“Da gave you his key?” I ask. I’d always wondered what happened to it.
“Do I get a Crew key, too?” asks Wes, bouncing slightly.
“You’ll have to share,” says Roland. “The Archive keeps track of these. It notices
when they go missing. The only reason they won’t notice this key is gone is because—”
“It stayed lost,” I say.
Roland
almost
smiles. “Antony held on to it as long as he could, and then he gave it back to me.
I never turned it in, so the Archive still considers the key lost.”
“Why are you giving this to me now?” I ask.
Roland rubs his eyes. “The disruption is spreading. Rapidly. As more Histories wake,
and more escape, you need to be prepared.”
I look down at the key, the weight of the memory pulling at my fingers. “These keys
go to and from the Archive, but Da said they did other things. If I’m going to have
it and play Crew, I want to know what he meant.”
“That key is not a promotion, Miss Bishop. It’s to be used only in case of emergency,
and even then, only to go to and from the Archive.”
“Where else would I go?”
“Oh, oh, like shortcuts?” asks Wes. “My aunt Joan told me about them. There are these
doors, only they don’t go to the Narrows or the Archive. They’re just in the Outer.
Like holes punched in space.”
Roland gives us both a withering look and sighs. “Shortcuts are used by Crew to move
expediently through the Outer. Some let you skip a few blocks, others let you cross
an entire city.”
Wes nods, but I frown. “Why haven’t I ever seen one? Not even with my ring off.”
“I’m sure you have and didn’t know it. Shortcuts are unnatural—holes in space. They
don’t look like doors, just a wrongness in the air, so your eyes slide off. Crew learn
to look for the places their eyes don’t want to go. But it takes time and practice.
Neither of which you have. And it takes Crew years to memorize which doors lead where,
which is only one of a dozen reasons why you do
not
have permission to use that key on one if you find it. Do you understand?”
I fold the kerchief over the key and nod, sliding it into my pocket. Roland is obviously
nervous, and no wonder. If shortcuts barely register as more than thin air, and Da
told me what happens when you use a Crew key
on
thin air, then the potential for ripping open a void in the Outer is pretty high.
“Stick together, no playing with the key, no looking for shortcuts.” Wes ticks off
the rules on his fingers.
We both turn to go.
“Miss Bishop,” says Roland. “A word alone.”
Wesley leaves, and I linger, waiting for my punishment, my sentence. Roland is silent
until the door closes on Wes.
“Miss Bishop,” he says, without looking at me, “Mr. Ayers has been made aware of the
disruption. He has not been told of its suspected cause. You will keep that, and the
rest of our investigation, to yourself.”
I nod. “Is that all, Roland?”
“No,” he says, his voice going low. “In opening Benjamin’s drawer, you broke Archival
law, and you broke my trust. Your actions are being overlooked once and only once,
but if you ever,
ever
do that again, you will forfeit your position, and I will remove you myself.” His
gray eyes level on mine. “
That
is all.”
I bow my head, eyes trained on the floor so they can’t betray the pain I feel. I take
a steadying breath, manage a last nod, and leave.
Wesley is waiting for me by the Archive door. Elliot is at the desk, scribbling furiously.
He doesn’t look up when I come in, even though the sight of two Keepers has to be
unusual.
Wes, meanwhile, seems giddy.
“Look,” he says cheerfully, holding out his list for me to inspect. There’s one name
on it, a kid. “That’s mine…” He flips the paper over to show six names on the other
side. “And those are yours. Sharing is caring.”
“Wesley, you
were
listening, weren’t you? This isn’t a game.”
“That doesn’t mean we won’t have fun. And look!” He taps the center of my list, where
a name stands out against the sea of black.
Dina Blunt. 33.
I cringe at the prospect of another adult, a Keeper-Killer, the last one still vivid
in my mind; but Wesley looks oddly delighted.
“Come, Miss Bishop,” he says, holding out his hand. “Let’s go hunting.”
W
ESLEY AYERS
is being too nice.
