“God, that’s cliché.”
“I should write greeting cards, I know.”
“I’m not sure they have a section for History-based sentimentality.”
“It’s too bad, really.”
I smile, but I still don’t want to talk about Ben. “Your aunt Joan. She’s the one you inherited from?”
“Great-aunt, technically. The dame with the blue hair…also known as Joan Petrarch. And a frightening woman she is.”
“She’s still alive?”
“Yeah.”
“But she passed the job on to you. Does that mean she abdicated?”
“Not exactly.” He fidgets, looks down. “The role can only be passed on if the present Keeper is no longer capable. Aunt Joan broke her hip a few years back. Don’t get me wrong, she’s still pretty damn fierce. Lightning fast with her cane, in fact. I’ve got the scars to prove it. But after the accident, she passed the job on to me.”
“It must be wonderful to be able to talk to her about it. To ask for advice, for help. To hear the stories.”
Wesley’s smile falls. “It…it doesn’t work like that.”
I feel like an idiot. Of course she left the Archive. She would have been altered. Erased.
“After she passed the job on, she forgot.” There’s a pain in his eyes, a kind I finally recognize. I might not have been able to share in Wes’s clownish smile, but I can share in his sense of loneliness. It’s bad enough to have people who never knew, but to have one and lose them… No wonder Da kept his title till he died.
Wes looks lost, and I wish I knew how to bring him back, but I don’t. And then, I don’t have to. A History does it for me. A sound reaches us, and just like that, Wesley’s smile rekindles. There is a spark in his eyes, a hunger I sometimes see in Histories. I’ll bet he patrols the Narrows looking for a fight.
The sound comes again. Gone are the days, apparently, when we actually had to hunt for Histories. There’s enough of them here that they find us.
“Well, you’ve been wanting to hunt here for days,” I say. “Think you’re ready?”
Wesley gives a bow. “After you.”
“Great,” I say, cracking my knuckles. “Just keep your hands to yourself so I can focus on my work instead of that horrible rock music coming off you.”
He raises a brow. “I sound like a rock band?”
“Don’t look so flattered. You sound like a rock band being thrown out of a truck.”
His smile widens. “Brilliant. And for what it’s worth, you sound like a thunderstorm. And besides, if my soul’s impeccable taste in music throws you off, then learn to tune me out.”
I’m not about to admit that I can’t, that I don’t know how, so I just scoff. The sound of the History comes again, a fist-on-door kind of banging, and I pull the key from around my neck and try to calm the sudden jump in pulse as I wrap the leather cord around my wrist a few times.
I hope it’s not Owen. The thought surprises me. I can’t believe I’d rather face another Hooper than return Owen right now. It can’t be Owen, though. He would never make this much noise…not unless he’s started to slip. Maybe I should have told Wesley about him, but he’s part of the investigation, which puts him under the blanket of things I’m not supposed to speak of. Still, if Wes finds Owen, or Owen finds Wes, how will I explain that I need this one History, that I’m protecting him from the Archive, that he’s a clue? (And that’s all he is, I tell myself as firmly as possible.)
I can’t explain that.
I have to hope Owen has the sense to stay as far away from us as possible.
“Relax, Mac,” says Wes, reading the tightness in my face. “I’ll protect you.”
I laugh for good measure. “Yeah, right. You and your spiked hair will save me from the big bad monsters.”
Wes retrieves a short cylinder from his jacket. He flicks his wrist, and the cylinder multiplies, becoming a pole.
I laugh. “I forgot about the stick! No wonder the six-year-old kicked you,” I say. “You look ready to break open a piñata.”
“It’s a bˉo staff.”
“It’s a stick. And put it away. Most of the Histories are already scared, Wes. You’re only going to make it worse.”
“You talk about them like they’re people.”
“You talk about them like they’re not. Put it away.”
Wesley grumbles but collapses the stick and pockets it. “Your territory,” he says, “your rules.”
The banging comes again, followed by a small “Hello? Hello?” We round a corner, and stop.
A teenage girl is standing near the end of the hall. She has a halo of reddish hair and nails painted a chipping blue, and she’s banging on one of the doors as hard as she can.
Wesley steps toward her, but I stop him with a look. I take a step toward the girl, and she spins. Her eyes are flecked with black.
“Mel,” she says. “God, you scared me.” She’s nervous but not hostile.
“This whole place is scary,” I say, trying to match her unease.
“Where have you been?” she snaps.
“Looking for a way out,” I say. “And I think I finally found one.”
The girl’s face floods with relief. “About time,” she says. “Lead the way.”
“See?” I say, resting against the Returns door once I’ve led the girl through. “No stick required.”
Wesley smiles. “Impressive—”
Someone screams.
One of those horrible asylum sounds. Animal. And close.
We backtrack, reach a T, and turn right, to find ourselves sharing the stretch of hall with a woman. She’s gaunt, her head tilted to the left. She’s a hair shorter than Wesley, her back is to us, and judging by the sound that just came out of her mouth, which was insane but undeniably adult, I’m willing to bet she’s Dina Blunt. 33.
“My turn,” whispers Wesley.
I slip back into the stem of the T, out of sight, and hear him hit the wall with a sharp clap. I can’t see the woman, but I imagine her whipping around to face Wes at the sound.
“Why, Ian?” she whimpers. The voice grows closer. “Why did you make me do it?”
I press myself against the wall and wait.
Something moves in my section of hall, and I turn in time to see a shock of silver-blond hair move in the shadows. I shake my head, hoping Owen can see me, and if he can’t, hoping he knows better than to show himself right now.
“I loved you.” The words are much, much closer now. “I loved you, and you still made me do it.”
Wesley takes a step and slides into view, his eyes flicking to me before leveling on the woman, whose footsteps I can now hear, along with her voice.
“Why didn’t you stop me?” she whines. “Why didn’t you help me?”
“Let me help you now,” says Wesley, mimicking my even tone.
“You made me. You made me, Ian,” she says as if she can’t hear him, can’t hear anything, as if she’s trapped in a nightmarish loop. “It’s all your fault.”
Her voice is high and rising with each word, until the words draw into a cry, then a scream, and then she lunges into view, reaching for him. They both move past me, Wesley stepping back and her stepping forward, pace for pace.