The Dark Vault

by Victoria Schwab

  His hands fall away. He turns toward the festival, and the lights cast shadows across his pale skin. “Change is coming,” he says quietly. “Either the Archive will evolve or it will fall.”

  And watching him in that unsteady light, it hits me.

  It’s all a lie. His promise of an Archive without secrets, his dream of a world exposed—Owen doesn’t expect the Archive to survive this. He doesn’t want it to. He wants the same thing he’s always wanted: to tear it down. And he thinks he’s found a way to do that—by letting this world do the work.

  He doesn’t want change.

  He wants ruin.

  And I will do whatever it takes to keep him from it.

  My mind is spinning, but I cannot afford to let him see my panic. I take a short, steadying breath. “You should have told me sooner,” I say. “For someone who scorns secrets, you sure keep a lot of them.”

  He frowns. “I didn’t want you to overthink it,” he says. “But our fates are bound in this. If you fail, I fail; and if I fail, you fail. We are like partners.”

  We are nothing like partners, I think, but all I say is, “Don’t you dare leave me there, Owen.”

  He smiles. “I won’t.”

  And then he crouches and lifts the end of the fuse from the grass. A lighter appears in his other hand. He looks up at the clock tower beside us. Five minutes till eight p.m.

  “Perfect,” he says, sliding his thumb over the lighter. A small flame dances there. “Five minutes from the spark.” He touches the flame to the fuse and it catches, a hissing sound running down the line. No turning back now, I realize with a mixture of terror and energy.

  “Find the spotlight.” Owen steps out of the shadows and onto the path, but I linger against the building and pull the phone from my pocket. There’s a text from Wesley…

  Where are you?

  …and I answer back…

  Science hall.

  …hoping I can at least get him out of the way of whatever’s about to happen. And then I swallow and dial home. Mom answers.

  “Hi,” I say. “Just checking in. As promised.”

  “Good girl,” says Mom. “I hope you have a great time tonight.”

  I fight to keep the fear out of my voice. “I will.”

  “Call us when it’s over, okay?”

  “Okay,” I say, and I can tell she’s about to hang up, so I say, “Hey, Mom?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I love you,” I say, before ending the call.

  Four minutes till eight p.m. The clock tower looms overhead, fully lit. I watch a minute tick past as students dance and laugh beneath the colored canopy. They have no idea what’s about to happen.

  In all fairness, neither do I.

  Three minutes till eight p.m. I tell myself I can do this. Tell myself it isn’t madness. Tell myself it will all be over soon. When I run out of things to tell myself, I step out of the shadows, expecting to see Owen, but he’s not there, so I head toward the quad. I only make it a few strides before a large hand wraps around my arm and drags me back into the dark and thought you were clever can’t get past me thought I wouldn’t see the pattern ricochets through my head. Before I can try to twist free, a metal cuff closes around my wrist, and I crane my neck to see Detective Kinney behind me.

  “Mackenzie Bishop,” he says, cuffing my hands behind my back, “you’re under arrest.”

  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 confu-sion 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 e
yes, 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 Libra
rians 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.