The Unbound Read online

  Owen storms through it, scanning the smoke-covered ground.

  “What are you looking for?” I have to shout now over the noise of the falling festival.

  “I left him right—”

  Just then a body slams into Owen hard, his gun skittering toward me as they both go down. Another blast goes off behind me as I scoop up the weapon, Owen and his opponent a tangle of limbs on the burning ground until he manages to snake his arm around the man’s throat and pull back and up, and I see his face.

  Eric. One of his eyes is swelling shut, and a bad gash carves a path against his shirtfront, and when he sees me standing there, he tells me to run. And then he sees the gun in my hand and confusion lights up his blood-streaked face.

  “Shoot him,” orders Owen.

  I stare at him in horror. “He’s Crew!”

  “Right now he’s in our way,” growls Owen, as if this is just an unfortunate turn of events. But it’s not. This was always his plan.

  I’ll take care of the hard part.

  The fireworks were nothing but a smoke screen. They could have been an accident. But killing a member of the Archive…there would be no question. No hesitation. The Archive would hunt me down. They’d erase me.

  “You have to commit, Mackenzie,” orders Owen, struggling to gain leverage over Eric. Another firework goes off, showering us in red light. I lift the gun, mind spinning. I’ve come so far and risked so much. I can’t lose Owen, not now. But I can’t do this.

  “Commit.”

  I pull the trigger. But I aim wide.

  The blast sounds, sharp even in the chaos, the bullet zinging past them both, and between my shot and Owen realizing I missed, Eric twists free and spins. Run, I think, run. And I’m about to level the gun on Owen—it might not stop him, but it will slow him down—when he slams his fist into Eric’s jaw hard enough to crack bone. Eric crumples, and before he can recover, Owen takes his head in his hands and snaps his neck.

  The world slows. The smoke thins and the fire dims, and in the instant just after I hear the crack and before the light goes out of his eyes, I see Eric’s life unravel. I see him sitting beside me on the patio wall, telling me to stay out of trouble; questioning Dallas in the hospital; leaning up against the yellow wallpaper, chiding me for trying to slip away; checking my hands in the park for broken bones; standing on the sidewalk, nothing but a golden shadow, a glint of light, and then gone.

  I stifle a cry as Eric’s body slumps lifeless onto the charred earth. No. This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.

  “Run, Mackenzie,” comes Owen’s voice as I stare down at the corpse. My fingers tighten on the gun, but by the time I manage to drag my eyes away from Eric’s body and up, Owen’s already gone, and I’m alone. I look around and realize that I’m standing at the very center of the chaos. There are sirens in the distance, and people are still running, shadows in the smoke and all I can think is please let Wes and Cash and the others be among them be safe.

  And then, through the chaos, I see her. Everyone else is running away. But she is running toward me.

  Sako.

  And I know from the way she’s looking at me that she heard the gunshot, that she can see the weapon in my hand…and Eric’s body at my feet. The gun tumbles from my grip as two more Crew—the third I saw earlier and a fourth—appear behind her. I don’t have a choice. There’s only one way out now.

  I take a stumbling step backward.

  And then I turn and run.

  THIRTY-ONE

  THERE’S ONLY ONE of me and three of them, and they are all fast.

  The third drops to a knee beside Eric’s body but the other two don’t stop. I sprint across the quad, not toward the front gates like everyone else, but deeper into campus, cutting through the doors of the language hall only moments before I hear them crashing through behind me. I don’t look back, don’t sacrifice a single step of my lead as I sprint through the building, all the way to the opposite exit and back out into the burning night.

  You’re going to run…

  Smoke billows up from the burning lawn as I cut hard down the path toward the Court. I’m almost there when I realize that one set of footsteps has vanished behind me; an instant later, the third Crew steps into my way. I can’t change direction before he swings, catching me across the face with his fist.

  And when they catch you…

  I go down hard, tasting blood as the world rings in my ears.

  …and they will…

  Just as I’m getting to my feet, Sako grabs me from behind and throws me down on the dirt path, kicking me hard in the ribs.