“So then this wicked-looking six-year-old tries to take me out at the knees…”
Too chatty.
“…but he’s two feet shorter so he just ends kicking the crap out of my shins.…”
Too peppy.
“I mean, he was six, and wearing soccer cleats—”
Which means…
“He told you,” I say.
Wesley’s brow crinkles, but he manages to keep smiling. “What are you talking about?”
“Roland told you, didn’t he? That I lost my brother.”
His smile flickers, fades. At last he nods.
“I already knew,” he says. “I saw him when your dad touched my shoulder. I saw him
when you shoved me in the Narrows. I haven’t seen inside your mother’s mind, but it’s
in her face, it’s in her step. I didn’t mean to look, Mac, but he’s right at the surface.
He’s written all over your family.”
I don’t know what to say. The two of us stand there in the Narrows, and all the falseness
falls away.
“Roland said there’d been an incident. Said he didn’t want you to be alone. I don’t
know what happened. But I want you to know, you’re not alone.”
My eyes burn, and I clench my jaw and look away.
“Are you holding up?” he asks.
The lie comes to my lips, automatic. I bite it back. “No.”
Wes looks down. “You know, I used to think that when you died, you lost everything.”
He starts down the hall, talking as he goes, so I’m forced to follow. “That’s what
made me so sad about death, even more than the fact that you couldn’t live anymore;
it was that you lost all the things you’d spent your life collecting, all the memories
and knowledge. But when my aunt Joan taught me about Histories and the Archive, it
changed everything.” He pauses at a corner. “The Archive means that the past is never
gone. Never lost. Knowing that, it’s freeing. It gave me permission to always look
forward. After all, we have our own Histories to write.”
“God, that’s cliché.”
“I should write greeting cards, I know.”
“I’m not sure they have a section for History-based sentimentality.”
“It’s too bad, really.”
I smile, but I still don’t want to talk about Ben. “Your aunt Joan. She’s the one
you inherited from?”
“Great-aunt, technically. The dame with the blue hair…also known as Joan Petrarch.
And a frightening woman she is.”
“She’s still alive?”
“Yeah.”
“But she passed the job on to you. Does that mean she abdicated?”
“Not exactly.” He fidgets, looks down. “The role can only be passed on if the present
Keeper is no longer capable. Aunt Joan broke her hip a few years back. Don’t get me
wrong, she’s still pretty damn fierce. Lightning fast with her cane, in fact. I’ve
got the scars to prove it. But after the accident, she passed the job on to me.”
“It must be wonderful to be able to talk to her about it. To ask for advice, for help.
To hear the stories.”
Wesley’s smile falls. “It…it doesn’t work like that.”
I feel like an idiot. Of course she
left
the Archive. She would have been altered. Erased.
“After she passed the job on, she forgot.” There’s a pain in his eyes, a kind I finally
recognize. I might not have been able to share in Wes’s clownish smile, but I can
share in his sense of loneliness. It’s bad enough to have people who never knew, but
to have one and lose them… No wonder Da kept his title till he died.
Wes looks lost, and I wish I knew how to bring him back, but I don’t. And then, I
don’t have to. A History does it for me. A sound reaches us, and just like that, Wesley’s
smile rekindles. There is a spark in his eyes, a hunger I sometimes see in Histories.
I’ll bet he patrols the Narrows looking for a fight.
The sound comes again. Gone are the days, apparently, when we actually had to hunt
for Histories. There’s enough of them here that they find us.
“Well, you’ve been wanting to hunt here for days,” I say. “Think you’re ready?”
Wesley gives a bow. “After you.”
“Great,” I say, cracking my knuckles. “Just keep your hands to yourself so I can focus
on my work instead of that horrible rock music coming off you.”
He raises a brow. “I sound like a rock band?”
“Don’t look so flattered. You sound like a rock band being thrown out of a truck.”
His smile widens. “Brilliant. And for what it’s worth, you sound like a thunderstorm.
