Текст книги "The Unbound"

Автор книги: Victoria Schwab

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

Antony Bishop was a flake, and a criminal, and a selfish asshole who cared more about his secrets and his many lives than his family.

Is that how Dad really saw his father? Is that what he was? What I am? Something that rends the family instead of gluing it together? Ben was our glue. Have we been weakening without him? Or have I been prying us apart?

Halfway through the meal, I feel the scratch of letters on my list again, and my heart sinks. I excuse myself and escape to my room, my father’s command to leave the door open trailing like a weight behind me.

The silence is worse when I’m alone, quickly filling up with hows and whys and what ifs. How is Agatha’s search going? Why is someone doing this? What if my theory is wrong? I switch the radio on and unfold the Archive paper. Another name.

Henry Mills. 14.

I slump down on my bed, tossing my good arm over my eyes. Even if I weren’t being watched like a hawk, it would be hard to keep up with names appearing at this rate. Keepers are encouraged to deal with them as quickly as possible, to keep the list from getting long and to keep the Histories from slipping into madness, since they’re harder to handle once they have. But they’re not expected to spend every waking moment standing near a Narrows door, waiting for the call. Then again, their jobs and their lives don’t hang in the balance. Someone else may be able to let the names sit. I can’t. Not with Agatha looking for any signs of weakness.

I sit up, considering the open window. Can Wes really get in? And if so, can I get out?

Eventually Mom and Dad go to bed with their door open, but I’m allowed to close mine, probably because they figure the only way I can get out is through the window, and nobody would be crazy enough to try that. Nobody except Wesley, apparently, who appears around midnight sitting like a specter in the window frame.

I look up from the bed as he slips into the room, offering a silent and dramatic bow before crossing to me.

“Color me impressed,” I whisper under the music on the radio. “Do I want to know how you did that?”

“I said I was a good climber,” he whispers. “Never said I had to climb up.” He points a finger at the ceiling. “4F is vacant.”

“Well,” I say, getting to my feet, “I’m really glad you made it.”

Wesley’s eyes light up. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I say, tugging on my boots.

Wes’s brow knits. “Going somewhere?”

“I assume if you got in, you know how to get back out.”

“Well, yeah, in theory. But I kind of thought I wouldn’t have to test it till morning.”

“There’s another name on my list.”

“So?”

I go to the window and peer out and up, considering the rock walls of the Coronado. Not the easiest ascent, especially with one good arm. “I need to clear it.”

“Mac,” whispers Wes, joining me by the window. “I’m all for efficiency, but this is bordering on obsessive. It’s only one name. Leave it till tomorrow.”

“I can’t,” I say, swinging my leg out the window.

He catches my elbow to steady me, the beat of his life sliding through my shirt and under my skin. “Why not?”

I don’t want to lie, not to Wes, but I don’t want him to worry, either. I’m worried enough for the both of us, and there’s nothing he can do right now except show me how to climb out of this room. “Because it’s a test.” It’s not a lie. Agatha is testing me.

“What?” Wesley’s eyes darken.

“An evaluation,” I say. “After everything that’s happened, I guess they—Agatha—wants to make sure…” My eyes slide down to my sleeve, the bandages peeking out around the wrist.

“Sure of what?” snaps Wes, and I hear something new in his voice. Anger, directed at the Archive. “Jesus, after everything you’ve been through, everything you’re going through—”

I swing my leg back into the room and take Wesley by the shoulders, my eyes sliding past him to the door, worried someone will hear the commotion. “Hey,” I say, making sure to talk under the sound of the radio. “It’s okay. I don’t blame them. But I need to keep the list clear. And to do that, I need your help.”

“Is this why they locked me out of your territory?”

I nod, and he lets out a low oath before pulling himself together. “What they’re doing,” he says, shaking his head as if to clear it, “I’m sure it’s just protocol.” He doesn’t sound like he believes it, but I can tell he wants to.

“I’m sure,” I say. I wish I could believe it, too.

He steps up to the window, gripping the sill. After a long breath, he says, “Are you sure you can climb?”

“I’ll manage,” I say stiffly.

“Mac—”

“I’ll manage, Wes. Just show me what to do.”

