The Unbound Read online

  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 withou
t 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 hows and whys and what ifs. 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.

  I look up from the bed as he slips into the room, offering a silent and dramatic bow before crossing to me.

  “Color me impressed,” I whisper under the music on the radio. “Do I want to know how you did that?”

  “I said I was a good climber,” he whispers. “Never said I had to climb up.” He points a finger at the ceiling. “4F is vacant.”

  “Well,” I say, getting to my feet, “I’m really glad you made it.”

  Wesley’s eyes light up. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” I say, tugging on my boots.

  Wes’s brow knits. “Going somewhere?”

  “I assume if you got in, you know how to get back out.”

  “Well, yeah, in theory. But I kind of thought I wouldn’t have to test it till morning.”

  “There’s another name on my list.”

  “So?”

  I go to the window and peer out and up, considering the rock walls of the Coronado. Not the easiest ascent, especially with one good arm. “I need to clear it.”

  “Mac,” whispers Wes, joining me by the window. “I’m all for efficiency, but this is bordering on obsessive. It’s only one name. Leave it till tomorrow.”

  “I can’t,” I say, swinging my leg out the window.

  He catches my elbow to steady me, the beat of his life sliding through my shirt and under my skin. “Why not?”

  I don’t want to lie, not to Wes, but I don’t want him to worry, either. I’m worried enough for the both of us, and there’s nothing he can do right now except show me how to climb out of this room. “Because it’s a test.” It’s not a lie. Agatha is testing me.

  “What?” Wesley’s eyes darken.

  “An evaluation,” I say. “After everything that’s happened, I guess they—Agatha—wants to make sure…” My eyes slide down to my sleeve, the bandages peeking out around the wrist.

  “Sure of what?” snaps Wes, and I hear something new in his voice. Anger, directed at the Archive. “Jesus, after everything you’ve been through, everything you’re going through—”

  I swing my leg back into the room and take Wesley by the shoulders, my eyes sliding past him to the door, worried someone will hear the commotion. “Hey,” I say, making sure to talk under the sound of the radio. “It’s okay. I don’t blame them. But I need to keep the list clear. And to do that, I need your help.”

  “Is this why they locked me out of your territory?”

  I nod, and he lets out a low oath before pulling himself together. “What they’re doing,” he says, shaking his head as if to clear it, “I’m sure it’s just protocol.” He doesn’t sound like he believes it, but I can tell he wants to.

  “I’m sure,” I say. I wish I could believe it, too.

  He steps up to the window, gripping the sill. After a long breath, he says, “Are you sure you can climb?”

  “I’ll manage,” I say stiffly.

  “Mac—”

  “I’ll manage, Wes. Just show me what to do.”

  He sits on the sill and brings one leg up, resting his shoe on the wood as he takes hold of the open window over his head and then, in one fluid motion, stands, coming to his feet outside. He keeps one hand curled under the window for support as he shimmies to the side and steps off the sill and onto a thin outcrop of rock, vanishing from sight. When I stick my head out, I see him scaling the side of the Coronado, thin bit of stone to thin bit of stone until he reaches an open window roughly ten feet overhead. He hoists himself up into the window and sits there, elbows on his knees, looking down at me.

  “Tell me that was more fun than it looks,” I say.

  “Loads,” says Wes as I take a deep breath and climb out onto the frame, following his lead. My arm aches dully as I grip the bottom edge of the window for support, eyeing the surfacing stones that stand between me and 4F. They are not flat and smooth but jagged, worn away by time and weather like the gargoyles on the roof. Each is somewhere between a brick and a cinder block; as I reach for the first one, a pebble crumbles off overhead and skitters down the wall.

  I am going to die. I always thought that if something in the Coronado killed me, it would be the elevators, but no. It will be this.

  I take a deep breath and step off the windowsill onto the stones. I will myself not to look down; instead I focus on the number of stones between me and safety, counting down. Eight…seven…six…five…four…three…

  “This isn’t so bad,” I say when I’m nearly to Wes.

  …two…one.

  And that’s when my toes come down on a moss-slick bit and I slip, plunging a foot before a hand wraps vise-tight around my bad wrist. Pain rips up my arm, sudden and bright, and my vision falters, tunneling. Wesley says something, but his voice is far away and then gone altogether. I feel the darkness folding around me, trying to drag me down, but I cling to his hand and the heavy drum of his noise. I focus on that, not the strange distance or the sense of time skipping like a stone. I focus on the music until I can see the wall in front of me, until I can hear Wesley’s words, begging for my other hand.

  And just like that, time snaps back into motion, and I grab hold of his arm with both hands, and he hauls me up and through the window. We both hit the floor in the empty apartment and lie there a moment, gasping with relief.

  “See?” pants Wes, rolling onto his back on the hardwood floor. “That was fun.”

  “We really need to discuss your idea of fun.” I drag myself into a sitting position, wincing, then get to my feet and look around at the apartment, or at least try. It’s pitch-black, the only light streaming in through the window off the street, but I can tell there’s nothing here. It has that hollow, echoing feel that comes with empty space, and the only break in the dust on the floor is clearly from Wesley earlier tonight. He brushes himself off and leads me through the bones of 4F.

  “It’s been vacant for nearly a decade,” he explains. “You will appreciate, though, that according to the walls, the last person who lived here had no fewer than five cats.”

  I shudder. I hate cats, and Wesley knows it. He’s the one who found me sitting on the floor outside Angelli’s place after being assaulted by her feline horde.

  “So who are we looking for?” asks Wes, heading for the front door.

  “Henry Mills. Age fourteen.”

  “Splendid,” says Wes, opening the door and showering us in hall light. “Maybe if we’re lucky, he’ll put up a fight.”

  Wesley gets his wish.

  In the short time Hen
ry’s been out, he’s slipped enough that when he looks at us he doesn’t see us, he sees something he’s afraid of—in this case, cops—and Wes and I end up chasing him through half the territory before we manage to corner him. It’s not the most delicate return—we drag him kicking and screaming through the nearest door—but it gets the job done.

  It’s nearly three a.m. by the time we get back to 4F and make the terrifying descent into my room—this time without incident. I sink onto the bed, exhausted. Wesley makes his way to the nearby chair, but I catch his hand, music flaring through me as I draw him to the bed. I let go and scoot back to make room for him. He hovers there a moment, knees against the mattress.

  “Beds are for boyfriends,” he says.

  “And for people who don’t like sleeping in chairs,” I say. Something like sadness flashes in his eyes before he smiles, sinking onto the comforter beside me. He snaps the bedside light off, and we lie there inches apart in the dark. Wesley offers his hand, and when I take it, he presses my palm to the front of his shirt. His noise pours through me, loud and welcome.

  “Good night, Wesley,” I whisper.

  “Sleep well,” he whispers back.

  And somehow, I do.

  TWENTY-TWO

  “IT’S A HEAVY burden to bear,” says Roland, handing the picture back, “but Crew is worth it.”

  I look down at the picture of Da and his partner, Meg. I can’t imagine fitting with someone the way they do, so close they almost touch, even though they’re not wearing silver bands. Is that what love is for people like us? Being able to share space? Without our rings, we wear our lives on our sleeves. Our thoughts and wants and fears. Our weaknesses. I can’t bear the thought of someone seeing mine.

  “How?” I ask. “How can it be worth it?” I run my thumb over Da’s face. This isn’t the Da I knew. My Da had far more wrinkles and far less ease. My Da has been in the ground six months. “Letting people in, loving them—it’s a waste. In the end it just hurts more when you lose them.”