The Dark Vault

by Victoria Schwab

  Ten minutes later, the first name appears on my list.

  TWENTY

  WHEN 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.

  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 watching 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. I
t’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——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.”

  “Any time.”

  Wesley watches Cash go. “You like him,” he says quietly.

  “So do you,” I say. “He’s a nice guy.”

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  “I know what you mean.” I do like Cash. He’s normal. And when he’s around, I almost forget that I’m not.

  “I would have been here sooner,” says Wes, “but it appears my access to your territory has been revoked. Any idea why?”

  I frown. Agatha.

  “Maybe they decided it was time to hand me the reins,” I say as casually as possible. “How did you get here, then? Did you drive?”

  “For your information, I took the bus.”

  I shudder at the thought. So many people in such a tiny box. But Wes has always been better with contact than I am. After all, he’s the one who taught me how to let the noise wash over me, how to float instead of drown in the current of people’s lives.

  “Talk and work, kids. Talk and work,” calls Berk from the other end of the counter. Wesley smiles and ducks under the bar.

  “So,” he asks, softer, “how did you sleep last night?”

  The rooftop and the gargoyles and Owen’s knife all flash through my mind.

  “Awful at first,” I say. “But then…” I feel my face warming. “I heard your noise, filling my head, and the nightmare just kind of fell apart.”

  “I wasn’t sure what to do,” he says, pouring himself a drink. “You called my name.”

  “Oh,” I say, as he takes a sip, “that’s because I killed you.”

  Wes nearly chokes on his coffee.

  “It was an accident,” I add. “Promise.”

  “Great,” he says, knocking his shoulder against mine, briefly filling my head with rock an
d bass and drum. “Let’s see if we can keep you nightmare-free.” He pulls back a little. “Oh, and I talked to Amber. I asked her to let me know if Detective Kinney gets any leads. She said he’s gotten really tight-lipped, but that she’ll try to keep me posted. I think she thought I wanted to know because of Bethany….”

  I’d nearly forgotten about their history. “I’m sorry about her,” I say. A void is a rip in the world. It only stays open long enough to drag something—someone—through, and then it seals. Once a person is gone…

  “Yeah. Well. I don’t understand the why, but you’re right about the what,” says Wes. “I swung by her house to see if anything stood out.”

  “And?” I ask.

  “Something’s definitely off. It’s in the driveway, right next to the car. I couldn’t look right at it.”

  A breath of relief escapes. I didn’t realize how badly I needed someone else to see the voids. Just then, my mother comes over. “Wesley,” she says by way of hello as she scoops up two drinks from the counter.

  Wes ducks back under the counter and nods. “Hi, Mrs. Bishop.”

  She seems nervous, and he seems tense, and I remember him growling at her last night, when the world began to tilt.

  What have you done?

  But in the unbalance, I see an opening. “Hey, Wes is going to watch Jill for a while. Can I go with him?”

  It’s the first thing I’ve said to her since last night, and I can see the struggle play out across her face as her eyes flick from Wesley to me (or at least to my apron, my collar, my jaw). She doesn’t want to let me out of her sight. But if she says no, it’ll only cement her as the villain. We’re teetering at the edge of something high and steep, and neither of us wants to go over. Part of me thinks that after last night, Mom has already jumped, but I’m offering a rope, a chance to climb back up onto the ledge.

  I can tell she wants to take it, but something stops her. I wonder if it’s Colleen’s voice in her head, warning against the pitfalls of lenient parenting and encouraging vigilance.