The Dark Vault Page 5

“Ah, you mean Elliot? He’s on loan,” says Roland, digging a small radio from a drawer and setting it beside the QUIET PLEASE sign. Classical music whispers out, and I wonder if he plays it just to annoy Lisa, who takes the signs as literally as possible. “A transfer. Wanted a change of scenery. So, what brings you to the Archive tonight?”

  I want to see Ben. I want to talk to him. I need to be closer. I’m losing my mind.

  “Couldn’t sleep,” I say with a shrug.

  “You found your way here fast enough.”

  “My new place has two doors. Right in the building.”

  “Only two?” he teases. “So, are you settling in?”

  I trace my fingers over the ancient ledger that sits on the table. “It’s got…character.”

  “Come now, the Coronado’s not so bad.”

  It creeps me out. Something horrible happened in my bedroom. These are weak thoughts. I do not share them.

  “Miss Bishop?” he prompts.

  I hate the formality when it comes from the other Librarians, but for some reason I don’t mind it from Roland. Perhaps because he seems on the verge of winking when he speaks.

  “No, it’s not so bad,” I say at last with a smile. “Just old.”

  “Nothing wrong with old.”

  “You’d know,” I say. It’s a running line. Roland refuses to tell me how long he’s been here. He can’t be that old, or at least he doesn’t look it—one of the perks is that, as long as they serve, they don’t age—but whenever I ask him about his life before the Archive, his years hunting Histories, he twists the topic, or glides right over it. As for his years as Librarian, he’s equally vague. I’ve heard Librarians work for ten or fifteen years before retiring—just because the age doesn’t show doesn’t mean they don’t feel older—but with Roland, I can’t tell. I remember his mentioning a Moscow branch, and once, absently, Scotland.

  The music floats around us.

  He returns his shoes to the floor and begins to straighten up the desk. “What else can I do for you?”

  Ben. I can’t dance around it, and I can’t lie. I need his help. Only Librarians can navigate the stacks. “Actually…I was hoping—”

  “Don’t ask me for that.”

  “You don’t even know what I was going to—”

  “The pause and the guilty look give you away.”

  “But I—”

  “Mackenzie.”

  The use of my first name makes me flinch.

  “Roland. Please.”

  His eyes settle on mine, but he says nothing.

  “I can’t find it on my own,” I press, trying to keep my voice level.

  “You shouldn’t find it at all.”

  “I haven’t asked you in weeks,” I say. Because I’ve been asking Lisa instead.

  Another long moment, and then finally Roland closes his eyes in a slow, surrendering blink. His fingers drift to a notepad the same size and shape as my Archive paper, and he scribbles something on it. Half a minute later, Elliot reappears, his own pad of paper at his side. He gives Roland a questioning look.

  “Sorry to call you back,” says Roland. “I won’t be gone long.”

  Elliot nods and silently takes a seat. The front desk is never left unattended. I follow Roland through the doors and into the atrium. It’s dotted with Librarians, and I recognize Lisa across the way, her black bob disappearing down a side hall toward older stacks. But otherwise I do not look up at the arching ceiling and its colored glass, do not marvel at the quiet beauty, do not linger, in case any pause in my step makes Roland change his mind. I focus on the stacks as he leads me to Ben.

  I’ve tried to memorize the route—to remember which of the ten wings we go down, to note which set of stairs we take, to count the lefts and rights we make through the halls—but I can never hold the pattern in my head, and even when I think I have, it doesn’t work out the next time. I don’t know if it’s me, or if the route changes. Maybe they reorder the shelves. I think of how I used to arrange movies: one day best to worst, the next by color, the next title…Everyone in these stacks died in the branch’s jurisdiction, but beyond that, there doesn’t seem to be a consistent method of filing. In the end, only Librarians can navigate these stacks.

  Today Roland leads me through the atrium, then down the sixth wing, through several smaller corridors, across a courtyard, and up a short set of wooden steps before finally coming to a stop in a spacious reading room. A red rug covers most of the floor, and chairs are tucked into corners; but it is, for the most part, a grid of drawers.

