“Morning,” I mumble.
“Big day, sweetheart.” He plants a kiss on my forehead, and his noise—the static every living person carries with them, the sound of their thoughts and memories—crackles through me, the images themselves held back only by the Keeper’s ring on my finger. “Think you’re ready?” he asks.
“Doubt it,” I say, resisting the urge to point out that I don’t have a choice. Instead, I listen to him tell me I’ll rise to the challenge. I even manage to smile and shrug and say “I’m sure” before escaping into my room.
The cold water may have been enough to wake me up, but it’s hardly enough to prepare me for the school uniform waiting on my chair. Water drips from my hair into my eyes as I consider the black cotton polo—long-sleeved, piped with silver, and sporting a crest over the chest pocket—and the plaid skirt, its pattern made up of black, silver, green, and gold. Hyde School colors. In the catalog, boys and girls study under hundred-year-old oaks, a wrought-iron fence to one side and a moss-covered building to the other. A picture of class and charm and sheltered innocence.
I reach for my newly charged cell phone and shoot Wesley a quick text.
I’m not ready for this.
Wesley Ayers, who labeled himself in my phone as Wesley Ayers, Partner in Crime, has been gone for almost a week; he left right after his father’s wedding for a “family bonding edition” honeymoon. Judging by how often he’s been texting, I’d say he’s opted out of most of the bonding.
A moment later, he texts back.
You’re a Keeper. You hunt down the animated records of the dead in your spare time. I’m pretty sure you can handle private school.
I can picture Wesley tucking his hands behind his head as he says it, one brow arching, his hazel eyes warm and bright and lined with black. I chew my lip as a small smile breaks through. I’m trying to think of something clever to say back when he texts again.
What are you wearing?
My face flushes. I know he’s just teasing me—he saw the uniform before he left—but I can’t help remembering what happened in the garden last week, on the day of the wedding. The way his lips smiled against my jaw, his now-familiar noise—that cacophony of drums and bass—pressing through me with his touch before I could find the strength to tell him no. The hurt in his eyes once I did—so well concealed that most people wouldn’t even notice. But I did. I saw it in his face as he drew back, and in his shoulders as he pulled away, and in the corners of his mouth as he told me it was fine. We were fine. And I wanted to believe him, but I didn’t. I don’t.
Which is why I’m still standing here in my towel, trying to think of what to text back, when I hear the apartment’s front door open and slam. A second later, a breathless voice calls my name, and then there’s a knock on my bedroom door. I toss the phone aside.
“I’m getting dressed.”
As if that’s an invitation, the door starts to swing open. I catch it with my palm, forcing it shut again.
“Mackenzie,” my mom says with a huff. “I just want to see how the uniform fits.”
“And I’ll show you,” I snap, “just as soon as I’m wearing it.” She goes quiet, but I can tell she’s still standing there in the hall beyond the door. I pull the polo over my head and button the skirt. “Shouldn’t you be down in the café,” I call, “getting ready to open?”
“I didn’t want to miss you,” she says through the wood. “It’s your first day….”
Her voice wavers before trailing off, and I sigh loudly. Taking the hint, she retreats down the hall, her footsteps echoing behind her. When I finally emerge, she’s perched at the kitchen table in a Bishop’s apron, flipping through the pamphlet on Hyde School dos and don’ts. (Students are encouraged to be helpful, respectful, and well-mannered, but discouraged from makeup, piercings, unnaturally dyed hair, and raucousness. The word raucousness is actually in the pamphlet. I highlighted the bits I think Lyndsey will like; just because she’s an hour away doesn’t mean she can’t get a good laugh at my expense.)
“Well?” I ask, indulging my mom with a slow twirl. “What do you think?”
She looks up and smiles, but her eyes are shining, and I know we’ve entered fragile territory. My stomach twists. I’ve been doing my best to think around the issue, but seeing Mom’s face—the subtle war of sadness and stubborn cheer—I can’t help but think of Ben.