  …you’re going to fight back…

  The force sends me sprawling onto my back, and a second later she’s kneeling on my chest. Hate and anger and images of Eric’s corpse roll through me.

  “I’m going to kill you,” she growls. I throw a punch with my injured arm, but she catches it and slams my hand back to the ground. “I’m going to take my time and make you beg, you little shit.”

  “Sako,” says the other man. “We have orders.”

  “Hang the orders,” she spits.

  I bring my knee up hard, catching her in the stomach, but she doesn’t even move, only leans forward and forces her hand over my mouth, digging her nails into my jaw. “How could you? How could you?”

  All the pain and anger is written over her and pouring through me as her hand slides from my jaw to my throat. And then, out of nowhere, a metal bar appears under her chin and wrenches her back and up and off me. No. She rolls to the side, and Wesley puts himself squarely between Sako and me as we both get to our feet.

  “Wes, go! Please!”

  The fire burns bright in the quad. A few final explosions thunder through Hyde.

  “You shouldn’t have done that, little Keeper,” Sako hisses.

  “Get away from her,” growls Wes.

  He swings his metal bar, and she catches it the instant before it connects with her face, ripping it from his grasp. “You really shouldn’t have.…”

  “Wesley! Don’t—”

  The third Crew slams into me from behind, wrapping his arms around my chest, pinning mine at my sides as try to run I’ll chase love the hunt little rabbit forces its way into my head.

  “Gotcha,” he says, right before I drive my elbow back into his ribs and drop to a knee sudden and hard, jerking forward and forcing him to lose his grip and tumble over my shoulder. He’s catlike, up again in a blink, holding something in his hands that looks like ribbon but glints in the uneven light. Metal wire.

  “You should surrender,” he says, “before this has to get worse.”

  “I can’t,” I say. He smiles like he’s happy to hear it. And then he attacks. His hand flies forward, and the length of metal wire expands, like he’s casting it out. I dodge, avoiding the thread, ducking out of its way. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Wesley go down hard, blood streaking across his cheek. In that instant I feel the lightest touch as the cord loops around my good wrist.

  “Gotcha,” he says again, and with a single swift jerk the wire cinches, cutting into my skin. I try to pull free, but when I struggle it only tightens, so I grab hold of the thread and use it to wrench him toward me, even though the wire slices into my fingers. My free hand curls into a fist and catches him in the stomach, a solid enough blow to knock the wind from his lungs and send pain up my arm. I realize my mistake too late; before I can get out of reach, he’s got the length of wire twined around my other wrist. He pulls, and my hands are forced together in front of me. He grins triumphantly.

  Fight back…

  I intertwine my fingers and bring my locked fists across his jaw as hard as I can, splitting his lip—which manages to wipe the smile from his face, but doesn’t help me get loose. He keeps his hand around the metal thread and yanks me forward to him, forcing me off balance before driving his fist into my ribs. I double over, and before I can recover he shoves me backward and swings his leg behind my knees, sending me to th
e hard earth.

  He drags me back to my feet, and I have just enough time to see Wesley stagger to his hands and knees—Sako picking up his metal bar and dragging it along the ground toward him—before the Crew’s fist connects with my ribs again. The wind rushed out of my lungs, and I’m left fighting for breath as he hauls me down the path to the nearest building. I try to call out to Wes, but there’s no air, no time. The Crew slams me back against a side door, pulls a dark key from his pocket, and jams it into the lock, and a second later, the path and Wesley and Sako all vanish as I fall into the Archive.

  I hit the antechamber floor hard. The moment I try to get to my feet, the sentinels are there, forcing me roughly back to my knees.

  Agatha is waiting, the other Librarians in line behind her—and clearly they’ve been told what happened. Their faces are a spectrum of horror and sadness and confusion and betrayal. Patrick is on one side of Roland, Lisa on the other, and they are both holding him back. My eyes flick from his face to the golden key around his neck and back again, willing him to understand, to trust me even if he can’t. Again I try to fight to my feet, and again the sentinels force me down in front of Agatha.

