“Someone I met was abducted,” I say, the words coming out too cautiously. “I thought I might be able to see something the cops had missed. The man, Gregory Phillip, went missing from his home. The room where the abduction took place was trashed, and the police didn’t have any leads. They couldn’t make sense of the evidence, couldn’t figure out how the man had vanished. Because they couldn’t see it. But when I broke in, I saw it clearly.”
“Saw what, Miss Bishop?”
“Someone had made a void.”
Agatha’s eyes narrow. “That,” she says, “is a very serious accusation.”
It is. Voids can only be made using Crew keys, the only people given Crew keys are Crew, and Agatha is personally responsible for every member of this branch, Keeper and Crew alike. Which is why she should be more interested in finding the person behind this than in burning me.
“I understand the severity—”
“Do you?” she says, rounding her chair. “Do you truly know what you’re suggesting? Voids are tears in the world. Every time one is created, it puts the Outer and the Archive at risk. As such, the intentional creation of one is punishable by alteration. And you think that a member of Crew would disobey the Archive—disobey
me
—and create such a tear in the Outer in order to dispose of
one
human
?”
“Three,” I correct. “There have been three disappearances in the last week, and I believe voids were created in every instance. And I’m not convinced the Crew responsible is doing it for themselves. I think it’s possible that someone in the Archive has given them the order.”
“And why on earth would someone do that?”
“I think”—god, I sound mad; I can barely will the words out—“someone’s trying to frame me.” Agatha’s eyebrows go up as I add, “I crossed paths with each victim before they vanished.”
“And who would want to frame you?” she asks, her voice dripping with condescension.
“There are members of the Archive,” I say, “who disapprove of your initial ruling. Those who are opposed to my continued service.”
Agatha sighs. “I’m well aware of Patrick’s feelings toward you, but you honestly believe he would break Archival law to see you terminated?”
I hesitate. I’m not sure I do. It was easy to believe he would send Eric to find evidence, but I have a harder time believing he would
plant
it.
“I don’t know,” I say, trying hard not to waver. “I’m only telling you what I found.”
“You must be mistaken.”
“I know what I saw.”
“How can you?” she counters. “Voids are not
truly
visible, to anyone. You got a bad feeling, you thought your eyes slid off a bit of air, and you assumed—”
“I
read the wall
. The memories surrounding the creation of the void were all ruined. Whited out.”
She shakes her head. “Even if there was a void, how do I know
you
aren’t to blame? Do you have any idea how rare a void door
is
? You’ve already been tied to one—”
“I was doing my job.”
“—and now this. You yourself said three disappearances, and you crossed paths with each.”
“I don’t have a Crew key.”
“There was another one, was there not? On the roof? The one belonging to that traitorous History? What happened to it?”
My mind spins. “It got sucked into the void,” I say, “along with Owen.”
“How convenient.”
“I could have lied, Agatha,” I say, trying to stay calm, “and I did not. I told you the truth. Someone is defying you. Defying the Archive.”
“Do you think I would allow such crimes and conspiracies to happen under my nose?”
I stiffen. “With all due respect, less than a month ago a Librarian plotted to unleash a restricted History into the Outer and tear down an entire branch from the inside, and she nearly succeeded. All of it under the
Archive’s
nose.”
In a flash, Agatha is upon me, pinning me to the chair, her fingers digging into my wounded forearm. Tears burn my eyes and I squeeze them shut, fighting back the dizzying dark of a tunnel moment.
“Which is more likely?” she says, her voice a low growl. “That a member of the Archive is conspiring against you—out of personal distaste or retribution, fashioning some elaborate scheme to have you found unfit, constituting treason—or that you’re simply delusional?”
I take a few shaky breaths as the pain sears across my skin. “I know…you don’t want…to believe—”
Agatha’s nails dig into my arm. “My position is not built on what I
want
to believe, Miss Bishop. It is based on truth and logic. It is a very complicated machine I help to run. And when I find a broken piece, it is my job to fix or replace it before it can damage any other parts.”
She lets go and turns away.
“I’m not broken,” I say under my breath.
