The Unbound Read online

  “How so?” asks Director Hale.

  “He wanted to recruit me.”

  Hale’s brow furrows.

  “Owen wanted my help. And I let him believe that I was willing to give it.”

  “How did you concoct the plan to lure him here?” asks Roland.

  “I didn’t,” I say. “He did.” I watch the confusion spread across their faces. “I imagine,” I add, “that he thought it would end differently, but the seed of the plan was his. He wanted me to be a diversion—to attract the energy and attention of the Archive while he achieved some ulterior goal.”

  “What was his goal?” demands Agatha.

  I hold her gaze. “He wanted to attack the ledger. He promised that, in exchange for my diversion, he would rescue me before I could be altered.”

  “And you believed him?” asks Hale, incredulous.

  “Why would he save you?” asks Agatha.

  “I believed Owen would attack the Archive. And Owen believed I could be converted to his cause. I encouraged that belief in hopes that by insinuating myself into his plan, I would be able to assure his return to the shelves and end the threat he posed.”

  “Quite a risk,” observes Hale, lacing his fingers. “And if your initial plan failed? If you had not been able to obtain Roland’s key, if Owen had never come to save you?”

  “I weighed it,” I say. “Given Owen’s skills, I believed my strategy had the highest odds of success. But I hope you understand that I was playing a part. That in order to give myself the best odds, I had to commit to it.”

  “I hope you understand that a Crew member is dead because of your charade,” says Agatha.

  Behind my eyes, Eric’s body crumples to the grass.

  “I do. That moment is scarred into my memory. It is the moment I nearly faltered. And the moment I knew I couldn’t. I had started down a road, and I had to finish. I hope you can forgive me for the selfish need to end Owen’s life with my own hands.”

  Hale straightens in his seat. “Continue your account.”

  I swallow. “When I was brought into the branch, I knew I had to introduce as much chaos as possible, a short burst of disorder to help ensure that Owen reached me so that I could stop him.”

  “I assume that’s also why Wesley Ayers made such a scene?” offers Roland with a weighted look.

  “Yes,” I say, leaping on the thread. “He was acting under my orders. Is he all right?”

  “He’s the least of your worries,” says Agatha.

  “He’s alive,” says Hale.

  “He’ll be okay,” adds Roland, sensing my worry.

  “You do have a way of inspiring allegiances, don’t you?” says Hale. “That boy running around shouting his head off, Roland here claiming he didn’t even feel you take his key—”

  “I was caught up in the moment,” says Roland.

  Hale waves him away. “And Owen Chris Clarke. You gained his trust, too. I marvel at that, the way he must have genuinely believed in your commitment.”

  “Owen believed in his cause,” I say. “His focus was greater than my acting.”

  “So you never actually considered defecting?” he asks, his question close on the heels of my answer.

  I hold his gaze. “Of course not,” I say calmly.

  Hale considers me, and I consider Hale, and silence descends on the room, interrupted only by the director tapping his fingers on the table. Finally, he speaks.

  “Miss Bishop, your dedication and sense of strategy are impressive. Your method, however, is reprehensible. You circumnavigated an entire system to fulfill your own desires for revenge and closure. But the fact is, you achieved your objective. You uncovered the truth behind the voids and suppressed a serious threat to the Archive with minimal—albeit upsetting—losses.” He turns to Agatha. “Your sentence is overruled.”

  Relief and hope begin to roll through me. Until Agatha cuts in.

  “You forget,” she says to Hale, “that there are two charges against Miss Bishop. The first is for treason. Clear her of that if you will, but the second is that she is no longer mentally fit to serve. You cannot deny me that claim.”

  Hale sighs and slumps back in his seat. “No,” he says, “but I can consider a second opinion. From someone whose pride isn’t so bruised.” He waves a hand at the sentinel, who goes to the door and opens it. A woman strides in, her blond hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, blood streaking her hands and the front of her clothes, soot smudged across her forehead and jaw.