  “I warned Hale this would happen,” she says, cold triumph in her eyes. “A broken mind and a traitor’s heart. Do you have anything to say?”

  I’m sorry. Listen. Please. Trust me. This isn’t what it looks like. But I can’t say any of those things. I have to sell it. Everything in me wants to scream NO as I spit blood onto the dark stone floor and say, “The Archive is broken.”

  Agatha backhands me hard across the face. Pain blossoms against my brow and blood trickles into my vision. “I’ll summon Hale. Take her away.”

  The sentinels wrench me to my feet.

  Fight back…

  I jerk forward hard and manage to twist free. It takes every ounce of will and strength, but I run into Roland’s arms, pressing my bound hands flat against his shirtfront. It looks like a plea, but only because no one can see my fingers wrapping around the gold key he wears there. The one that turns lives on and off. The one only Librarians are meant to handle. A numbing pain, pins-and-needles sharp, spreads through my fingers and up my wrist, but I don’t let go.

  …with everything you have…

  “Trust,” I whisper, closing my hand over it just before they pull me off him. The snap of his necklace is buried beneath the sounds of the struggle as I’m dragged away. I palm the key, slipping it under the edge of my sleeve just before a crushing blow sends me forward to my hands and knees. Two more sets of hands—sentinels both—take hold.

  …to the very end.

  A hood is thrown over my head. Everything goes black. Even then, I try to fight.

  “Enough, Miss Bishop,” orders Patrick as I’m dragged through the Archive. All I can think as I’m led away is that it will not be enough, it will not be enough, it will not be enough.

  And then I hear it.

  Back in the antechamber.

  Wesley’s voice.

  Shouting my name. Arguing with someone loudly as he storms into the Archive.

  Everything in me crumples. This was never supposed to be his fight. As I’m dragged down another corridor, I hear the sound of people chasing after him, hear Patrick give a quiet order, and feel one of the sentinels pull away from my side and turn toward the commotion. Patrick’s hands—hands I know well because they’ve patched me up countless times over the last four and a half years—take his place. He and the second sentinel force me through a pair of doors and into a room so empty our steps echo, my name still bouncing on the walls of the Archive.

  Then, abruptly, it stops, and I don’t know if it’s because they’ve closed a door or because they’ve caught Wes, but I tell myself he’ll be okay even as I try to twist free. The hands tighten, digging into the gash on my arm hard enough to make me grateful for the gold key’s spreading numbness as I’m shoved roughly down into a chair. They slice the metal thread free from my wrists, but before I can get to my feet, they’re strapping me down, my waist and legs and wrists cinched to the cold arms of the chair. There’s no way out. I twist in the binds, but it’s no use, and they know it.

  “Good-bye,” says Patrick, and then a door opens and closes, and the room is silent.

  Totally silent.

  And totally dark.

  And that’s when the fear finally hits. It’s been chasing me all night, but now it finally catches up.

  Fear that none of this is going to work.

  Fear that I misjudged, that Owen isn’t going to save me, that I was nothing more than a disposable tool.

  Fear that he won’t come in time.

  Fear that he won’t make it past the antechamber.

  And under all of it, a far worse fear.

  A fear that makes me close my eyes, despite the dark.

  The fear that maybe, somehow, Owen isn’t real. That the nightmare never gave way to reality, that somehow it’s been me—and only me—all along. That I’ve lost my mind. That I’m about to lose my life.

  A prickling pain is spreading through my body from the Archive key pressed against my wrist, and I focus on that as I try to twist my arm against the chair, to work the metal toward my hand.

  And then I hear it. The door opens behind me, and the sounds of the Archive—of hurrying feet and muffled shouts, none of them Wesley’s—pour in for a moment before cutting off again. There’s a short, quiet scuffle followed by a sickening crack. I struggle again with my binds, fighting with the chair until someone reaches out and grips my shoulder and the all-too-familiar quiet seeps through my skin.

