But soon she has to leave, and hanging up feels like letting go. The world sharpens
the way it does when I pull out of a memory and back into the present, and I examine
the list again.
The Histories’ ages have been going up.
I noticed it before and thought it was a blip, a rash of double digits, but now everyone
on my list is in their teens. I can’t afford to wait. I pull on some workout pants
and a fresh black shirt, the knife still strapped carefully to my calf. I won’t use
it, but I can’t bring myself to leave it behind. The metal feels good against my skin.
Like armor.
I head into the living room right as Mom comes through the front door with her arms
full of bags.
“Where are you off to?” she asks, dropping everything on the table as I continue toward
the door.
“Going for a run,” I say, adding, “Might go out for track this year.” If my list doesn’t
settle down, I’ll need a solid excuse for being gone so often anyway, and I used to
run, back in middle school when I had spare time. I like running. Not that I actually
plan to go running tonight, but still.
“It’s getting dark,” says Mom. I can see her working through the pros and cons. I
head her off.
“There’s still a little light left, and I’m pretty out of shape. Won’t go far.” I
pull my knee to my chest in a stretch.
“What about dinner?”
“I’ll eat when I get back.”
Mom squints at me, and for a moment, part of me begs for her to see through this,
a flimsy, half-concocted lie. But then she turns her attention to her bags. “I think
it’s a good idea, you joining track.”
She always tells me she wishes I’d join a club, a sport, be a part of something. But
I
am
a part of something.
“Maybe you could use some structure,” she adds. “Something to keep you busy.”
I almost laugh.
The sound crawls up my throat, a near hysterical thing, and I end up coughing to hold
it back. Mom tuts and gets me a glass of water. Staying busy isn’t exactly a problem
right now. But last time I checked, the Archive didn’t offer PE credits for catching
escaped Histories.
“Yeah,” I say, a little too sharply. “I think you’re right.”
In that moment, I want to shout.
I want to show her what I go through.
I want to throw it in her face.
I want to tell her the
truth
.
But I can’t.
I would never.
I know better.
And so I do the only thing I can.
I walk out.
A
NGELA PRICE
is easy enough to find, and despite her being very upset, and mistaking me for her
dead best friend, which of course only adds to her distress, I usher her back to Returns
with little more than cunning lies and a few hugs.
Eric Hall is scrawny, albeit a little…hormonal, and I get him to the nearest Returns
door with a giggle, a girlish look, and promises I’ll never have to keep.
By the time I finish hunting down and delivering Penny Walker, I feel like I really
have gone for a run. I have a headache from reading walls, my muscles burn from being
constantly on guard, and I think I might actually be able to sleep tonight. I’m making
my way back toward the cluster of numbered doors when something catches my eye.
The white chalk circle on the front of one of the Returns doors has been disturbed,
altered. Two vertical lines and one horizontal curve have been drawn into the chalk,
turning my marker into a kind of…smiley face? I bring my hand to the door and close
my eyes, and I’ve barely skimmed the surface of the memories when a form appears right
in front of me, lean and dressed in black, his silvery-blond hair standing out against
the dark.
Owen.
I let the memory roll forward, and his hand dances languidly across the chalk, drawing
the face. And then he dusts the white from his fingers, puts his hands back in his
pockets, and ambles down the hall. But when he reaches the end, he doesn’t continue
around the corner. He turns on his heel and doubles back.
What is he doing here? He’s not tracking, not hunting. He’s…pacing.
I watch him come all the way down the hall, toward me, eyes on the floor. He walks
until he’s inches from my face. And then he stops and looks up, his eyes finding mine,
and I can’t shake the feeling that he
sees
me even though he’s alone in the past and I’m alone in the now.
Who are you?
I ask his wavering form.
It doesn’t answer, only stares unblinking off into the dark beyond me.
And then I hear it.
Humming. Not the humming of the walls beneath my hands, not the sound of memories,
but an actual human voice, somewhere nearby.
I pull away from the door and blink, the Narrows refocusing around me. The melody
weaves through the halls, close. It’s coming from the same direction as my numbered
doors, and I round the corner to find Owen leaning against the door with the I above
its handle.
His eyes are closed. But when I step closer, they drift open and turn to consider
me. Crisp and blue.
“Mackenzie.”
I cross my arms. “I was beginning to wonder if you were real.”
An eyebrow arches. “What else would I be?”
“A phantom?” I say. “An imaginary friend?”
“Well then, am I all that you imagined?” The very corner of his mouth curls up as
he pushes off the door. “You really doubt my existence?”
I don’t take my eyes off him, don’t even blink. “You have a way of disappearing.”
He spreads his arms. “Well, here I am. Still not convinced?”
My eyes trail from the top of his white-blond hair over his sharp jaw, down his black
clothes. Something’s off.
“Where’s your key?” I ask.
