Текст книги "The Unbound"

Автор книги: Victoria Schwab

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

THIRTY

“DON’T CAUSE A SCENE,” he orders, pulling me away from the festival.

“Sir, you’re making a serious mistake.” The clock strikes one minute till eight, and I twist around, desperately searching for Owen as Kinney drags me down the path.

“Do you know the last name entered into Coach Metz’s computer?” he says. “Yours. And the last number to call Jason Pinter’s phone? Yours. The prints on Bethany Thomson’s necklace? Yours. The only place you didn’t actually leave evidence was Phillip’s, but you broke into his house, so I’m willing to bet we can tie you to that, too.”

“That’s circumstantial,” I say. “You can’t arrest me for it.”

“Watch me,” says Kinney, pushing me toward the front gates. His cruiser is waiting, lights flashing, on the other side. But the gates are closed. Not just closed, I realize—locked. And I can smell the gasoline from here.

“What the hell?” he growls.

His grip slackens on my arm, and I wrench free, making it three steps back toward the festival before Kinney’s hand comes down hard on my shoulder.

“Not so—”

But he never gets a chance to finish. The clock tower chimes eight, and the fireworks start. Not in the air, but on the ground. Several high whistles, followed by the heavy booms as massive spheres of color, light, sound, and fire explode across campus. The blasts are concentrated in the quad, but one goes off much closer to where we stand, and the force is enough to send Kinney and me to the ground. My ears are ringing as a pair of hands pulls me to my feet.

“Can’t leave you alone for a moment, I swear,” says Owen, soot dusting his cheeks. Behind him, the Hyde front gate is engulfed in fire.

“Where the hell were you?” I snap, ears still ringing as he strides over to Kinney, who’s still getting to his hands and knees, clearly disoriented from the blast.

“Busy,” he says, pulling the gun from Kinney’s holster. He spins the weapon and brings the butt down hard against the detective’s temple. Kinney crumples to the path. Back at the quad, another round of explosions goes off. People are screaming. Owen finds the keys on Kinney’s belt, unlocks my cuffs, then drags me back toward the blossoming inferno.

We pass through a wave of smoke and into a world engulfed in fire. The blasts are deafening, and the streamer ceiling of the dance floor burns and breaks, dropping flaming strips onto the students below. Everyone is running, but no one seems to know where to run because the blasts keep going off. It’s a blanket of chaos.

Owen storms through it, scanning the smoke-covered ground.

“What are you looking for?” I have to shout now over the noise of the falling festival.

“I left him right—”

Just then a body slams into Owen hard, his gun skittering toward me as they both go down. Another blast goes off behind me as I scoop up the weapon, Owen and his opponent a tangle of limbs on the burning ground until he manages to snake his arm around the man’s throat and pull back and up, and I see his face.

Eric. One of his eyes is swelling shut, and a bad gash carves a path against his shirtfront, and when he sees me standing there, he tells me to run. And then he sees the gun in my hand and confusion lights up his blood-streaked face.

“Shoot him,” orders Owen.

I stare at him in horror. “He’s Crew!”

“Right now he’s in our way,” growls Owen, as if this is just an unfortunate turn of events. But it’s not. This was always his plan.

I’ll take care of the hard part.

The fireworks were nothing but a smoke screen. They could have been an accident. But killing a member of the Archive…there would be no question. No hesitation. The Archive would hunt me down. They’d erase me.

“You have to commit, Mackenzie,” orders Owen, struggling to gain leverage over Eric. Another firework goes off, showering us in red light. I lift the gun, mind spinning. I’ve come so far and risked so much. I can’t lose Owen, not now. But I can’t do this.

“Commit.”

I pull the trigger. But I aim wide.

The blast sounds, sharp even in the chaos, the bullet zinging past them both, and between my shot and Owen realizing I missed, Eric twists free and spins. Run, I think, run. And I’m about to level the gun on Owen—it might not stop him, but it will slow him down—when he slams his fist into Eric’s jaw hard enough to crack bone. Eric crumples, and before he can recover, Owen takes his head in his hands and snaps his neck.

The world slows. The smoke thins and the fire dims, and in the instant just after I hear the crack and before the light goes out of his eyes, I see Eric’s life unravel. I see him sitting beside me on the patio wall, telling me to stay out of trouble; questioning Dallas in the hospital; leaning up against the yellow wallpaper, chiding me for trying to slip away; checking my hands in the park for broken bones; standing on the sidewalk, nothing but a golden shadow, a glint of light, and then gone.