“So you claim. And yet the things that come out of your mouth are madness. Am I correct,” she says, turning back to me, “in assuming that you still refuse to grant me access to your mind? That you make this
claim
against the Archive, against Crew, against
me
, and yet you deny me the ability to find you innocent or guilty of the charges you put on those around you?”
I feel sick. If my theory is wrong, then I’ve also signed my execution, and we both know it. I force myself to nod. Agatha looks past me to the sentinel.
“Go get Sako,” she says.
A moment later, I hear the door close. Agatha and I are alone.
“I will start with the Crew then,” she says, “because none of them would be foolish enough to deny me permission. And when I’ve scoured their minds and found each and every one of them loyal and innocent, I will tear your life apart, moment by moment, to uncover your guilt. Because you have proven one thing tonight, Miss Bishop: you are guilty of something.” She takes my chin in one gloved hand. “Maybe it’s the voids, or maybe it’s madness, but whatever it is, I will find out.” Her hand drifts down my jaw to my collar. “In the meantime,” she says, guiding the key out from under my shirt, “I suggest you keep your list clear.”
The threat is clear and cold as ice.
If you wish to remain a Keeper
.
The door opens, and Sako stands there waiting.
“Take Miss Bishop home,” says Agatha smoothly, her hand abandoning my collar. “And then come back. We need to talk.”
Something flits across Sako’s face—curiosity, confusion, a shade of fear?—and then it’s gone and she nods. She slides her key straight into the door behind her, takes my elbow, and pushes me through.
An instant later, we are standing in my bedroom again, Wesley asleep with his head on the bed and Sako’s noise rattling through my body. Her metal and stone clanging become
coiled annoyance
waste of space what did she do guarded what does Agatha want now could
have a night with Eric his arms wrapped around warm golden and strong
and safe
, and when she lets go of my arm, I’m surprised by how strong Sako’s feelings are for him.
“Get out of my head, little Keeper,” she growls.
I slide my ring back on, wondering how much of
my
mind
she
saw. She turns on her heel and vanishes the way she came, and I’m left standing there in the dark.
My arm aches, but I can’t bring myself to inspect the damage, so I sink onto the bed and rest my head in my good hand. I wish that Da were here to tell me what to do. I’ve run out of his prepackaged wisdom, his lessons on hunting and fighting and lying. I need
him
.
As the quiet settles around me, the panic creeps in. What have I done? Bought myself a few days, but at what cost? I’ve made an enemy of Agatha, and even if my theory’s sound and the Crew behind the voids is found, she will not forget my refusal. And if my theory’s wrong? I squeeze my eyes shut.
I know what I saw. I know
what I saw. I know what I saw.
Music fills my head, strong and steady, and I look down to see Wesley’s hand wrapped around mine, his eyes bleary but open. He must misread the shock and fear in my eyes for the echoes of a nightmare—how I wish this were still a bad dream—because he doesn’t ask what’s wrong. Instead he climbs onto the bed beside me and rolls me in against him, his arms wrapped around my waist.
“I won’t let anyone hurt you,” he whispers sleepily into my hair. And all I can think as his music plays in my head is that this is how Sako saw Eric in her mind: like a shield, strong and safe. This is how Crew partners feel about each other. But we are not Crew. We may never be now. But tonight, I let myself pretend. I hold on to his rock sound and his touch. I let it surround me.
Ten minutes later, the first name appears on my list.
W
HEN I WAKE UP,
Wesley’s gone. There’s nothing but a dent on the comforter to show that he was ever here. It’s late, light streaming in through the windows, and I lie there for a moment, sleep still clinging to me—dreamless, easy sleep, filled only with music—and savor the calm. And then I move, and pain ripples sharply down my arm and dully through my shoulders, and I remember.
What have I done?
What I had to,
I tell myself.
The Archive paper sits on my side table, tucked beneath
The
Inferno
. At least there’s still only the one name.
Abigail Perry. 8.