Owen pats his pockets. “I don’t have one.”
That’s not possible.
I must have said it aloud, because his eyes narrow. “What do you mean?”
“A Keeper can’t get into the Narrows without a key.…”
Unless he’s not a Keeper. I close the gap between us. He doesn’t retreat, not as I
come toward him, and not as I press my hand flush against his chest and see…
Nothing. Feel nothing. Hear nothing.
Only quiet. Dead quiet. My hands fall away, and the quiet vanishes, replaced by the
low hum of the hall.
Owen Chris Clarke isn’t a Keeper. He’s not even alive.
He’s a
History
.
But that can’t be. He’s been here for days, and he hasn’t started slipping. The blue
of his eyes is so pale that I’d notice even the slightest change, and his pupils are
crisp and black. And everything about him is level, normal, human. But he’s not.
Behind my eyes I see him break Hooper’s neck, and I take a step back.
“What’s wrong?” he says.
Everything,
I want to say. Histories have a pattern. From the moment they wake up, they devolve.
They become more distressed, frightened, destructive. Whatever they’re feeling at
the moment of waking becomes worse and worse. But they never, ever become rational,
or self-possessed, or calm. Then how does Owen behave like a person in a hallway rather
than a History in the Narrows? And why isn’t he on my list?
“I need you to come with me,” I say, trying to picture the nearest Returns door. Owen
takes a single small step back.
“Mackenzie?”
“You’re dead.”
His brow creases. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I can prove it to you.” Prove it to both of us. My hand itches for the knife that’s
hidden against my leg, but I think better of it. I’ve seen Owen use it. Instead I
grip Da’s key. The teeth are rusted but sharp enough to break the skin, with pressure.
“Hold out your hand.”
He frowns but doesn’t hesitate, offering his right hand. I press the key against his
palm—putting a key in the hands of a History; Da would kill me—and drag it quick across
his skin. Owen hisses and pulls back, cradling his hand to his chest.
“Alive enough to feel that,” he grumbles, and I’m afraid I’ve made a mistake until
he looks down at his hand and his expression changes, shifts from pain to surprise.
“Let me see,” I say.
Owen turns his palm toward me. The slash across his hand is a thin dark line, the
skin clearly broken, but the cut doesn’t bleed. His eyes float up to mine.
“I don’t…” he starts, before his gaze drops back to his hand. “I don’t understand…I
felt it.”
“Does it still hurt?”
He rubs at the line on his palm. “No.” And then, “What am I?”
“You’re a History,” I say. “Do you know what that means?”
He pauses, looks down over his arms, his wrists and hands, his clothes. A shadow flits
across his face, but when he answers, it’s with a tight “No.”
“You’re a record of the person you were when you were alive.”
“A ghost?”
“No, not exactly. You—”
“But I
am
a ghost,” he cuts in, his voices inching louder, and I brace myself for the slip.
“I’m not flesh and blood, I’m not human, I’m not alive, I’m not
real
…” And then he checks himself. Swallows hard and looks away. When his eyes find mine,
he’s calm. Impossible.
“You have to go back,” I say again.
“Go where?”
“To the Archive. You don’t belong here.”
“Mackenzie,” he says, “I don’t belong there either.”
And I believe him. He’s not on my list, and if it weren’t for the irrefutable proof,
I’d never believe he’s a History. I force myself to focus. He
will
slip; he has to—and then I’ll have to deal with him. I should deal with him now.
“How did you get here?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I don’t know. I was asleep, and then I was awake, and then I
was walking.” He seems to remember only as he says it. “And then I saw you, and I
knew you needed help.…”
“I didn’t
need
help,” I snap, and he does the one thing I’ve never seen a History do.
He
laughs
. It’s a soft, choked sound—but still.
“Yes, well,” he says, “you
looked like
you might appreciate a hand, then. How did
you
get here?”
“Through a door.”
His eyes go to the numbered ones. “One of those?”
“Yes.”
“Where do they go?”
“Out.”
“Can
I
go out?” he asks. There’s no apparent strain in the question, only curiosity.
“Not through those doors,” I say. “But I can take you through one with a white circle—”
“Those doors don’t go out,” he says shortly. “They go back. I’d rather stay here than
go back there.” A flicker of anger again, but he’s already regaining composure, despite
the fact that Histories don’t
have
composure.
“You need to go back,” I say.
His eyes narrow a fraction.
“I confuse you,” he says. “Why is that?”
Is he actually trying to
read
me?
“Because you’re—”
The sound of footsteps cuts through the hall.
I pull the list from my pocket, but it’s still blank. Then again, I’m standing right
beside a History who, according to this same slip of paper, doesn’t exist, so I’m
not sure how much I trust the system right now.
“Hide,” I whisper.
Owen holds his ground and stares past me down the hall. “Don’t make me go back.”
The steps are getting closer, only a few corridors away. “Owen, hide now.”