I stifle a cry as Eric’s body slumps lifeless onto the charred earth. No. This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.

“Run, Mackenzie,” comes Owen’s voice as I stare down at the corpse. My fingers tighten on the gun, but by the time I manage to drag my eyes away from Eric’s body and up, Owen’s already gone, and I’m alone. I look around and realize that I’m standing at the very center of the chaos. There are sirens in the distance, and people are still running, shadows in the smoke and all I can think is please let Wes and Cash and the others be among them be safe.

And then, through the chaos, I see her. Everyone else is running away. But she is running toward me.

Sako.

And I know from the way she’s looking at me that she heard the gunshot, that she can see the weapon in my hand…and Eric’s body at my feet. The gun tumbles from my grip as two more Crew—the third I saw earlier and a fourth—appear behind her. I don’t have a choice. There’s only one way out now.

I take a stumbling step backward.

And then I turn and run.

THIRTY-ONE

THERE’S ONLY ONE of me and three of them, and they are all fast.

The third drops to a knee beside Eric’s body but the other two don’t stop. I sprint across the quad, not toward the front gates like everyone else, but deeper into campus, cutting through the doors of the language hall only moments before I hear them crashing through behind me. I don’t look back, don’t sacrifice a single step of my lead as I sprint through the building, all the way to the opposite exit and back out into the burning night.

You’re going to run…

Smoke billows up from the burning lawn as I cut hard down the path toward the Court. I’m almost there when I realize that one set of footsteps has vanished behind me; an instant later, the third Crew steps into my way. I can’t change direction before he swings, catching me across the face with his fist.

And when they catch you…

I go down hard, tasting blood as the world rings in my ears.

…and they will…

Just as I’m getting to my feet, Sako grabs me from behind and throws me down on the dirt path, kicking me hard in the ribs.

…you’re going to fight back…

The force sends me sprawling onto my back, and a second later she’s kneeling on my chest. Hate and anger and images of Eric’s corpse roll through me.

“I’m going to kill you,” she growls. I throw a punch with my injured arm, but she catches it and slams my hand back to the ground. “I’m going to take my time and make you beg, you little shit.”

“Sako,” says the other man. “We have orders.”

“Hang the orders,” she spits.

I bring my knee up hard, catching her in the stomach, but she doesn’t even move, only leans forward and forces her hand over my mouth, digging her nails into my jaw. “How could you? How could you?”

All the pain and anger is written over her and pouring through me as her hand slides from my jaw to my throat. And then, out of nowhere, a metal bar appears under her chin and wrenches her back and up and off me. No. She rolls to the side, and Wesley puts himself squarely between Sako and me as we both get to our feet.

“Wes, go! Please!”

The fire burns bright in the quad. A few final explosions thunder through Hyde.

“You shouldn’t have done that, little Keeper,” Sako hisses.

“Get away from her,” growls Wes.

He swings his metal bar, and she catches it the instant before it connects with her face, ripping it from his grasp. “You really shouldn’t have.…”

“Wesley! Don’t—”

The third Crew slams into me from behind, wrapping his arms around my chest, pinning mine at my sides as try to run I’ll chase love the hunt little rabbit forces its way into my head.

“Gotcha,” he says, right before I drive my elbow back into his ribs and drop to a knee sudden and hard, jerking forward and forcing him to lose his grip and tumble over my shoulder. He’s catlike, up again in a blink, holding something in his hands that looks like ribbon but glints in the uneven light. Metal wire.

“You should surrender,” he says, “before this has to get worse.”

“I can’t,” I say. He smiles like he’s happy to hear it. And then he attacks. His hand flies forward, and the length of metal wire expands, like he’s casting it out. I dodge, avoiding the thread, ducking out of its way. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Wesley go down hard, blood streaking across his cheek. In that instant I feel the lightest touch as the cord loops around my good wrist.

“Gotcha,” he says again, and with a single swift jerk the wire cinches, cutting into my skin. I try to pull free, but when I struggle it only tightens, so I grab hold of the thread and use it to wrench him toward me, even though the wire slices into my fingers. My free hand curls into a fist and catches him in the stomach, a solid enough blow to knock the wind from his lungs and send pain up my arm. I realize my mistake too late; before I can get out of reach, he’s got the length of wire twined around my other wrist. He pulls, and my hands are forced together in front of me. He grins triumphantly.