I pocket the list. The smell of coffee drags me out of bed, and my hand’s on the door before I notice there’s dried blood staining my sleeve. I tug out of the shirt; the outline of Agatha’s grip is nearly visible in the stain. I unwrap the dressing as quickly as possible—my eyes sliding off the gash as if it is a void, something wrong, unnatural, drawing and repelling my gaze at once—and pull a clean shirt on before heading into the kitchen. Dad’s already there, brewing a pot of dark roast.
“I sent Wes home,” he says in lieu of a good morning.
“I’m amazed you let him stay,” I say, gingerly tugging the clean shirtsleeve down over the stitches. Maybe out of sight will turn into out of mind.
“Actually, he kind of refused to leave.” Dad pours me a cup. “After what happened.”
I take the mug and drag through my thoughts. Past Agatha’s interrogation and Owen’s nightmare to the room tipping and the water glass shattering on the hardwood floor. “How could she, Dad?”
He rubs his eyes and takes a long sip. “I don’t condone what your mother did, Mackenzie. But you have to understand, she was only trying to—”
“Don’t tell me she was trying to help.”
He sighs. “We’re
all
trying to help, Mac. We just don’t know how.” I look down at my coffee. “And for the record, that was a one-time deal, having your boyfriend stay the night.”
“Wesley’s not my boyfriend.”
He arches a brow over his coffee. “Does he know that?”
My eyes escape to the coffee cup as I remember his arms folding around me, the comforting blanket of his noise.
“Caring about someone is scary, Mac. I know. Especially when you’ve lost people. It’s easy to think it’s not worth it. It’s easy to think life will hurt less if you don’t. But it’s not life unless you care about it. And if you feel half of what he feels for you, don’t push him away.”
I nod distantly, wishing I could tell him that I do feel half, more than half, maybe even all of what Wesley feels, but that it’s not that simple. Not in my world. I lean my elbows carefully on the counter. “What are you up to today?” I ask lightly.
“I have to go to the university for a bit. Left some work there that I didn’t get to yesterday.”
Because you were playing warden.
“And Mom?”
“Down in the café.”
I sip my coffee. “And me?” I ask cautiously. The list is like a weight in my pocket.
“You’ll be with her,” he says. What he means is,
She’ll be watch
ing you
.
“I still have some homework to do,” I lie.
“Take it down there,” he says. His tone is gentle, but the message is clear. I won’t be left unattended. The love is there, the trust is gone.
I tell Dad I need to take a shower first, and he nods for me to go. A small part of me marvels at the fact I’m allowed to bathe without supervision, until I see that they’ve already taken every remotely sharp object out of the bathroom.
I’m hoping he’ll go on ahead to work and I’ll be able to make a quick detour into the Narrows on my way downstairs, but by the time I’m out of the shower and dressed and my arm and hand are freshly wrapped, he’s waiting for me by the door.
He ushers me down to the coffee shop like a prisoner, passing me over to my mother’s care. She won’t look at me. I won’t talk to her. I know she wanted to help, but I don’t care. I’m not the only one in this place capable of losing someone’s trust.
For a woman who won’t look me in the eyes, it’s amazing how she manages to never let me out of her sight. Thankfully the coffee shop is pretty full, and I welcome the lack of eye contact for the first hour as I clear tables and ring up drinks. Berk’s working today, too, which helps. He has a kind of infectious cheer and a hatred for quiet, so he makes enough small talk to cover up the fact that Mom and I haven’t said a word to each other.
“I hope the guy deserved it,” says Berk when I reach out to take a coffee and he sees my bandaged palm and healing knuckles. “Is that the reason you two are fighting?” he asks, gesturing with a pair of tongs to Mom, who’s retreated by now to the patio to chat with a woman in the corner table, her eyes flicking in my general direction every few moments.
“One of many,” I say.
Thankfully he doesn’t ask more about it—doesn’t even assume it’s all my fault. He just says, “They mean well, parents,” and then tells me to take out the trash, adding, “You look like you could use a little fresh air.”