My little brother was killed last year on his way to school, just a couple of weeks before summer break. The dreaded day last fall when I went back to class and Ben didn’t will go down as one of the darkest in my family’s history. It was like bleeding to death, except more painful.
So when I see the strain in Mom’s eyes, I’m just thankful we’ve gained the buffer of a year, even if it’s thin. I allow her to run her fingers over the silver piping that lines the shoulders of my polo, forcing myself to remain still beneath the grinding sound that pours from her fingers and through my head with her touch.
“You’d better get back to the coffee shop,” I say through clenched teeth, and Mom’s hand slips away, mistaking my discomfort for annoyance.
She manages a smile anyway. “You ready to go?”
“Almost,” I say. When she doesn’t immediately turn to leave, I know it’s because she wants to see me off. I don’t bother to protest. Not today. Instead I just do a quick check: first the mundane—backpack, wallet, sunglasses—and then the specific—ring around my finger, key around my neck, list in my…No list. I duck back into my room to find the piece of Archive-issued paper still shoved in the pocket of my pants. My phone’s there, too, lying at the foot of my bed where I tossed it earlier. I transfer the slip—blank for now—into the front pocket of my shirt and type a quick answer to Wesley’s question…
What are you wearing?
Battle armor.
…before dropping the phone into my bag.
On our way out, Mom gives me the full spiel about staying safe, being nice, playing well with others. When we reach the base of the lobby’s marble stairs, she plants a kiss on my cheek (it sounds like breaking plates in my head) and tells me to smile. Then an old man calls over from across the lobby, asking if the café is open, and I watch her hurry away, issuing a trill of morning cheer as she leads him into Bishop’s.
I push through the Coronado’s revolving doors and head over to the newly installed bike rack. There’s only one bike chained to it, a sleek metal thing marred—Wes would say adorned—by a strip of duct tape on which the word DANTE has been scrawled in Sharpie. I knew a car was out of the question—all our money is feeding into the coffee shop right now—but I’d had the foresight to ask for the bike. My parents were surprised; I guess they figured I’d just take the bus (local, of course, not school; Hyde wouldn’t deign to have its name stenciled on the side of some massive yellow monstrosity, and besides, the average student probably drives a Lexus), but buses are just narrow boxes crammed with bodies full of noise. The thought makes me shudder.
I dig a pair of workout pants out of my bag, tugging them on under my skirt before unlocking Dante. The café’s awning flaps in the breeze, and the rooftop gargoyles peer down as I swing my leg over and push off the curb.
I’m halfway to the corner when something—someone—catches my eye, and I slow down and glance back.
There’s someone across the street from the Coronado, and he’s watching me. A man, early thirties, with gold hair and sun-touched skin. He’s standing on the curb, shielding his eyes against the sun and squinting up at the old hotel as if it’s intensely interesting. But a moment earlier as I zipped by, I could swear he was looking at me. And even now that he’s not, the feeling lingers.
I stall at the corner, pretending to adjust the gears on my bike as I watch him not-watch me. There’s something familiar about him, but I can’t place it. Maybe he’s been to Bishop’s while I was on shift, or maybe he’s friends with a Coronado resident. Or maybe I’ve never seen him before, and he just has one of those familiar faces. Maybe
I just need sleep. The moment I let in the doubt, it kills my conviction, and suddenly I’m not even sure he was looking at me in the first place. When he crosses the street a moment later and vanishes through the front doors of the Coronado without so much as a glance my way, I shake it off and pedal away.
The morning is cool, and I relish the fresh air and the wind whistling in my ears as I weave through the streets. I mapped out the route yesterday—drew it on my hand this morning to be safe—but I never look down. The city unfolds around me, a vast and sunlit grid, a stark contrast to the dark tangle of corridors I’m used to.
And for a few minutes, as the world blurs past, I almost forget about how tired I am and how much I’m dreading today. But then I round the corner and the moment ends as I find myself face-to-face with the moss-slick stones, ivy-strewn walls, and iron gates of Hyde School.