  Each drawer’s face is roughly the size of a coffin’s end.

  Roland brings his hand gently against one. Above his fingers I can see the white placard in its copper holder. Below the copper holder is a keyhole.

  And then Roland turns away.

  “Thank you,” I whisper as he passes.

  “Your key won’t work,” he says.

  “I know.”

  “It’s not him,” he adds softly. “Not really.”

  “I know,” I say, already stepping up to the drawer. My fingers hover over the name.

  BISHOP, BENJAMIN GEORGE

  2003–2013

  FIVE

  I TRACE MY FINGERS over the dates, and it is last year again and I’m sitting in one of those hospital chairs that look like they might actually be comfortable but they’re not because there’s nothing comfortable about hospitals. Da has been gone three years. I am fifteen now, and Ben is ten, and he’s dead.

  The cops are talking to Dad and the doctor is telling Mom that Ben died on impact, and that word—impact—makes me turn and retch into one of the hospital’s gray bins.

  The doctor tries to say there wasn’t time to feel it, but that’s not true. Mom feels it. Dad feels it. I feel it. I feel like my skeleton is being ripped through my skin, and I wrap my arms around my ribs to hold it in. I walked with him, all the way to the corner of Lincoln and Smith like always, and he drew a stick-figure Ben on my hand like always and I drew a stick-figure Mac on his like always and he told me it didn’t even look like a human being and I told him it wasn’t and he told me I was weird and I told him he was late for school.

  I can see the black scribble on the back of his hand through the white sheet. The sheet doesn’t rise and fall, not one small bit, and I can’t take my eyes off it as Mom and Dad and the doctors talk and there is crying and words and I have neither because I’m focusing on the fact that I will see him again. I twist my ring, a spot of silver above black fingerless knit gloves that run to my elbows because I cannot cannot cannot look at the stick-figure Ben on the back of my hand. I twist the ring and run my thumb over the grooves and tell myself that it’s okay. It’s not okay, of course.

  Ben is ten and he’s dead. But he’s not gone. Not for me.

  Hours later, after we get home from the hospital, three weak instead of four strong, I climb out my window and run down dark streets to the Narrows door in the alley behind the butcher’s.

  Lisa is on duty at the desk in the Archive, and I ask her to take me to Ben. When she tries to tell me that it’s not possible, I order her to show me the way; and when she still says no, I take off running. I run for hours through the corridors and rooms and courtyards of the Archive, even though I have no idea where I’m going. I run as if I’ll just know where Ben is, the way the Librarians know where things are, but I don’t. I run past stacks and columns and rows and walls of names and dates in small black ink.

  I run forever.

  I run until Roland grabs my arm and shoves me into a side room, and there on the far wall halfway up, I see his name. Roland lets go of me long enough to turn and close the door, and that’s when I see the keyhole beneath Ben’s dates. It’s not even the same size or shape as my key, but I still rip the cord from my throat and force the key in. It doesn’t turn. Of course it doesn’t turn. I try again and again.

  I bang on the cabinet to wake my brother up, the metallic sound shattering the precious quiet, and then Rolan
d is there, pulling me away, pinning my arms back against my body with one hand, muffling my shouts with the other.

  I have not cried at all, not once.

  Now I sink down to the floor in front of Ben’s cabinet—Roland’s arms still wrapped around me—and sob.

  I sit on the red rug with my back to Ben’s shelf, tugging my sleeves over my hands as I tell my brother about the new apartment, about Mom’s latest project and Dad’s new job at the university. Sometimes when I run out of things to tell Ben, I recite the stories Da told me. This is how I pass the night, time blurring at the edges.

  Sometime later, I feel the familiar scratch against my thigh, and dig the list from my pocket. The careful cursive announces:

  I pocket the list and sink back against the shelves. A few minutes later I hear the soft tread of footsteps, and look up.

  “Shouldn’t you be at the desk?” I ask.

  “Patrick’s shift now,” says Roland, nudging me with a red Chuck. “You can’t stay here forever.” He slides down the wall beside me. “Go do your job. Find that History.”

