the back of the café, but that’s not exactly inconspicuous, and my other two doors—the one in the lobby and the one on the third floor—aren’t in easy reach. As for Mom, well, Berk’s barely handed me the bag before her eyes dart my way. I hoist up the trash for her to see and point to the back door. Her eyes narrow and she starts heading toward me, but gets snagged by another table halfway. She flashes me three fingers.