TWO
MY FAMILY IS ABOUT to run away.
Ben’s been dead for almost a year, and our home has somehow become a house, something kept at arm’s reach. They say the only way around is through, but apparently that’s not true. The other option, I know now, is to turn and run. My parents have started packing; things are vanishing, one by one, into boxes. I try not to notice. Between struggling to survive sophomore year and keeping my list of Histories clear, I’ve done a pretty good job of ignoring the Ben-shaped hole—but eventually even I can’t help but see the signs.
Mom quits another job.
Dad starts going on trips in his most collegiate suits.
The house is more often empty than full.
And then one day, when I’m sitting at the kitchen table, studying for finals, Dad gets back from a trip—an interview, it turns out—and places a booklet in front of me. I finish the paragraph I’m reading before letting my gaze wander over to the glossy paper. At first glance it looks like a college packet, but the people splashed across the cover in studious poses wear uniforms of black and green and silver and gold, and most of them look a shade too young for university. I read the name printed in gothic capitals across the top: HYDE SCHOOL.
I should say no. Blending in is hard enough in a school of fifteen hundred, and between the Ben-shaped hole and the Archive’s ever-filling page, I’m barely keeping up my grades.
But Dad has that horrible, hopeful look in his eyes, and he skips the speech about how it will “enrich my academic portfolio,” doesn’t bother to tell me that it is “a smaller school, easier to meet people,” and goes straight for the kill. The quiet, questioning, “It will be an adventure.”
And maybe he’s right.
Or maybe I just can’t stand our home-turned-house.
Maybe I want to run away, too.
I say yes.
I should have said no.
That’s all I can think as I straddle the bike and stare up at Hyde School. The campus is tucked behind a wrought iron fence, and the lot in front is filled with fancy cars and peppered with students who look like they came straight out of that catalog Dad brought home last spring. There is a bike rack, too—but the only students around it are clearly freshmen and sophomores. I can tell by the color of the piping on their uniform shirts. (According to the brochure, freshmen are marked by a glossy black, sophomores by green, juniors by silver, seniors by gold.)
I hover at the edge of the lot, leaning the bike against a tree as I dig out my phone and reread Wesley’s text.
I’m pretty sure you can handle private school.
Letting my gaze drift back up, I’m not so confident. It’s not the uniforms that have me thrown, or even the obvious old-money air—I wouldn’t be much of a Keeper if I couldn’t blend in. It’s the fact that I could count the number of students here in less than a minute if I wanted to. There are few enough to make me think I could come to know their names and faces. Which means they could come to know mine. My last school was large enough to afford a certain degree of anonymity. I’m sure there was a radar, but it was easy to stay off it—and I did. But here? It’s hard enough keeping my second life a secret with only a few people to con. In an “intimate atmosphere”—the brochure’s words, not mine—people are going to notice if I slip up.
What difference does it make? I tell myself. Just a few more people to lie to.
It’s not like I’ll be selling different lies to different crowds here. I just have to convince everyone of one simple thing: that I’m normal. Which would, admittedly, be easier if I’d slept more than a couple of hours at a time in the last three weeks, and if I weren’t being haunted by the memory of a History who tried to kill me. But hey. No such thing as a perfect scenario.
Most of the students have gone onto campus by now, so I cross the lot, chain Dante to the bike rack, and tug off the workout pants from underneath my skirt. When I get to the front gate, I can’t help but smile a little. A massive metal H has been woven through the bars. I snap a photo on my phone and send it to Wes with the caption Abandon all hope, ye who enter here (the inscription on the gates of Hell in Dante’s Inferno, and Wesley’s favorite passage). A moment later he responds with a single smiley face, which is enough to make me feel a little less alone as I step onto campus.