  “It’s my second one today.”

  “It’s an old building, the Coronado. You know what that means.”

  “I know, I know. More Histories. Lucky me.”

  “You’ll never make Crew talking to a shelf.”

  Crew. The next step above Keeper. Crew hunt in pairs, tracking down and returning the Keeper-Killers, the Histories who manage to get out through the Narrows and into the real world. Some people stay Keepers their whole lives, but most shoot for Crew. The only thing higher than Crew is the Archive itself—the Librarian post—though it’s hard to imagine why someone would give up the thrill of the chase, the game, the fight, to catalog the dead and watch lives through other people’s eyes. Even harder to imagine is that every Librarian was a fighter first; but somewhere under his sleeves, Roland bears marks of Crew just like Da did. Keepers have the marks, too, the three lines, but carved into our rings. Crew marks are carved into skin.

  “Who says I want to make Crew?” I challenge, but there’s not much fight behind it.

  Da worked Crew until Ben was born. And then he went back to being a Keeper. I never met his Crew partner, and he never talked about her, but I found a photo of them after he died. The two of them shoulder to shoulder except for a sliver of space, both wearing smiles that don’t quite reach their eyes. They say Crew partners are bonded by blood and life and death. I wonder if she forgave him for leaving.

  “Da gave it up,” I say, even though Roland must already know.

  “Do you know why?” he asks.

  “Said he wanted a life….” Keepers who don’t go Crew split into two camps when it comes to jobs: those who enter professions benefited by an understanding of objects’ pasts, and those who want to get as far away from pasts as possible. Da must have had a hard time letting go, because he became a private detective. They used to joke in his office, so I heard, that he had sold his hands to the devil, that he could solve a crime just by touching things. “But what he meant was, he wanted to stay alive. Long enough to groom me, anyway.”

  “He told you that?” asks Roland.

  “Isn’t it my job,” I say, “to know without being told?”

  Roland doesn’t answer. He is twisting around to look at Ben’s name and date. He reaches up and runs a finger over the placard with its clean black print—letters and numbers that should be worn to nothing now, considering how often I touch them.

  “It’s strange,” says Roland, “that you always come to see Ben, but never Antony.”

  I frown at the use of Da’s real name. “Could I see him if I wanted to?”

  “Of course not,” says Roland in his official Librarian tone before sliding back into his usual warmth. “But you can’t see Ben, either, and it never stops you from trying.”

  I close my eyes, searching for the right words. “Da is etched so clearly in my memory, I don’t think I could forget anything about him even if I tried. But with Ben, it’s only been a year and I’m already forgetting things. I keep forgetting things, and it terrifies me.”

  Roland nods but doesn’t answer, sympathetic but resolute. He can’t help me. He won’t. I’ve come to Ben’s shelf two dozen times in the year since he died, and Roland has never given in and opened it. Never let me see my brother.

  “Where is Da’s shelf, anyway?” I ask, changing the subject before the tightness in my chest grows worse.

  “All members of the Archive are kept in Special Collections.”

  “Where is that?”

  Roland arches an eyebrow, but nothing more.

  “Why are they kept separately?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t make the rules, Miss Bishop.”

  He gets to his feet and offers me his hand. I hesitate.

  “It’s okay, Mackenzie,” he says, taking my hand; and I feel nothing. Librarians are pros at walling off thoughts, blocking out touch. Mom touches me and I can’t keep her out, but Roland touches me and I feel blind, deaf, normal.

  We start walking.

  “Wait,” I say, turning back to Ben’s shelf. Roland waits as I pull the key from around my neck and slip it into the hole beneath my brother’s card. It doesn’t turn. It never turns.

  But I never stop trying.

  I’m not supposed to be here. I can see it in their eyes.

  And yet here I am, standing before a table in a large chamber off the atrium’s second wing. The room is marble-floored and cold, and there are no bodies lining the walls, only ledgers, and the two people on the other side of the table speak a little louder, unafraid to wake the dead. Roland takes his seat beside them.

