“Good-bye,” says Patrick, and then a door opens and closes, and the room is silent.
Totally silent.
And totally dark.
And that’s when the fear finally hits. It’s been chasing me all night, but now it finally catches up.
Fear that none of this is going to work.
Fear that I misjudged, that Owen isn’t going to save me, that I was nothing more than a disposable tool.
Fear that he won’t come in time.
Fear that he won’t make it past the antechamber.
And under all of it, a far worse fear.
A fear that makes me close my eyes, despite the dark.
The fear that maybe, somehow, Owen isn’t real. That the nightmare never gave way to reality, that somehow it’s been me—and only me—all along. That I’ve lost my mind. That I’m about to lose my life.
A prickling pain is spreading through my body from the Archive key pressed against my wrist, and I focus on that as I try to twist my arm against the chair, to work the metal toward my hand.
And then I hear it. The door opens behind me, and the sounds of the Archive—of hurrying feet and muffled shouts, none of them Wesley’s—pour in for a moment before cutting off again. There’s a short, quiet scuffle followed by a sickening crack. I struggle again with my binds, fighting with the chair until someone reaches out and grips my shoulder and the all-too-familiar quiet seeps through my skin.
“Owen?” I gasp.
“Hold still,” he orders, and relief spills over me. I coat myself in it as he pulls off my hood. The room I’m in is a glaring white, nearly as bright but not as seamless as a Returns room and completely bare of shelves—of anything except the chair and a sentinel slumped in the corner, his head tilted at a very wrong angle. Eric flashes up behind my eyes, but I force myself to focus as Owen frees one of my wrists and drops to a knee, setting to work on my ankles, leaving me to free my other hand myself. He gets my legs unbound and circles behind the chair to find the buckle for the waist strap. The final strap falls away, and Owen rounds the chair again.
“You put on quite a show,” he says, offering me his hand.
My heart races as I take it. “I know,” I say as he helps me to my feet. “You were right,” I add, fingers curling around the metal in my hand.
His brow furrows. “About what?”
I meet his gaze. “I just had to commit.”
My grip tightens around his. Confusion flickers across his face, but before he can pull away, I drive the gleaming key into his chest and turn it. For an instant, he stares at me, blue eyes wide. And then the light goes out of Owen’s face, the life out of his body. His knees buckle and I catch him, and the two of us sink together toward the sterile white floor.
I can hear the footsteps rushing down the hall, and a strange sadness spreads through me as I ease Owen’s body to the ground. He kept his word. He believed in something, however misguided.
I don’t know what I believe in anymore.
The only thing I know for sure is that I’m still alive.
And it’s almost over.
Almost.
THIRTY-TWO
I CANNOT SEEM TO escape this room.
Cold marble floors. Ledger-lined walls. The long table stretching in the middle.
It is the room I was inducted in. It is the room Wesley and I were summoned to after the History escaped into the Coronado. And now it is the room where the Archive will decide my fate.
When Roland and Agatha and Director Hale found me in the alterations room, kneeling over Owen’s body, a sentinel slumped in the corner, I said only one thing.
“I want a trial.”
So here I am. The remaining sentinel stands beside me, within easy reach, but mercifully hands-off. Roland, Agatha, and Director Hale sit behind the table, Roland’s key on its broken cord in front of them.
I flex my hand, still waiting for the feeling to return to my fingertips after using it. Director Hale offers me a chair, but I’ll fall over before I sit down in here again tonight. My gaze find Roland’s. A minute ago, he paused on his way in and reached out, pretending to steady me.
“Do you regret it yet?” I asked under my breath. “Voting me through?”
A sad smile ghosted his lips. “No,” he said. “You make things infinitely more interesting.”
“Thank you,” I said in a low voice as he turned away. “For trusting me.”
“You didn’t leave me much choice. And I want my journal back.”
Now Roland sits at the table, gray eyes tense as Hale rises to his feet and approaches me, bringing his hands aloft.