Hyde is made of stone and moss, most of the buildings laid out around a quad. It’s all linked by paths and bridges and halls—a miniature version of the university where Dad works now. (I guess that’s the idea behind a college preparatory school.) All I can think as I make my way down a tree-lined path to the administration building, with its ivy-strewn facade and clock tower, is how much Lyndsey would love it here. I send her a text telling her so, and a few seconds later she texts back.
Who is this?
Ha. Ha.
The Mackenzie Bishop I know doesn’t charge her phone, let alone text.
People evolve.
You did it for Guyliner, didn’t you?
No.
It’s okay, I forgive you.
I roll my eyes and pocket my phone before taking a last, deep breath and pushing open the doors of the admin building. I’m deposited in a large glass lobby with corridors trailing off in several directions. I manage to find the main office and retrieve my final schedule and room assignments from a woman with a frighteningly tight bun, but instead of backtracking, I’m then sent through a separate set of doors that lead into a large hall crowded with students. I have no idea what to do next. I do my best to stay out of the way as I internally repeat the phrase I will not pull out a map, I will not pull a map, I will not pull out a map. I studied the layout of campus, I really did. But I’m tired. And even with a solid sense of direction, it’s like the Narrows, where you have to learn the grid by moving through it.
“It’s one building over, second hall, and third room on the left.”
The voice comes from right behind me, and I turn to find a senior (gold stripes trace across the black of his uniform) looking down at me.
“Excuse me?”
“Precalc with Bradshaw, math hall, room 310,” he says, pointing at the paper in my hands. “Sorry, didn’t mean to look over your shoulder. You just seemed a little lost.”
I fold the paper and shove it back into my bag. “That obvious?” I ask, trying to keep my voice light.
“Standing in the middle of the admin building with a class schedule and a daunted look?” he says. “Can’t blame a guy for wanting to help.” There is a kind of warmth to him, from his dark hair and deep tan to his broad smile and gold eyes. And then he goes and ruins it by adding, “After all, the whole thing does have an air of ‘damsel’ to it.”
The air ices over.
“I’m not a damsel.” There’s no humor in my voice now. “And I’m really not in distress, if that’s where you were going next.”
He flinches; but instead of retreating, he holds his ground, his smile softening into something more genuine. “I sounded like an ass just then, didn’t I? Let me start again.” He holds out a hand. “I’m Cash.”
“Mackenzie,” I say, bracing myself as I slide my hand into his. The so
und that fills my head is loud—the noise of the living is always loud—but strangely melodic. Cash is made of jazz and laughter. Our hands fall apart and the sound fades away, replaced a moment later by the first bell, which echoes through the halls from the clock tower.
And so it begins.
“Let me walk you to class,” he says.
“That’s not necessary.”
“I know. But I’d be happy to do it all the same.”
I hesitate, but there’s something about him that reminds me of Wes—maybe the way he stands or how easily he smiles—and at this point I’d probably attract more attention by saying no; people are already casting glances as they hurry past us to class. So I nod and say, “Lead the way.”
Within moments I regret it.
Having Cash as an escort not only results in a halting pace—he stops to say hello, hug, or fist-bump everyone—but also more attention than I ever wanted to garner, since he introduces me every single time. And despite the fact that the first bell’s already rung and the halls are emptying, everyone takes the time to say hello back, walking with us a few feet while they chat. By the time Cash finally guides me through one of the elevated halls that bridge the buildings into the math hall and deposits me at room 310, I feel dazed from the attention.
And then he just disappears with little more than a smile and a “Good luck!”
I don’t even have a chance to thank him, let alone ask for a clue about where I’m headed next. Sixteen pairs of eyes shift up as I walk in, sporting the usual spectrum of interest. Only the teacher’s attention stays trained on the board as he scribbles out instructions below the header Precalculus. Most of the seats are already taken; in some strange and twisted version of the high school dynamic, I’m left with the back row instead of the usually shunned front. I slide into the last empty seat as the teacher starts, and my chest finally begins to loosen.
The Dark Vault Page 29