I weigh my odds for escaping to the Narrows, but they aren’t good. There’s a door in the closet at the back of the café, but that’s not exactly inconspicuous, and my other two doors—the one in the lobby and the one on the third floor—aren’t in easy reach. As for Mom, well, Berk’s barely handed me the bag before her eyes dart my way. I hoist up the trash for her to see and point to the back door. Her eyes narrow and she starts heading toward me, but gets snagged by another table halfway. She flashes me three fingers.
Three minutes.
Fine. Abigail Perry will have to wait, but at least I’ll prove to Mom that I can be left alone. I duck out the back door, relishing my three minutes of privacy and sunlight. As soon as I’m outside, I let my steps slow, savoring every second of freedom.
I’ve just finished loading the bags into the bin when a hand tangles in my shirt and slams me up against the Coronado wall,
hard
.
“How dare you?”
growls Sako, her harsh metallic noise scraping through my bones.
“What are you talking ab—” Her other fist connects with my ribs, and I hit the alley floor, gasping.
“You’ve really made a mess of things. You never should have gone to Agatha.”
“What’s the matter?” I cough, getting to my feet. “Do you have something to hide?”
She grabs me again and slams me back against the stone side of the Coronado.
“I’m loyal to the Archive, you little shit. A fact Agatha can attest to, because thanks to your cracked little head and its paranoid delusions, I just spent the night letting her claw through my life.” She leans in, her face inches from mine. Her black eyes are bloodshot, and dark circles stand out against the pale skin beneath them. “Do you have any idea what that feels like?” she hisses. “Because you
will
. Once she runs out of Crew, she’ll come for you. And I hope she tears you apart one memory at a time until there’s nothing left.”
I’m still reeling from the fact that Sako’s innocent when she shoves away from me and says, “She still has Eric. She’s been with him for hours. And if she punishes him because of you, I will tear your throat open with my fingernails.”
“He shouldn’t have been following me,” I say.
Sako makes an exasperated noise. “He was only following you because Roland asked him to. To keep you
safe
.” The last word comes out in a hiss. I feel like I’ve been hit again, the air rushes from my lungs as she adds, “Though what Roland sees in you, I have no idea.”
Sako smooths her blue-black hair, her Crew key glittering against her wrist. “Maybe I should tell Agatha about your little boyfriend, Wesley. Maybe
he
should be a suspect. Couldn’t hurt for her to take a look.”
“Wes has nothing to do with this,” I say through gritted teeth, “and you know it.”
“Do I?” asks Sako. She turns away. “Enjoy your freedom while it lasts, little Keeper. It’ll be your turn soon enough. And when it is, I hope Agatha lets me drag you in myself.”
She storms away, and I’m left sagging against the wall, winded and worried. Sako and Eric are both innocent?
Cracked little head,
echoes Sako in my ears.
Broken,
echoes Owen in my mind.
I squeeze my eyes shut and wait for the voices to quiet. I know what I saw. I saw a void. Voids are made by Crew keys, so it had to be Crew. Eric and Sako are not the only pages in the ledger. I try to picture the book on the Archive desk, turn through it in my mind. There’s a master page, a table of contents, and then one page for each person who serves in the branch. How many pages total? A hundred? More? Our branch serves a territory with a diameter of two to three hundred
miles
. How many cities fall within that circle? How many pages of the book could be dedicated to
this
city? And how many of those pages belong to Crew? How many people for Agatha to go through? Four? Eight? Twelve? I crossed paths with the victims, but have I crossed paths with the criminal?
I take a deep breath, checking myself again for blood before I go back inside.
“There you are,” says Berk. “I was beginning to think I’d lost you.”
“Sorry,” I say, ducking behind the counter. “I ran into a friend.”
Mom’s on the patio serving some new customers, and I catch her stealing a glance through the glass to make sure I’m back. She taps her watch, but my attention shifts past her as Sako saunters down the curb. She’s talking on the phone now, her head tipped lazily back as if soaking up the sun, and I realize something. Moments ago she was a monster, an animal, all teeth and bite. And now, impossibly, she looks
normal
. Crew look
normal
. They have the ability to blend in. Even Eric, made of gold. I didn’t notice him until he wanted me to. Crew could be anyone. What if whoever’s doing this doesn’t stand out? What if they blend right in? What if they’ve slipped into my life unnoticed?