He sits on the sill and brings one leg up, resting his shoe on the wood as he takes hold of the open window over his head and then, in one fluid motion, stands, coming to his feet outside. He keeps one hand curled under the window for support as he shimmies to the side and steps off the sill and onto a thin outcrop of rock, vanishing from sight. When I stick my head out, I see him scaling the side of the Coronado, thin bit of stone to thin bit of stone until he reaches an open window roughly ten feet overhead. He hoists himself up into the window and sits there, elbows on his knees, looking down at me.

“Tell me that was more fun than it looks,” I say.

“Loads,” says Wes as I take a deep breath and climb out onto the frame, following his lead. My arm aches dully as I grip the bottom edge of the window for support, eyeing the surfacing stones that stand between me and 4F. They are not flat and smooth but jagged, worn away by time and weather like the gargoyles on the roof. Each is somewhere between a brick and a cinder block; as I reach for the first one, a pebble crumbles off overhead and skitters down the wall.

I am going to die. I always thought that if something in the Coronado killed me, it would be the elevators, but no. It will be this.

I take a deep breath and step off the windowsill onto the stones. I will myself not to look down; instead I focus on the number of stones between me and safety, counting down. Eight…seven…six…five…four…three…

“This isn’t so bad,” I say when I’m nearly to Wes.

…two…one.

And that’s when my toes come down on a moss-slick bit and I slip, plunging a foot before a hand wraps vise-tight around my bad wrist. Pain rips up my arm, sudden and bright, and my vision falters, tunneling. Wesley says something, but his voice is far away and then gone altogether. I feel the darkness folding around me, trying to drag me down, but I cling to his hand and the heavy drum of his noise. I focus on that, not the strange distance or the sense of time skipping like a stone. I focus on the music until I can see the wall in front of me, until I can hear Wesley’s words, begging for my other hand.

And just like that, time snaps back into motion, and I grab hold of his arm with both hands, and he hauls me up and through the window. We both hit the floor in the empty apartment and lie there a moment, gasping with relief.

“See?” pants Wes, rolling onto his back on the hardwood floor. “That was fun.”

“We really need to discuss your idea of fun.” I drag myself into a sitting position, wincing, then get to my feet and look around at the apartment, or at least try. It’s pitch-black, the only light streaming in through the window off the street, but I can tell there’s nothing here. It has that hollow, echoing feel that comes with empty space, and the only break in the dust on the floor is clearly from Wesley earlier tonight. He brushes himself off and leads me through the bones of 4F.

“It’s been vacant for nearly a decade,” he explains. “You will appreciate, though, that according to the walls, the last person who lived here had no fewer than five cats.”

I shudder. I hate cats, and Wesley knows it. He’s the one who found me sitting on the floor outside Angelli’s place after being assaulted by her feline horde.

“So who are we looking for?” asks Wes, heading for the front door.

“Henry Mills. Age fourteen.”

“Splendid,” says Wes, opening the door and showering us in hall light. “Maybe if we’re lucky, he’ll put up a fight.”

Wesley gets his wish.

In the short time Henry’s been out, he’s slipped enough that when he looks at us he doesn’t see us, he sees something he’s afraid of—in this case, cops—and Wes and I end up chasing him through half the territory before we manage to corner him. It’s not the most delicate return—we drag him kicking and screaming through the nearest door—but it gets the job done.

It’s nearly three a.m. by the time we get back to 4F and make the terrifying descent into my room—this time without incident. I sink onto the bed, exhausted. Wesley makes his way to the nearby chair, but I catch his hand, music flaring through me as I draw him to the bed. I let go and scoot back to make room for him. He hovers there a moment, knees against the mattress.

“Beds are for boyfriends,” he says.

“And for people who don’t like sleeping in chairs,” I say. Something like sadness flashes in his eyes before he smiles, sinking onto the comforter beside me. He snaps the bedside light off, and we lie there inches apart in the dark. Wesley offers his hand, and when I take it, he presses my palm to the front of his shirt. His noise pours through me, loud and welcome.

“Good night, Wesley,” I whisper.

“Sleep well,” he whispers back.

And somehow, I do.