  Dallas.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she says, wiping at the soot. “I had to take care of the body.”

  My stomach turns. I know she means Eric.

  “What is the situation at the school?” asks Roland.

  “Chaos, but it’s calming.” Her attention slides to me. She raises a brow. “You look like you’ve had quite a night.”

  “Dallas,” says Hale, drawing my therapist’s attention back. “You’ve had several days with Miss Bishop. What is your assessment?”

  Agatha’s eyes narrow at the use of the word.

  “Of Mackenzie?” asks Dallas, scratching her head. “She’s fine. I mean, fine might be the wrong word. But considering what she’s been through”—her eyes flick to Agatha and narrow slightly—“and what she’s been put through”—they shift warmly back to me—“her resilience is astonishing. She was in control of the situation the entire time. I did not interfere.”

  Roland’s shoulders relax visibly, and I take a deep breath, allowing myself to finally believe that I’ve succeeded, that it’s going to be okay.

  “There you have it,” says Hale. “I think we’re—”

  “There is doubt in her,” snaps Agatha, pushing up from her chair. “I read it.”

  “Enough,” says Hale, rubbing his eyes. “Doubt is not a crime, Agatha. It is only a tool to test our faith. It can break us, but it can also make us stronger. It is perfectly natural, even necessary, and it troubles me to think that you’ve lost sight of that.” He pushes to his feet. “Give me your key,” he says softly.

  Her gloved hand goes to the gleaming gold below her throat. He snaps his fingers, and her jaw tightens as she gives the gold thread a swift tug, breaking it, and places the key in his palm. He considers it a moment.

  And then he drives the metal into Agatha’s chest.

  He doesn’t turn the key, but stands there, gripping her shoulder with one hand and the gold stem with the other, staring into her eyes while the room holds its breath. His lips move as he whispers something to her, so softly I can barely hear.

  “You disappoint me.”

  And then, as quickly as he struck, he withdraws the key, and Agatha gasps for breath.

  “Get out,” he says, and she doesn’t hesitate, but turns, clutching her front, and hurries from the room, her cream-colored coat rippling behind her.

  As the door closes behind her, Director Hale sighs and takes his seat, setting Agatha’s key on the table before him. The room is deathly still. Roland’s eyes are on the table. Dallas’s are on the floor.

  But mine are on Hale.

  “It may be true that nothing’s lost,” he says, “but everything must end. When is in my hands. I’d caution you to remember that, Miss Bishop.” He turns to Dallas. “See that she gets home safely.”

  “Sir,” I say. “Please. What about Wesley?”

  He waves a hand at the door. “He’s out there somewhere. Go find him.”

  It’s all I can do not to shout Wesley’s name as I hurry down the hall and into the atrium, breaking into a run as the antechamber comes into sight—and with it, Wesley. He’s cut and bloody, swaying a little but still standing, his hands on his head. Patrick waits on one side of him and Lisa on the other, and the Crew who brought me in waits behind him, and I don’t care about any of them.

  I run, and he looks up and sees me as I make it through the doors, and his hands fall from his head just in time to wrap around me.

  We are both bruised and broken, wi
ncing at the other’s touch even as we pull each other closer. My arms are tight around his waist, and his are tight around my shoulders. And when he presses his lips into the curve of my throat, I can feel his tears on my skin.

  “You are an idiot,” I say, even as I guide his face and mouth to mine. I kiss him, not gently, but desperately. Desperately, because he’s worth it—because life is terrifying and short and I don’t know what will happen. All I know is that here and now, I am still alive, and I want to be with Wesley Ayers. Here and now I want to feel his arms wrapped around me. I want to feel his lips on mine. I want to feel his life tangling with mine. Here and now is all we have, and I want to make it worth whatever happens next.

  I tighten my grip on Wes enough to make him break off his kiss with a gasp.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper, my lips hovering over his.

  “I’m not,” he breathes, pulling me closer and kissing me deeper. I’m still afraid of caring—of breaking, of losing—but now there is something else matching the fear stride for stride: want.