  “Owen?” I gasp.

  “Hold still,” he orders, and relief spills over me. I coat myself in it as he pulls off my hood. The room I’m in is a glaring white, nearly as bright but not as seamless as a Returns room and completely bare of shelves—of anything except the chair and a sentinel slumped in the corner, his head tilted at a very wrong angle. Eric flashes up behind my eyes, but I force myself to focus as Owen frees one of my wrists and drops to a knee, setting to work on my ankles, leaving me to free my other hand myself. He gets my legs unbound and circles behind the chair to find the buckle for the waist strap. The final strap falls away, and Owen rounds the chair again.

  “You put on quite a show,” he says, offering me his hand.

  My heart races as I take it. “I know,” I say as he helps me to my feet. “You were right,” I add, fingers curling around the metal in my hand.

  His brow furrows. “About what?”

  I meet his gaze. “I just had to commit.”

  My grip tightens around his. Confusion flickers across his face, but before he can pull away, I drive the gleaming key into his chest and turn it. For an instant, he stares at me, blue eyes wide. And then the light goes out of Owen’s face, the life out of his body. His knees buckle and I catch him, and the two of us sink together toward the sterile white floor.

  I can hear the footsteps rushing down the hall, and a strange sadness spreads through me as I ease Owen’s body to the ground. He kept his word. He believed in something, however misguided.

  I don’t know what I believe in anymore.

  The only thing I know for sure is that I’m still alive.

  And it’s almost over.

  Almost.

  THIRTY-TWO

  I CANNOT SEEM to escape this room.

  Cold marble floors. Ledger-lined walls. The long table stretching in the middle.

  It is the room I was inducted in. It is the room Wesley and I were summoned to after the History escaped into the Coronado. And now it is the room where the Archive will decide my fate.

  When Roland and Agatha and Director Hale found me in the alterations room, kneeling over Owen’s body, a sentinel slumped in the corner, I said only one thing.

  “I want a trial.”

  So here I am. The remaining sentinel stands beside me, within easy reach, but mercifully hands-off. Roland, Agatha, and Director Hale sit behind the table, Roland’s key
on its broken cord in front of them.

  I flex my hand, still waiting for the feeling to return to my fingertips after using it. Director Hale offers me a chair, but I’ll fall over before I sit down in here again tonight. My gaze find Roland’s. A minute ago, he paused on his way in and reached out, pretending to steady me.

  “Do you regret it yet?” I asked under my breath. “Voting me through?”

  A sad smile ghosted his lips. “No,” he said. “You make things infinitely more interesting.”

  “Thank you,” I said in a low voice as he turned away. “For trusting me.”

  “You didn’t leave me much choice. And I want my journal back.”

  Now Roland sits at the table, gray eyes tense as Hale rises to his feet and approaches me, bringing his hands aloft.

  “May I?” he asks.

  I nod, bracing myself for the pain I felt when Agatha tore through my mind. But as Hale’s hands come down against my temples, I feel nothing but a cool and pressing quiet. I close my eyes as the images begin to flit rapidly through my mind: of Owen and the voids and the festival and the fire and Eric. When Hale’s hands slide back to his sides, his expression is unreadable.

  “Give me context for what I’ve seen,” he says, taking his seat.

  I stand before them and explain what happened. How the voids were made. How Owen finally got through. How I set my trap.

  “You should have involved the Archive from the start,” he says when I’m done.

  “Sir, I was afraid that if I did, I would be arrested for the mere fact that Owen still existed, and then Crew would go after him themselves, and everyone would suffer for it. As it is, Eric did suffer. I considered it my job.”

  And I wasn’t entirely sure Owen was real.

  “It is Crew’s job to hunt down Histories in the Outer,” clarifies Agatha.

  “Owen Chris Clarke was not an ordinary History. And he was my responsibility. I gave him the tools he needed to escape the first time, and my crimes were pardoned on the assumption that he was no longer a threat.” I’m surprised by the calm in my voice. “Besides, I was in a unique position to handle him.”