TWENTY-TWO

“IT’S A HEAVY burden to bear,” says Roland, handing the picture back, “but Crew is worth it.”

I look down at the picture of Da and his partner, Meg. I can’t imagine fitting with someone the way they do, so close they almost touch, even though they’re not wearing silver bands. Is that what love is for people like us? Being able to share space? Without our rings, we wear our lives on our sleeves. Our thoughts and wants and fears. Our weaknesses. I can’t bear the thought of someone seeing mine.

“How?” I ask. “How can it be worth it?” I run my thumb over Da’s face. This isn’t the Da I knew. My Da had far more wrinkles and far less ease. My Da has been in the ground six months. “Letting people in, loving them—it’s a waste. In the end it just hurts more when you lose them.”

Roland leans back against a shelf, a History’s dates printed just above his shoulder. He looks out past me, his gray eyes unfocused.

“It’s worth it,” he says, “to have someone from whom you hide nothing. The weight of secrets and lies starts heavy, and it only gets harder. You build walls to keep the world out. Crew is the small part of the world you let in.

“It’s worth it,” says Roland again. “One day, when you’re surrounded by those walls, you’ll see.”

Wesley is gone by the time I wake up.

It’s a good thing, because Mom is bustling around my room, closing the window, tidying stacks of paper, gathering up pieces of laundry from the floor. Apparently privacy went out the window with trust. She tells the desk it’s time to get up, tells the laundry in her hands that breakfast is ready. We seem to have taken a step back.

The Archive list is tucked under the phone on my bedside table, and when I go to check it, I see there’s a text from Wesley.

I dreamed of thunderstorms. Did you dream of concerts?

In truth, I didn’t dream of anything, and the feeling of dreamless sleep on my bones is glorious. No nightmares. No Owen. I look down at my arm and wonder how it went that far. I feel so much closer to sane after a few hours of rest.

I’m about to reply when I see a conversation with Lyndsey. One I never had. It’s from Saturday night, when Mom spiked my water and Wes first stayed over.

Earth to Mac!

Earth to Mac!

The HOTTEST boy is in this coffee shop.

I need you to be awake so you can vicariously appreciate it.

And he has a violin case. A VIOLIN CASE. *swoon*

Sorry, Mac is sleeping.

Then how is she texting?

Is she a sleep-texter?

GASP.

IS THIS GUYLINER?

The very same.

She charged her phone for you. I hope you’re worth it.

I hope so, too.

I almost smile, but then a knot forms in my stomach. Worth it.

Crew is worth it, echoes Roland.

I put the phone away and begin to get dressed. The cut on my hand is healing well. My forearm, on the other hand, is killing me after last night’s adventures; I’m worried I might have ripped the stitches. I flex gingerly and wince, then check my list. There’s already another name on it.

Penny Ellison. 13.

“Mackenzie.” Mom’s standing in the doorway. Her eyes get as close as my cheek. “We’re going to be late.”

“We?” I ask.

“I’m driving you to school.”

“Like hell—”

“Mackenzie,” warns Mom. “It’s not negotiable. And before you go running to your father, you should know that it was his idea. He doesn’t want you using the bicycle with your arm in that condition, and I agree.”

I obviously shouldn’t have left them alone at the table last night. So much for clearing Penny before heading to Hyde.

I get ready and follow Mom downstairs, and we’re through the front doors when Berk shows up on the patio and waves her over, spouting something about an espresso emergency.

My eyes go to Dante, leaning up against the bike rack. “I could—”

“No,” says my mom. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

I sigh and sink against the patio wall to wait, picking at the tape on my palm. Someone casts a shadow over me, and a moment later, Eric sits down on the low wall a few feet away, resting a Bishop’s to-go cup on his knee.

“I didn’t know about Roland,” I say.

“I didn’t tell you,” he says simply. I look over. He looks tired, but otherwise unscathed. “Agatha is running out of Crew.”

I swallow hard. “How much time do I have?”

“Not enough,” he says, sipping his coffee. “Are you innocent, Miss Bishop?” I hesitate, then nod. “Then why would you refuse her?”

“I was afraid I’d fail an assessment.”

“But you just said—”

“A mental assessment,” I clarify. Silence falls between us. “Do you ever wish you’d gone a different way?” I ask after a minute.