Berk laughs and chats with a customer at the end of the counter. My eyes go to his hands, and I tense when I see that they’re bare but for a single silver thumb ring. He’s only been here for a couple weeks. But his sleeves are rolled up and free of marks. I scan the coffee shop, searching for regulars. I’m looking for people on the periphery of my life, close enough to watch me without being noticed. But no one stands out. And that’s exactly the problem.
Just then, a second name scrawls itself on the list in my pocket—
Bentley Cooper. 12
.—and I start to wish I’d risked Mom’s wrath to find Abigail. I’m going to have my work cut out for me later.
“Hey, Mac,” calls Berk, nodding at the door. “Customer.”
I pocket the paper and turn, expecting a stranger, and find Cash instead.
Wesley may trade in his preppy schoolboy persona for guyliner and silver studs, but Cash’s weekend look is still solidly Hyde. His dark-wash jeans and crisp white polo make me feel dingy in my Bishop’s apron.
His gold eyes light up when he sees me. He crosses the café and hops up onto a stool. “So this is where you live!” he says cheerfully.
“This is where I
work
,” I say, drying a mug. “Upstairs is where I live.”
He spins around on his stool and leans his elbows back on the counter while he surveys the café.
“Enchanting.”
When he turns back around, I’ve already poured him a drink.
“And enchanted,” he says, gesturing at the cup.
“I figured it was my turn to provide the coffee,” I say. “So, what are you doing here?”
He takes a slow sip. “I brought your bike. I saw that you left it at school.”
“Wow,” I say, “you take your ambassador role very seriously.”
“Indeed,” he says with a sober nod. “But if I’m being honest, the bike was an excuse to come say hi.”
I feel myself blushing. “Oh really?”
He nods. “I was worried. Seniors are in charge of organizing Fall Fest, and Wesley bailed on prep yesterday. When I asked where he was, he said with you, and I was about to give him hell for it, as is my friendly obligation, but he told me you’d had a bit of a scrape. So I thought I’d look you up and come make sure you were all right.”
“Oh,” I say. “You didn’t have to, really. I’m fine.”
“We must have different definitions of fine,” he says, nodding at my bandaged hand. “What happened?”
“It’s stupid, really. This old building,” I say, showing him my taped palm. “I put my hand against a window and it broke. It’s not a big deal,” I add, the fourteen stitches aching under my other sleeve. “I’ll live.”
Cash brings his fingertips to my hand, so light I barely hear the jazz and laughter in his touch. “Glad to hear it,” he says, sounding strangely sincere. He rests his elbows on the counter, looking down into his drink. “Hey, so I’ve been thinking—”
Someone clears their throat, interrupting Cash, and I look up to see Wes standing a foot away, considering us. Or more precisely, considering Cash’s hand, which is still touching mine. I pull away.
“Well, this is a surprise,” he says. He looks freshly showered, dressed in simple black, his hair slicked back and still wet, his eyes rimmed with dark.
“Testing out your Fall Fest costume?” teases Cash.
Wes ignores the jab. “Am I interrupting something?” he asks.
“No,” I say at the same time Cash mutters, “Not at all.”
“Cash was just bringing me my bike.”
Wes arches a brow. “The student council is far more involved than it used to be.”
Cash’s eyes narrow even as he smiles. “Quality assurance,” he says.
A moment of tense silence falls over us. When it’s clear Wesley is here to stay, Cash hops down from his stool. “Speaking of,” he says, “I’d better get back to Hyde. I left a huddle of freshmen hanging ribbons, and I just don’t trust that lot with ladders.” He turns his attention to Wesley. “Are you coming by later?”
Wes shakes his head. “Can’t,” he says, pointing upstairs. “Got to look after Jill for a bit. I’ll stay late tomorrow.”
“You better. Senior pride is on the line.” He heads for the door. “Thanks for the coffee, Mackenzie.”
“Thanks for the bike,” I say. “And the chat.”