His gaze shifts back to me. “Promise me you won’t—”
“I can’t do that,” I say. “My job—”
“Please, Mackenzie. Give me one day.”
“Owen—”
“You owe me.” It’s not a challenge. When he says it, there’s a careful absence in
his voice. No accusation. No demand. Just simple, empty observation. “You do.”
“Excuse me?”
“I helped you with that man, Hooper.” I can’t believe a History is trying to bargain.
“Just one day.”
The steps are too close.
“Fine,” I hiss, pointing to a corridor. “Now, hide.”
Owen takes a few silent strides backward, vanishing into the dark as I spin and make
my way briskly to the bend in the hall where the steps are growing louder and closer—
And then they stop.
I press myself against the corner and wait, but judging by the way the footsteps paused,
the other person is waiting too.
Someone has to move, so I turn the corner.
The fist comes out of nowhere, narrowly missing my cheek. I duck and cross behind
my attacker. A pole swipes toward my stomach, but my foot finds its way up at the
same time, boot connecting with stick. The pole tumbles toward the damp floor. I catch
it and bring it up to the attacker’s throat, pinning him against the wall. It’s only
then that I look at his face, and I’m met by a crooked smile. My grip loosens.
“That’s twice in one day you’ve assaulted me.”
I let the pole fall away, and Wesley straightens.
“What the hell, Wes?” I growl. “I could have hurt you.”
“Um,” he says, rubbing his throat, “you kind of did.”
I shove him, but the moment my hands meet his body, his crashing rock band sound shatters
into
got to get away from there from her
from them massive house giant stairs high laughter and glass escape
before the pressure forces me back, knocking the air from my lungs. I feel ill. With
Owen, I forgot about the inextricable link between touch and sight—he may act like
a living being, but his quiet says he’s not. And Wes is anything but quiet. Did
he
see anything when our skin met? If he did, it doesn’t show.
“You know,” he says, “for someone who doesn’t like touching people, you keep finding
ways to put your hands on me.”
“What are you even doing here?” I say.
He nods at the numbered doors. “I forgot my bag in the café. Thought I’d run back
and get it.”
“Using the Narrows.”
“How do you think I go back and forth? I live on the other side of the city.”
“I don’t know, Wes! A cab? A bus? On foot?”
He raps a knuckle against the wall. “Condensed space, remember? The Narrows, fastest
transportation around.”
I offer up the pole. “Here’s your stick.”
“
Bˉ
o
staff.” He takes the pole and twirls it a few times. There’s something in his eyes,
not his usual grin, but a kind of happiness nonetheless, an excitement. Boys. He flicks
his wrist and the pole collapses into a short cylinder, like the batons sprinters
pass off in relay races.
He watches, obviously waiting for me to be impressed.
“Ooooooh,” I say halfheartedly, and he grumbles and puts the stick away. I turn back
toward my numbered doors, eyes scanning the dark beyond for Owen, but he’s gone.
“How’s the hunting?” asks Wes.
“It’s getting worse,” I say. I can already feel a new name writing itself on the paper
in my pocket. I leave the list there. “Was it this bad when you covered the territory?”
“I don’t think so, no. A bit irregular, but never unmanageable. I don’t know if I
had the full picture, or if I was only being given names here and there.”
“Well, it’s bad now. I cross one History off my list, and three more show up. It’s
like that Greek beast…”
“Hydra,” he answers; then, reading my surprise, adds, “Again with the skepticism.
I took a trip to the Smithsonian. You should try it sometime. Get your hands on a
few ancient artifacts. Worlds faster than reading books.”
“Aren’t all those things behind glass?”
“Yes, well…” He shrugs as we reach the door. “You done for the night?”
I think of Owen somewhere in the dark. But I already promised him a day. And I really,
really want a shower.
“Yeah,” I say finally. “Let’s go.”
Wes and I part ways in the lobby, and I’m about to hit the stairs when I get this
gut feeling and find myself making a detour to the study.
Angelli was no help at all, what with her
let the past rest
speech—but I can’t, not until I know what happened—and there’s got to be something
here. I don’t know where I’ll find it, but I’ve got an idea where to start.
The directories fill a shelf, a block of red, then a block of blue. I swipe the oldest
blue directory, the one from the first years of the conversion, shuffling the books
a bit to hide the gap. And then I head upstairs to find Mom experimenting in the kitchen,
Dad hiding in a corner of the living room with a book, and a box of pizza open on
the table. I field a few questions on the length and quality of my run, finally enjoy
a glorious shower, and then sink onto my bed with a slice of cold pizza and the Coronado’s
log, flipping through as I eat. There has to be
something
. Names fill the inaugural year, but the three missing years that follow are a wall
of white in the middle of the book. I scan 1954, hoping that some clue—one of the
names, maybe—will catch my eye.