And besides, if my soul’s impeccable taste in music throws you off, then learn to
tune me out.”
I’m not about to admit that I can’t, that I don’t know how, so I just scoff. The sound
of the History comes again, a fist-on-door kind of banging, and I pull the key from
around my neck and try to calm the sudden jump in pulse as I wrap the leather cord
around my wrist a few times.
I hope it’s not Owen. The thought surprises me. I can’t believe I’d rather face another
Hooper than return Owen right now. It can’t be Owen, though. He would never make this
much noise…not unless he’s started to slip. Maybe I should have told Wesley about
him, but he’s part of the investigation, which puts him under the blanket of things
I’m not supposed to speak of. Still, if Wes finds Owen, or Owen finds Wes, how will
I explain that I need this one History, that I’m protecting him from the Archive,
that he’s a clue? (And that’s all he is, I tell myself as firmly as possible.)
I can’t explain that.
I have to hope Owen has the sense to stay as far away from us as possible.
“Relax, Mac,” says Wes, reading the tightness in my face. “I’ll protect you.”
I laugh for good measure. “Yeah, right. You and your spiked hair will save me from
the big bad monsters.”
Wes retrieves a short cylinder from his jacket. He flicks his wrist, and the cylinder
multiplies, becoming a pole.
I laugh. “I forgot about the stick! No wonder the six-year-old kicked you,” I say.
“You look ready to break open a piñata.”
“It’s a
bˉ
o
staff.”
“It’s a stick. And put it away. Most of the Histories are already scared, Wes. You’re
only going to make it worse.”
“You talk about them like they’re people.”
“You talk about them like they’re not.
Put it away.
”
Wesley grumbles but collapses the stick and pockets it. “Your territory,” he says,
“your rules.”
The banging comes again, followed by a small “Hello? Hello?” We round a corner, and
stop.
A teenage girl is standing near the end of the hall. She has a halo of reddish hair
and nails painted a chipping blue, and she’s banging on one of the doors as hard as
she can.
Wesley steps toward her, but I stop him with a look. I take a step toward the girl,
and she spins. Her eyes are flecked with black.
“Mel,” she says. “God, you scared me.” She’s nervous but not hostile.
“This whole place is scary,” I say, trying to match her unease.
“Where have you been?” she snaps.
“Looking for a way out,” I say. “And I think I finally found one.”
The girl’s face floods with relief. “About time,” she says. “Lead the way.”
“See?” I say, resting against the Returns door once I’ve led the girl through. “No
stick required.”
Wesley smiles. “Impressive—”
Someone screams.
One of those horrible asylum sounds. Animal. And close.
We backtrack, reach a T, and turn right, to find ourselves sharing the stretch of
hall with a woman. She’s gaunt, her head tilted to the left. She’s a hair shorter
than Wesley, her back is to us, and judging by the sound that just came out of her
mouth, which was insane but undeniably adult, I’m willing to bet she’s
Dina Blunt. 33.
“My turn,” whispers Wesley.
I slip back into the stem of the T, out of sight, and hear him hit the wall with a
sharp clap. I can’t see the woman, but I imagine her whipping around to face Wes at
the sound.
“Why, Ian?” she whimpers. The voice grows closer. “Why did you make me do it?”
I press myself against the wall and wait.
Something moves in my section of hall, and I turn in time to see a shock of silver-blond
hair move in the shadows. I shake my head, hoping Owen can see me, and if he can’t,
hoping he knows better than to show himself right now.
“I loved you.” The words are much, much closer now. “I loved you, and you still made
me do it.”
Wesley takes a step and slides into view, his eyes flicking to me before leveling
on the woman, whose footsteps I can now hear, along with her voice.
“Why didn’t you stop me?” she whines. “Why didn’t you help me?”
“Let me help you now,” says Wesley, mimicking my even tone.
“You made me. You made me, Ian,” she says as if she can’t hear him, can’t hear anything,
as if she’s trapped in a nightmarish loop.
“It’s
all your fault.”