Eric gives me a guarded look. “I’m honored to serve the Archive,” he says. “It gives me purpose.” And then he softens a little. “There have been times when I’ve wavered. When I thought maybe I wanted to be normal. But the thing is, what we do, it’s in our blood. It’s who we are. Normal wouldn’t fit us, even if we wanted to wear it.” He sighs and gets to his feet. “I’d tell you to stay out of trouble,” he says, “but it just seems to find you, Miss Bishop.”

Mom reappears with two to-go cups, and there’s this split second as she hands me one when she finally looks me in the eye. Then she sees the man standing beside me.

“Good morning, Eric!” she says brightly. “How’s that dark roast?”

He gives her his best smile. “Worth crossing the city for, ma’am,” he says before heading off down the sidewalk.

“Eric’s become a bit of a regular,” explains Mom as we walk to her car.

“Yeah,” I say drily. “I’ve seen him around.”

Mom has the decency to drop me off a block and a half from school and out of the line of sight of the parking lot. As the car pulls away, I look down at my arm, hoping I can get through one day without an incident. Maybe Eric’s right. Maybe normal doesn’t suit us, but I’d be willing to pretend.

I catch sight of Cash, resting against the bike rack with coffee and a smile. Cash, who always makes me feel normal. But the moment I reach him, I can see something’s off.

His dark hair trails across his cheekbones, but it can’t entirely hide the cut beside his eye or the bruise darkening his jaw.

“Looks like I’m not the only one to get into a scrape,” I say. “Soccer? Or did you and Wes go a few rounds on the mat?”

“Nah,” he says. But he doesn’t seem eager to say any more.

“Well, come on,” I say as he hands me a fresh coffee. “I told you my clumsy story. It’s only fair you tell me yours.”

“I wish I could,” he says, furrowing his brow, “but I’m not exactly sure what happened.”

I frown, taking a sip. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I was heading back from your place yesterday—I was going to take the bus, but it was a nice day, so I decided to walk. I was almost back to the school, when all of a sudden there’s this crashing sound behind me, and before I can turn to see what happened, someone pulls me backward hard.”

The coffee goes bitter in my mouth.

“It was insane,” he says. “One minute I’m minding my own business, and the next I’m laid out on the sidewalk.” He brings his fingertips to the cut beside his eye. “I caught myself on a bench on the way down. I couldn’t have been out for more than a minute or two, but by the time I got up, there was no one else around.”

“What did it sound like?” I ask slowly. “The noise behind you.”

“It was loud, like a crash, or a tear, or a whoosh. Yeah, a whoosh. And that’s not even the strangest part.” He curls his fingers around the cup. “You’ll think I’m crazy. Hell, I think I’m crazy. But I swear there was a guy walking maybe a few strides behind me right before it happened. I thought he might have been the one to grab me, but by the time I got back up he was gone.” He straightens and chuckles. “God, I sound like a nut job, don’t I?”

“No,” I say, gripping the paper cup. “You don’t.”

A ripping sound, a force hard enough to slam Cash backward, and no visible trace? All the markings of a void. Was the man behind him Crew? Or a fourth victim?

“What did the other guy look like?”

Cash shrugs. “He looked normal.”

I frown. It doesn’t make sense. If someone was trying to attack Cash, they missed, and I don’t see why they’d attack him in the first place—not while I was under lock and key. There would be nothing to tie me to this crime, so why do it?

“Did you see anyone else besides the other guy?” I ask, stepping closer.

He shakes his head, and I grab his arm, his noise singing through me. “Can you remember anything about the moments before it happened? Anything at all?”

Cash’s gaze goes to the ground. “You.”

I pull back a fraction. “What?”

“I wasn’t paying attention, because I was thinking about you.” My face goes warm as he gives a small, stifled laugh. “Truth be told, I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Then, out of nowhere, Cash takes my face in his hands and kisses me. His lips are warm and soft, and my head fills with jazz and laughter; for an instant, it feels sweet and safe and simple. But my life is none of those things, and I realize as the kiss ends that I don’t want to pretend it is, and that there is only one person I want to kiss me like this.