“May I?” he asks.
I nod, bracing myself for the pain I felt when Agatha tore through my mind. But as Hale’s hands come down against my temples, I feel nothing but a cool and pressing quiet. I close my eyes as the images begin to flit rapidly through my mind: of Owen and the voids and the festival and the fire and Eric. When Hale’s hands slide back to his sides, his expression is unreadable.
“Give me context for what I’ve seen,” he says, taking his seat.
I stand before them and explain what happened. How the voids were made. How Owen finally got through. How I set my trap.
“You should have involved the Archive from the start,” he says when I’m done.
“Sir, I was afraid that if I did, I would be arrested for the mere fact that Owen still existed, and then Crew would go after him themselves, and everyone would suffer for it. As it is, Eric did suffer. I considered it my job.”
And I wasn’t entirely sure Owen was real.
“It is Crew’s job to hunt down Histories in the Outer,” clarifies Agatha.
“Owen Chris Clarke was not an ordinary History. And he was my responsibility. I gave him the tools he needed to escape the first time, and my crimes were pardoned on the assumption that he was no longer a threat.” I’m surprised by the calm in my voice. “Besides, I was in a unique position to handle him.”
“How so?” asks Director Hale.
“He wanted to recruit me.”
Hale’s brow furrows.
“Owen wanted my help. And I let him believe that I was will-ing to give it.”
“How did you concoct the plan to lure him here?” asks Roland.
“I didn’t,” I say. “He did.” I watch the confusion spread across their faces. “I imagine,” I add, “that he thought it would end differently, but the seed of the plan was his. He wanted me to be a diversion—to attract the energy and attention of the Archive while he achieved some ulterior goal.”
“What was his goal?” demands Agatha.
I hold her gaze. “He wanted to attack the ledger. He promised that, in exchange for my diversion, he would rescue me before I could be altered.”
“And you believed him?” asks Hale, incredulous.
“Why would he save you?” asks Agatha.
“I believed Owen would attack the Archive. And Owen believed I could be converted to his cause. I encouraged that belief in hopes that by insinuating myself into his plan, I would be able to assure his return to the shelves and end the threat he posed.”
“Quite a risk,” observes Hale, lacing his fingers. “And if your initial plan failed? If you had not been able to obtain Roland’s key, if Owen had never come to save you?”
“I weighed it,” I say. “Given Owen’s skills, I believed my strategy had the highest odds of success. But I hope you understand that I was playing a part. That in order to give myself the best odds, I had to commit to it.”
“I hope you understand that a Crew member is dead because of your charade,” says Agatha.
Behind my eyes, Eric’s body crumples to the grass.
“I do. That moment is scarred into my memory. It is the moment I nearly faltered. And the moment I knew I couldn’t. I had started down a road, and I had to finish. I hope you can forgive me for the selfish need to end Owen’s life with my own hands.”
Hale straightens in his seat. “Continue your a
ccount.”
I swallow. “When I was brought into the branch, I knew I had to introduce as much chaos as possible, a short burst of disorder to help ensure that Owen reached me so that I could stop him.”
“I assume that’s also why Wesley Ayers made such a scene?” offers Roland with a weighted look.
“Yes,” I say, leaping on the thread. “He was acting under my orders. Is he all right?”
“He’s the least of your worries,” says Agatha.
“He’s alive,” says Hale.
“He’ll be okay,” adds Roland, sensing my worry.
“You do have a way of inspiring allegiances, don’t you?” says Hale. “That boy running around shouting his head off, Roland here claiming he didn’t even feel you take his key—”
“I was caught up in the moment,” says Roland.
Hale waves him away. “And Owen Chris Clarke. You gained his trust, too. I marvel at that, the way he must have genuinely believed in your commitment.”
“Owen believed in his cause,” I say. “His focus was greater than my acting.”
“So you never actually considered defecting?” he asks, his question close on the heels of my answer.