Fight back…

I intertwine my fingers and bring my locked fists across his jaw as hard as I can, splitting his lip—which manages to wipe the smile from his face, but doesn’t help me get loose. He keeps his hand around the metal thread and yanks me forward to him, forcing me off balance before driving his fist into my ribs. I double over, and before I can recover he shoves me backward and swings his leg behind my knees, sending me to the hard earth.

He drags me back to my feet, and I have just enough time to see Wesley stagger to his hands and knees—Sako picking up his metal bar and dragging it along the ground toward him—before the Crew’s fist connects with my ribs again. The wind rushed out of my lungs, and I’m left fighting for breath as he hauls me down the path to the nearest building. I try to call out to Wes, but there’s no air, no time. The Crew slams me back against a side door, pulls a dark key from his pocket, and jams it into the lock, and a second later, the path and Wesley and Sako all vanish as I fall into the Archive.

I hit the antechamber floor hard. The moment I try to get to my feet, the sentinels are there, forcing me roughly back to my knees.

Agatha is waiting, the other Librarians in line behind her—and clearly they’ve been told what happened. Their faces are a spectrum of horror and sadness and confusion and betrayal. Patrick is on one side of Roland, Lisa on the other, and they are both holding him back. My eyes flick from his face to the golden key around his neck and back again, willing him to understand, to trust me even if he can’t. Again I try to fight to my feet, and again the sentinels force me down in front of Agatha.

“I warned Hale this would happen,” she says, cold triumph in her eyes. “A broken mind and a traitor’s heart. Do you have anything to say?”

I’m sorry. Listen. Please. Trust me. This isn’t what it looks like. But I can’t say any of those things. I have to sell it. Everything in me wants to scream NO as I spit blood onto the dark stone floor and say, “The Archive is broken.”

Agatha backhands me hard across the face. Pain blossoms against my brow and blood trickles into my vision. “I’ll summon Hale. Take her away.”

The sentinels wrench me to my feet.

Fight back…

I jerk forward hard and manage to twist free. It takes every ounce of will and strength, but I run into Roland’s arms, pressing my bound hands flat against his shirtfront. It looks like a plea, but only because no one can see my fingers wrapping around the gold key he wears there. The one that turns lives on and off. The one only Librarians are meant to handle. A numbing pain, pins-and-needles sharp, spreads through my fingers and up my wrist, but I don’t let go.

…with everything you have…

“Trust,” I whisper, closing my hand over it just before they pull me off him. The snap of his necklace is buried beneath the sounds of the struggle as I’m dragged away. I palm the key, slipping it under the edge of my sleeve just before a crushing blow sends me forward to my hands and knees. Two more sets of hands—sentinels both—take hold.

…to the very end.

A hood is thrown over my head. Everything goes black. Even then, I try to fight.

“Enough, Miss Bishop,” orders Patrick as I’m dragged through the Archive. All I can think as I’m led away is that it will not be enough, it will not be enough, it will not be enough.

And then I hear it.

Back in the antechamber.

Wesley’s voice.

Shouting my name. Arguing with someone loudly as he storms into the Archive.

Everything in me crumples. This was never supposed to be his fight. As I’m dragged down another corridor, I hear the sound of people chasing after him, hear Patrick give a quiet order, and feel one of the sentinels pull away from my side and turn toward the commotion. Patrick’s hands—hands I know well because they’ve patched me up countless times over the last four and a half years—take his place. He and the second sentinel force me through a pair of doors and into a room so empty our steps echo, my name still bouncing on the walls of the Archive.

Then, abruptly, it stops, and I don’t know if it’s because they’ve closed a door or because they’ve caught Wes, but I tell myself he’ll be okay even as I try to twist free. The hands tighten, digging into the gash on my arm hard enough to make me grateful for the gold key’s spreading numbness as I’m shoved roughly down into a chair. They slice the metal thread free from my wrists, but before I can get to my feet, they’re strapping me down, my waist and legs and wrists cinched to the cold arms of the chair. There’s no way out. I twist in the binds, but it’s no use, and they know it.

“Good-bye,” says Patrick, and then a door opens and closes, and the room is silent.

Totally silent.

And totally dark.

And that’s when the fear finally hits. It’s been chasing me all night, but now it finally catches up.

Fear that none of this is going to work.

Fear that I misjudged, that Owen isn’t going to save me, that I was nothing more than a disposable tool.

Fear that he won’t come in time.

Fear that he won’t make it past the antechamber.

And under all of it, a far worse fear.

A fear that makes me close my eyes, despite the dark.

The fear that maybe, somehow, Owen isn’t real. That the nightmare never gave way to reality, that somehow it’s been me—and only me—all along. That I’ve lost my mind. That I’m about to lose my life.