Someone by the gate whistles, another cheers, and I pull away sharply.

“I can’t,” I say, my face on fire. It feels like everyone in the lot is looking at us.

Cash immediately retreats, trying not to look stung. “It’s Wes, isn’t it?”

Yes. “It’s life.”

“Way to be broad,” he says, slouching back against the bike rack. “It’s a lot easier to hate a person.”

“Then it’s me. Look, Cash, you’re amazing. You’re sweet and clever, and you make me smile.…”

“I sound pretty awesome.”

“You are,” I say, stepping away. “But my life right now is…complicated.”

Cash nods. “Okay. Understood. And who knows,” he says, brightening, “maybe one day it will be simpler.”

I manage a thin smile. Maybe.

And then someone calls Cash’s name, and his face lights up as he turns and shouts back, and it’s like nothing happened. I have to wonder if he has masks he wears, too. Maybe we all do.

Wes shows up a few minutes later in his senior black-and-gold, looking like he spent the weekend lounging by a pool instead of scaling Coronado walls and warding off my nightmares. Cash gets dragged into a conversation with a nearby group, and Wes knocks his shoulder against mine and whispers, “No nightmares?”

“No nightmares,” I say. And that’s something to be thankful for. That is progress—small, fractional, but it is something. It is me clawing my way back to sanity.

The bell rings, and we all head through the gate. Whatever Fall Fest is, it’s starting to take over campus. The bones of it are scattered in the stretches of grass between buildings, massive ribbons in black and green and silver and gold are rolled and waiting, and everyone seems oddly cheerful for a Monday morning.

Every moment without the watch and the warden and the constant reminders that I’m not okay makes me feel closer to normal. By ten thirty in Lit Theory, I’m feeling positively mundane. And then Ms. Wellson drags her chalk across the board and the sound is too sharp, like metal on stone.

Metal on stone, I think. And as I think it, my body stiffens and stops. The rest of the room doesn’t. Wellson keeps talking, but her voice seems suddenly dull and far away. I desperately try to move the pen in my hand, but my hand refuses. My whole body refuses.

“Did you really think,” comes a voice from behind me, “that a little sleep could fix the ways you’re broken?”

No. I close my eyes. You’re not real.

But a moment later I feel Owen’s arms wrap around my shoulders, feel his hand brush the line he carved into my arm.

“Are you sure about that?” He presses down. Pain flares across my skin, and the air catches in my throat as I jerk to my feet, my body suddenly unfreezing. The entire class turns to look at me.

“Miss Bishop?” asks Ms. Wellson. “Is something wrong?”

I murmur something about feeling unwell, then grab my bag and race into the hall, reaching the bathroom just in time to retch. My shoulders shudder as I forfeit breakfast and two cups of coffee, then slump back against the stall, resting my forehead against my knees.

This shouldn’t be happening. I’m supposed to be getting better.

Did you really think that a little sleep could fix the ways you’re broken?

My eyes start to burn and I squeeze them shut, but a few tears still escape down my cheeks.

“Hangover?” comes a voice from the next stall. Safia. “Morning sickness?” I force my eyes open and drag myself to my feet. She walks out of the stall and over to the sink as she adds, “Eating disorder?”

I rinse my mouth out as she joins me, hopping up onto the counter. “Food poisoning,” I lie blandly.

“Less exciting,” she says, producing a small container of mints and offering me one. “I’m always telling Cash he shouldn’t buy that cheap coffee from the corner store. Honestly, who knows what’s in it? I guess it’s a nice gesture, though.”

“I’m sure he’s just doing his job,” I mutter, splashing water on my face.

Safia rolls her eyes. She hops down off the counter and turns to go.

“Safia,” I say as she reaches the door. “Thanks.”

“For what?” she asks, crinkling her nose. “I offered you a mint. That’s, like, common decency, not social bonding.”

“Well, thanks for being commonly decent, then.”

The edge of her mouth quirks, and then she’s gone.

The moment the door’s shut, I slump back against the brick wall beside the sink and wrap my hands around my ribs to keep them from shaking. Just when I think things can’t get worse, I feel the scratch of letters in my pocket. I dig the Archive paper out as a second name—Rick Linnard. 15.—writes itself below Penny Ellison. 13.

