The Dark Vault

by Victoria Schwab

  “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.

  “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 Fe
st 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.