  “Antony Bishop,” says the man on the end. He has a beard and small, sharp eyes that scan a paper on the table. “You are here to name your…” He looks up, and the words trail off. “Mr. Bishop, you do realize there is an age requirement. Your granddaughter is not eligible for another”—he consults a folder, coughs—“four years.”

  “She’s up for the trial,” you say.

  “She’ll never pass,” says the woman.

  “I’m stronger than I look,” I say.

  The first man sighs, rubs his beard. “What are you doing, Antony?”

  “She is my only choice,” answers Da.

  “Nonsense. You can name Peter. Your son. And if, in time, Mackenzie is willing and able, she will be considered—”

  “My son is not fit.”

  “Maybe you don’t do him justice—”

  “He’s bright, but he’s got no violence in him, and he wears his lies. He’s not fit.”

  “Meredith, Allen,” says Roland, steepling his fingers. “Let’s give her a chance.”

  The bearded man, Allen, straightens. “Absolutely not.”

  My eyes flick to Da, craving a sign, a nod of encouragement, but he stares straight ahead.

  “I can do it,” I say. “I’m not the only choice. I’m the best.”

  Allen’s frown deepens. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Go home, little girl,” says Meredith with a dismissive wave.

  You warned me they would resist. You spent weeks teaching me how to hold my ground.

  I stand taller. “Not until I’ve had my trial.”

  Meredith makes a strangled sound of dismay, but Allen cuts in with, “You’re. Not. Eligible.”

  “Make an exception,” I say. Roland’s mouth quirks up.

  It bolsters me. “Give me a chance.”

  “You think this is a sport? A club?” snaps Meredith, and then her eyes dart to you. “What could you possibly be thinking, bringing a child into this—”

  “I think it’s a job,” I cut in, careful to keep my voice even. “And I’m ready for it. Maybe you think you’re protecting me, or maybe you think I’m not strong enough—but you’re wrong.”

  “You are an unfit candidate. And that is the end of it.”

  “It would be, Meredith,” says Roland calmly, “if you were the only person on this panel.”r />
  “I really can’t condone this….” says Allen.

  I’m losing them, and I can’t let that happen. If I lose them, I lose you. “I think I’m ready, and you think I’m not. Let’s find out who’s right.”

  “Your composure is impressive.” Roland stands up. “But you are aware that not all Histories can be won with words.” He rounds the table. “Some are troublesome.” He rolls up his sleeves. “Some are violent.”

  The other two Librarians are still trying to get a word in, but I don’t hear them. My focus is on Roland. Da told me to be ready for anything, and it’s a good thing he did, because between one moment and the next, Roland’s posture shifts. It’s subtle—his shoulders loosen, knees unlock, hands curl toward fists—but I see the change a fraction before he attacks. I dodge the first punch, but he’s fast, faster even than Da, and before I can strike back, a red Chuck connects with my chest, sending me to the floor. I roll back and over into a crouch, but by the time I look up, he’s gone.

  I hear him the instant before his arm wraps around my throat, and manage to get one hand between us so I don’t choke. He pulls back and up, my feet leaving the ground, but the table is there and I get my foot on top and use it as leverage, pushing up and off, twisting free of his arm as I flip over his head and land behind him. He turns and I kick, aiming for his chest; but he’s too tall and my foot connects with his stomach, where he catches it. I brace myself, but he doesn’t strike back.

  He laughs and lets go of my shoe, sagging against the desk. The other two Librarians sit behind him looking shocked, though I can’t tell if they’re more surprised by the fight or Roland’s good humor.

  “Mackenzie,” he says, smoothing his sleeves. “Do you want this job?”

  “She does not truly know what this job is,” says Meredith. “So she has a mouth on her and she can dodge a punch. She is a child. And this is a joke—”

  Roland holds up a hand, and Meredith goes quiet. Roland’s eyes do not leave mine. They are warm. Encouraging. “Do you want this?” he asks again.

  I do want it. I want you to stay. Time and disease are taking you from me. You’ve told me, made it clear, this is the only way I can keep you close. I will not lose that.