Two names, and it isn’t even lunch. Could Agatha be doing this on purpose? Would she go that far to prove a point? I don’t know. I don’t know what to believe anymore. But it doesn’t matter how the names got there; I have to handle them. Besides, clearing this list is the only thing still in my control. My mind spins. The class bell rings in the distance. Wellness. I’ll skip. I know where the nearest Narrows door is now. The only problem is my key won’t work. It’s not my territory. And with Wesley’s access to mine revoked, even if he lets me in to his, I can’t cross the divide.

I find a pencil in my bag and spread the paper out on the sink, tapping the eraser several times against it before finally writing a message.

Requesting access to adjacent territory: Hyde School.

I stand at the sink and stare down at the page, waiting and hoping for a response. I count out the time it will take to get to the door, cross Wesley’s territory into my own, and find and return Rick and Penny.

And then the answer comes. One small, horrible word: Denied.

It’s not signed, but I recognize Agatha’s script. Frustration wells up in me, and I slam my hand into the nearest thing, which happens to be a metal tissue holder. It goes crashing to the floor.

“Mackenzie?” asks a voice from the door. I turn to find a woman standing there. She looks exactly like she did in the hospital, from the messy ponytail to the slacks, but she’s traded a name tag that reads Psychologist for one that reads Hyde School Counselor.

“Dallas?” I ask, crumpling the Archive paper before she can see it. The question and answer have both bled away, but the names are still there. “What are you doing here?”

“We had a deal, remember?” She bends down to fetch the dented tissue box and sets it back on the edge of the counter. “I figured I’d meet you at the Wellness Center, but I ran into Miss Graham and she pointed me in this direction. Is everything…?” She trails off, and I appreciate not having to answer the question when it’s obvious that, no, everything’s not. “Do you need a moment?” she asks. I nod, and Dallas vanishes back through the door to wait.

I check my reflection in the mirror. Blue-gray eyes stare back at me—Da’s eyes—but their once-even gaze is now unsure, the blue made brighter by the red ringing them. My cracks are showing. I splash water on my face to cool my cheeks and rinse away any trace of tears, then smooth out the Archive paper and refold it properly before slipping it into the pocket of my shirt.

A few minutes later, when I step out into the hall, I at least look the part of a normal junior. Dallas is eating an apple and pretending to be interested in a Fall Fest flyer on the wall. Cash is front and center in the photo, wearing cat ears, dipping a senior girl with one hand and holding a sparkler aloft with the other.

“When you had me agree to therapy,” I say, tugging my sleeves down over my hands, “I didn’t realize it would be with you.”

“Is that going to be a problem?” she asks, ditching the apple core in the nearest trash bin. “Because it’s me or a middle-aged guy named Bill who’s nice enough, but kind of smells.”

“I’ll stick with you.”

“Good choice,” she says, leading me through a pair of doors and across the quad. The Fall Fest materials are scattered everywhere, and we have to weave through them just to get to the Wellness Center.

“I just didn’t realize you worked here, too,” I say as we reach the building and go in. Instead of heading toward the lockers, she leads me down a hall to a row of offices.

“Most nights and weekends I belong to the hospital,” she tells me as we reach an office with her name on it and go inside. There’s a chair and a couch and a coffee table. “During the week, I’m here. As long as we’re meeting, I’ll be taking the place of your Wellness class, since this is, in fact, addressing wellness of another sort.”

“And how long are we meeting?” I ask.

“I suppose that depends on you.” She slumps into the chair and retrieves a notebook from the coffee table. “How are the battle scars?”

“Healing,” I say as I sit down.

“And how are you?”

How am I? Three—possibly four—people have been dragged into voids because of me, my only theory as to why is crumbling, the assessor of the Archive is determined to find me unfit, and my nightmares are becoming real. But of course I can’t tell Dallas any of this.

“Mackenzie?” she prompts.

“I’ve been better,” I say quietly. “I think I might be losing my mind.” It is the most honest thing I’ve said aloud in days.

She frowns a little. “Still having bad dreams?”

“These days, everything feels like a bad dream,” I say. “I just want to wake up.”