Her voice is high and rising with each word, until the words draw into a cry, then
a scream, and then she lunges into view, reaching for him. They both move past me,
Wesley stepping back and her stepping forward, pace for pace.
I slip into the hall behind her.
“I can help you,” says Wes, but I can tell from the tension around his eyes that he’s
not used to this level of disorientation. Not used to using words instead of force.
“Calm down,” he says finally. “Just calm down.”
“What’s wrong with
her
?” The question doesn’t come from Wesley or me, but from a boy behind Wes at the end
of the hall, several years younger than either of us.
Wes glances his way for a blink, long enough for Dina Blunt to lunge forward. As she
grabs for his arm, I reach for hers. Her balance is off from panic and forward momentum,
and I use her strength instead of mine to swing her back, get my hands against her
face, and twist it sharply.
The snap of her neck is audible, followed by the thud of her body collapsing to the
Narrows floor.
The boy makes a sound between a gasp and a cry. His eyes go wide as he turns and sprints
away, skidding around the nearest corner. Wesley doesn’t chase him, doesn’t even move.
He’s staring down at Dina Blunt’s motionless form. And then up at me.
I can’t decide whether the look is solely dumbfounded or admiring as well.
“What happened to the humanitarian approach?”
I shrug. “Sometimes it’s not enough.”
“You are crazy,” he says. “You are a crazy, amazing girl. And you scare the hell out
of me.”
I smile.
“How did you do that?” asks Wes.
“New trick.”
“Where did you learn it?”
“By accident.” It’s not a total lie. I never meant for Owen to show me.
The History’s body shudders on the floor. “It won’t last long,” I say, taking her
arms. Wes takes her legs.
“So this is what the adults are like?” he asks as we carry her to the nearest Returns
door. Her eyelids flutter. We walk faster.
“Oh, no,” I say when we reach the door. “They get much worse.” I turn the key and
flood the hall with light.
Wes smiles grimly. “Wonderful.”
Dina Blunt begins to whimper as we push her through.
“So,” Wesley says as I tug the door shut and the woman’s voice dies on the air, “who’s
next?”
Two hours later, the list is miraculously clear, and I’ve managed to go, well, one
hour and fifty-nine minutes without thinking about Ben’s shelf vanishing into the
stacks. One hour and fifty-nine minutes without thinking about the rogue Librarian.
Or about the string of deaths. The hunting quiets everything, but the moment we stop,
the noise comes back.
“All done?” asks Wes, resting against the wall.
I look over the blank slip of paper and fold the list before another name can add
itself. “Seems so. Still wish you had my territory?”
He smiles. “Maybe not by myself, but if you came with it? Yeah.”
I kick his shoe with mine, and apparently two boots make enough of a buffer that almost
none of Wesley’s noise gets through. A little flare of feedback—but it’s growing on
me, as far as sound goes.
We trace our way back through the halls.
“I could seriously go for some Bishop’s baked goods right now,” he adds. “Think Mrs.
Bishop might have something?”
We reach the numbered doors, and I slide the key into I—the one that leads to the
third-floor hall—even though it’s lazy and potentially public, because I really, really,
really need a shower. I turn the key.
“Will oatmeal raisin do?” I ask, opening the door.
“Delightful,” he says, holding it open for me. “After you.”
It happens so fast.
The History comes out of nowhere.
Blink-and-you-miss-it quick, the way moments play rewinding memory. But this isn’t
memory, this is now, and there’s not enough time. The body is a blur, a flash of reddish-brown
hair and a green sweatshirt and lanky teenage limbs, all of which I distinctly remember
returning
. But that doesn’t stop sixteen-year-old Jackson Lerner from slamming into Wesley,
sending him back hard. I go to shut the door, but Jackson’s foot sails through the
air and catches me in the chest. Pain explodes across my ribs, and I’m on the ground,
gasping for air, as Jackson’s fingers catch the door just before it shuts.
And then he’s gone.
Through.
Out.
Into the Coronado.