I hold his gaze. “Of course not,” I say calmly.
Hale considers me, and I consider Hale, and silence descends on the room, interrupted only by the director tapping his fingers on the table. Finally, he speaks.
“Miss Bishop, your dedication and sense of strategy are impressive. Your method, however, is reprehensible. You circumnavigated an entire system to fulfill your own desires for revenge and closure. But the fact is, you achieved your objective. You uncovered the truth behind the voids and suppressed a serious threat to the Archive with minimal—albeit upsetting—losses.” He turns to Agatha. “Your sentence is overruled.”
Relief and hope begin to roll through me. Until Agatha cuts in.
“You forget,” she says to Hale, “that there are two charges against Miss Bishop. The first is for treason. Clear her of that if you will, but the second is that she is no longer mentally fit to serve. You cannot deny me that claim.”
Hale sighs and slumps back in his seat. “No,” he says, “but I can consider a second opinion. From someone whose pride isn’t so bruised.” He waves a hand at the sentinel, who goes to the door and opens it. A woman strides in, her blond hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, blood streaking her hands and the front of her clothes, soot smudged across her forehead and jaw.
Dallas.
“Sorry I’m late,” she says, wiping at the soot. “I had to take care of the body.”
My stomach turns. I know she means Eric.
“What is the situation at the school?” asks Roland.
“Chaos, but it’s calming.” Her attention slides to me. She raises a brow. “You look like you’ve had quite a night.”
“Dallas,” says Hale, drawing my therapist’s attention back. “You’ve had several days with Miss Bishop. What is your assessment?”
Agatha’s eyes narrow at the use of the word.
“Of Mackenzie?” asks Dallas, scratching her head. “She’s fine. I mean, fine might be the wrong word. But considering what she’s been through”—her eyes flick to Agatha and narrow slightly—“and what she’s been put through”—they shift warmly back to me—“her resilience is astonishing. She was in control of the situation the entire time. I did not interfere.”
Roland’s shoulders relax visibly, and I take a deep breath, allowing myself to finally believe that I’ve succeeded, that it’s going to be okay.
“There you have it,” says Hale. “I think we’re—”
“There is doubt in her,” snaps Agatha, pushing up from her chair. “I read it.”
“Enough,” says Hale, rubbing his eyes. “Doubt is not a crime, Agatha. It is only a tool to test our faith. It can break us, but it can also make us stronger. It is perfectly natural, even necessary, and it troubles me to think that you’ve lost sight of that.” He pushes to his feet. “Give me your key,” he says softly.
Her gloved hand goes to the gleaming gold below her throat. He snaps his fingers, and her jaw tightens as she gives the gold thread a swift tug, breaking it, and places the key in his palm. He considers it a moment.
And then he drives the metal into Agatha’s chest.
He doesn’t turn the key, but stands there, gripping her shoulder with one hand and the gold stem with the other, staring into her eyes while the room holds its breath. His lips move as he whispers something to her, so softly I can barely hear.
“You disappoint me.”
And then, as quickly as he struck, he withdraws the key, and Agatha gasps for breath.
“Get out,” he says, and she doesn’t hesitate, but turns, clutching her front, and hurries from the room, her cream-colored coat rippling behind her.
As the door closes behind her, Director Hale sighs and takes his seat, setting Agatha’s key on the table before him. The room is deathly still. Roland’s eyes are on the table. Dallas’s are on the floor.
But mine are on Hale.
“It may be true that nothing’s lost,” he says, “but everything must end. When is in my hands. I’d caution you to remember that, Miss Bishop.” He turns to Dallas. “See that she gets home safely.”
“Sir,” I say. “Please. What about Wesley?”
He waves a hand at the door. “He’s out there somewhere. Go find him.”
It’s all I can do not to shout Wesley’s name as I hurry down the hall and into the atrium, breaking into a run as the antechamber comes into sight—and with it, Wesley. He’s cut and bloody, swaying a little but still standing, his hands on his head. Patrick waits on one side of him and Lisa on the other, and the Crew who brought me in waits behind him, and I don’t care about any of them.