  “You said you trusted me,” I say.

  “You said you were in the science hall. I guess we’re even.” He pulls me back toward him. “What happened tonight, Mac?” he whispers, lips against my jaw.

  “I’ll tell you later,” I whisper back.

  I can feel him smile tiredly against my cheek. “I’ll hold you to it.” His lips brush mine again, but someone clears her throat, and I force myself to pull away from Wesley’s kiss. Dallas is standing there waiting.

  “All right, you two,” she says. “Plenty of time for that. Right now I have to get you back to school.” She’s standing by the desk, and for the first time I notice the smoldering wreckage of the ledger.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “The only thing Owen Chris Clarke achieved was an act of vandalism,” says Lisa, gesturing to the book. “He burned it.”

  Dallas shakes her head and gestures to the door. The Crew who dragged me is standing there, and I tense when I see him.

  “No hard feelings,” he says.

  “I’m sure,” I say, Wesley’s hand tangling with mine.

  “Just doing my job.” But he smiles when he says it. It’s not a gentle smile, and I’m reminded of the things that filled his noise—the fun of the hunt.

  “I’d tell you not to be such an ass, Zachary,” says Dallas, brushing him away from the door, “but it would be a waste of my breath. I don’t know how Felicia tolerates you.” And with that she turns her key, the door opens onto sirens and darkness, and Wesley and I follow Dallas back onto Hyde’s campus.

  In the Outer, Wesley’s noise pours through my head, a tangle of want and love, relief and shock and fear. I don’t know what’s singing across my skin, but I don’t pull away. I trust him with it.

  Most of the buildings look all right—though the fire ate away a good deal of the ivy—but the field with its streamers and lanterns and booths is a charred black mess.

  “Is everyone okay?”

  “A few burns here, a few stitches there, but everyone will live.”

  My eyes slide from her face to her clothing. The black of her cotton shirt is crusted darker with blood, its stain streaking across her exposed skin. “Everyone except Eric,” I say as she leads us around the scorched scene and toward the front gate. “That’s why you were late.”

  She nods grimly. “I tried to get his body into one of the flare-up fires before the emergency vehicles got here. Make it look like an accident.”

  “And Sako?” I ask.

  Dallas rubs her hands together, and blood flakes off to the ground below. “She took off. I sent Zachary’s partner, Felicia, to find her.”

  “I think I broke her nose,” says Wesley.

  Dallas gives him a once-over. “It looks like she got in a few good hits.”

  “So you’re Crew, too?” I ask as she leads us toward the burned remains of the festival.

  “No,” says Dallas. “I’m what you might call a field assessor. It’s my job to make sure everything and everyone ticks and tocks the way they should.”

  “And if they don’t?” asks Wes.

  She shrugs. “If they belong to the Archive, I turn them in. If they belong to the Outer, I fix them myself.”

  “You make alterations,” I say. “Wipe memories.”

  “When I have to,” she says. “It’s my job to clean up. I already took care of that cop, Kinney. I’ll have to send Crew in to get the evidence, but at least I carved you out of his head. As far as he knows, the explosions are what knocked him out.”

  So many questions are rolling through my mind, but we reach the front gates, which have been pried open. Everyone’s corralled there, and two firemen rush over.

  “Where did you three come from?” one demands.

  “These two got trapped under one of the booths,” says Dallas, her tone shifting effortlessly to one of authority. “I can’t believe you didn’t find them sooner. Better make sure they’re both okay.”

  And before they can ask who she is and what she’s doing there, she turns and ducks under the yellow tape that’s been strung up across the gate and vanishes into the swell of students and teachers and parents that fill the lot. EMTs pull Wes and me apart to check us out, and I slide my ring back on, amazed by how quickly I’ve become accustomed to the world without it.

  The EMT looks me over. Most of my injuries I can blame on the booth that apparently collapsed on top of us, but the wire marks on my wrists are harder to explain. I’m lucky that there are too many people who need looking after and not enough people to do it; the EMT listens when I tell him I’ll be okay and lets me go.