A prickling pain is spreading through my body from the Archive key pressed against my wrist, and I focus on that as I try to twist my arm against the chair, to work the metal toward my hand.

And then I hear it. The door opens behind me, and the sounds of the Archive—of hurrying feet and muffled shouts, none of them Wesley’s—pour in for a moment before cutting off again. There’s a short, quiet scuffle followed by a sickening crack. I struggle again with my binds, fighting with the chair until someone reaches out and grips my shoulder and the all-too-familiar quiet seeps through my skin.

“Owen?” I gasp.

“Hold still,” he orders, and relief spills over me. I coat myself in it as he pulls off my hood. The room I’m in is a glaring white, nearly as bright but not as seamless as a Returns room and completely bare of shelves—of anything except the chair and a sentinel slumped in the corner, his head tilted at a very wrong angle. Eric flashes up behind my eyes, but I force myself to focus as Owen frees one of my wrists and drops to a knee, setting to work on my ankles, leaving me to free my other hand myself. He gets my legs unbound and circles behind the chair to find the buckle for the waist strap. The final strap falls away, and Owen rounds the chair again.

“You put on quite a show,” he says, offering me his hand.

My heart races as I take it. “I know,” I say as he helps me to my feet. “You were right,” I add, fingers curling around the metal in my hand.

His brow furrows. “About what?”

I meet his gaze. “I just had to commit.”

My grip tightens around his. Confusion flickers across his face, but before he can pull away, I drive the gleaming key into his chest and turn it. For an instant, he stares at me, blue eyes wide. And then the light goes out of Owen’s face, the life out of his body. His knees buckle and I catch him, and the two of us sink together toward the sterile white floor.

I can hear the footsteps rushing down the hall, and a strange sadness spreads through me as I ease Owen’s body to the ground. He kept his word. He believed in something, however misguided.

I don’t know what I believe in anymore.

The only thing I know for sure is that I’m still alive.

And it’s almost over.

Almost.

THIRTY-TWO

I CANNOT SEEM to escape this room.

Cold marble floors. Ledger-lined walls. The long table stretching in the middle.

It is the room I was inducted in. It is the room Wesley and I were summoned to after the History escaped into the Coronado. And now it is the room where the Archive will decide my fate.

When Roland and Agatha and Director Hale found me in the alterations room, kneeling over Owen’s body, a sentinel slumped in the corner, I said only one thing.

“I want a trial.”

So here I am. The remaining sentinel stands beside me, within easy reach, but mercifully hands-off. Roland, Agatha, and Director Hale sit behind the table, Roland’s key on its broken cord in front of them.

I flex my hand, still waiting for the feeling to return to my fingertips after using it. Director Hale offers me a chair, but I’ll fall over before I sit down in here again tonight. My gaze find Roland’s. A minute ago, he paused on his way in and reached out, pretending to steady me.

“Do you regret it yet?” I asked under my breath. “Voting me through?”

A sad smile ghosted his lips. “No,” he said. “You make things infinitely more interesting.”

“Thank you,” I said in a low voice as he turned away. “For trusting me.”

“You didn’t leave me much choice. And I want my journal back.”

Now Roland sits at the table, gray eyes tense as Hale rises to his feet and approaches me, bringing his hands aloft.

“May I?” he asks.

I nod, bracing myself for the pain I felt when Agatha tore through my mind. But as Hale’s hands come down against my temples, I feel nothing but a cool and pressing quiet. I close my eyes as the images begin to flit rapidly through my mind: of Owen and the voids and the festival and the fire and Eric. When Hale’s hands slide back to his sides, his expression is unreadable.

“Give me context for what I’ve seen,” he says, taking his seat.

I stand before them and explain what happened. How the voids were made. How Owen finally got through. How I set my trap.

“You should have involved the Archive from the start,” he says when I’m done.

“Sir, I was afraid that if I did, I would be arrested for the mere fact that Owen still existed, and then Crew would go after him themselves, and everyone would suffer for it. As it is, Eric did suffer. I considered it my job.”

And I wasn’t entirely sure Owen was real.

“It is Crew’s job to hunt down Histories in the Outer,” clarifies Agatha.

“Owen Chris Clarke was not an ordinary History. And he was my responsibility. I gave him the tools he needed to escape the first time, and my crimes were pardoned on the assumption that he was no longer a threat.” I’m surprised by the calm in my voice. “Besides, I was in a unique position to handle him.”

“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, wincing 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.