I run, and he looks up and sees me as I make it through the doors, and his hands fall from his head just in time to wrap around me.
We are both bruised and broken, wincing at the other’s touch even as we pull each other closer. My arms are tight around his waist, and his are tight around my shoulders. And when he presses his lips into the curve of my throat, I can feel his tears on my skin.
“You are an idiot,” I say, even as I guide his face and mouth to mine. I kiss him, not gently, but desperately. Desperately, because he’s worth it—because life is terrifying and short and I don’t know what will happen. All I know is that here and now, I am still alive, and I want to be with Wesley Ayers. Here and now I want to feel his arms wrapped around me. I want to feel his lips on mine. I want to feel his life tangling with mine. Here and now is all we have, and I want to make it worth whatever happens next.
I tighten my grip on Wes enough to make him break off his kiss with a gasp.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my lips hovering over his.
“I’m not,” he breathes, pulling me closer and kissing me deeper. I’m still afraid of caring—of breaking, of losing—but now there is something else matching the fear stride for stride: want.
“You said you trusted me,” I say.
“You said you were in the science hall. I guess we’re even.” He pulls me back toward him. “What happened tonight, Mac?” he whispers, lips against my jaw.
“I’ll tell you later,” I whisper back.
I can feel him smile tiredly against my cheek. “I’ll hold you to it.” His lips brush mine again, but someone clears her throat, and I force myself to pull away from Wesley’s kiss. Dallas is standing there waiting.
“All right, you two,” she says. “Plenty of time for that. Right now I have to get you back to school.” She’s standing by the desk, and for the first time I notice the smoldering wreckage of the ledger.
“What happened?” I ask.
“The only thing Owen Chris Clarke achieved was an act of vandalism,” says Lisa, gesturing to the book. “He burned it.”
Dallas shakes her head and gestures to the door. The Crew who dragged me is standing there, and I tense when I see him.
/>
“No hard feelings,” he says.
“I’m sure,” I say, Wesley’s hand tangling with mine.
“Just doing my job.” But he smiles when he says it. It’s not a gentle smile, and I’m reminded of the things that filled his noise—the fun of the hunt.
“I’d tell you not to be such an ass, Zachary,” says Dallas, brushing him away from the door, “but it would be a waste of my breath. I don’t know how Felicia tolerates you.” And with that she turns her key, the door opens onto sirens and darkness, and Wesley and I follow Dallas back onto Hyde’s campus.
In the Outer, Wesley’s noise pours through my head, a tangle of want and love, relief and shock and fear. I don’t know what’s singing across my skin, but I don’t pull away. I trust him with it.
Most of the buildings look all right—though the fire ate away a good deal of the ivy—but the field with its streamers and lanterns and booths is a charred black mess.
“Is everyone okay?”
“A few burns here, a few stitches there, but everyone will live.”
My eyes slide from her face to her clothing. The black of her cotton shirt is crusted darker with blood, its stain streaking across her exposed skin. “Everyone except Eric,” I say as she leads us around the scorched scene and toward the front gate. “That’s why you were late.”
She nods grimly. “I tried to get his body into one of the flare-up fires before the emergency vehicles got here. Make it look like an accident.”
“And Sako?” I ask.
Dallas rubs her hands together, and blood flakes off to the ground below. “She took off. I sent Zachary’s partner, Felicia, to find her.”
“I think I broke her nose,” says Wesley.
Dallas gives him a once-over. “It looks like she got in a few good hits.”
“So you’re Crew, too?” I ask as she leads us toward the burned remains of the festival.
“No,” says Dallas. “I’m what you might call a field assessor. It’s my job to make sure everything and everyone ticks and tocks the way they should.”
“And if they don’t?” asks Wes.
The Dark Vault Page 57