  But Wesley is either a less convincing liar or he’s in worse shape than I realized, because they insist on taking him to the hospital to be safe. The ambulance goes out of the lot before he can say much more to me than, “Leave the window open.”

  I’ve barely ducked under the yellow tape when someone shouts my name, and I look up to see the rest of the Court huddled on the sidewalk, a little singed but otherwise unhurt. There is a stream of where were yous and what happeneds and are you hurts and is Wesley with yous and is he okays and that was crazys before they finally settle down enough to let me answer. Even then I only get halfway through before Cash makes a crack about how this will go on his feedback card for sure—and Saf elbows him and says she heard that someone died in there, and how can he be making jokes? Amber comments on traumatic experiences being optimal times for levity, and then I hear my name again, and turn to find my parents pushing through the crowd toward me, and I get out half of “I’m okay” before my mother throws her arms around my neck and starts sobbing.

  Dad wraps his arms around us both, and I don’t need to have my ring off to know their minds, to feel their relief tangled with their desperate need to protect the child they have left and their fear that they can’t. I can’t protect them, either. Not from losing me—not every time—but tonight I’m here, and so I hold them tighter and tell them it’s going to be okay.

  And for the first time in a very long time, I believe it.

  AFTER

  I’M SITTING ON the edge of my bed that night in my ruined uniform, the silver horns still snagged in my hair, smelling of smoke and blood and thinking of Owen. I am not afraid of sleeping, though I wish Wesley were here with me. I am not afraid of nightmares, because mine came true and I lived through them.

  I get to my feet and begin to peel off my ruined uniform, wincing as my stiff and wounded body protests every movement. I manage to tug my shirt over my head, then shed my skirt, and finally my shoes, unlacing them and tugging them off one at a time. I pull the first one off and set it on the bed beside me. When I pull the second shoe off and turn it over, a square of folded paper falls out onto the floor.

  I cringe as I kneel to pick it up, smoothing the page. It’s blank but for a single word in the lower right corner, written in careful script: ALL. I run my thumb over the word.

  I wasn’t go
ing to take it.

  I crouched there over Owen’s body, listening to the sounds of footsteps, counting the seconds, and feeling dazed and numb. I didn’t plan to take it, but one second I was just sitting there and the next my hands were patting him down, digging the folded page out of his pocket, slipping it into my shoe. The moment was easy to hide. To bury.

  Now, as I stare down at the page, I consider burning it. (Of course Owen didn’t just burn the ledger; he burned the rest of the ledger to cover the fact that this page was missing.)

  The thing is, Owen was so wrong about so many things.

  But I don’t know if he was wrong about everything.

  I want to believe in the Archive. I want to. So I don’t know whether it’s doubt or fear, weakness or strength, Da’s voice in my head warning me to be ready for anything or Owen’s telling me it’s time for change, or the fact that I have seen too much tonight, that made me take the paper from Owen’s pocket.

  I should burn it, but I don’t. Instead I fold it very carefully—each time pausing to decide if I want to destroy it, each time deciding not to—until it’s the size it was before. And then I pull The Inferno from my shelf, slip the square of stolen paper between its pages, and set the book back.

  Maybe Owen was right.

  Maybe I am a bringer of change.

  But I’ll decide what kind.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  They warn you about sequels.

  They tell you to stock up on caffeine and pajama pants. They tell you to strap yourself down against the storm. They tell you that it will all be worth it in the end. That you’ll get through it.

  But they never tell you how.

  The answer?

  People.

  People who keep you grounded. People who keep you sane. Who talk plot. Talk pacing. Talk character.

  People who answer hypothetical questions about really strange things without looking at you like you’ve lost your mind.

  People who steal the delete key from your keyboard when you decide at two a.m. that maybe you should hold it down.

  People who know when you need to be left alone and when you need to be dragged from the computer into the light of day (or the darkness of a laser tag arena).