And I am tired of it.
I have to stop.
The moment the thought hits me, I slam to a halt on the rooftop. My lungs burn and my arm aches, and I look down to find the full word—B R O K E N—carved in bloody, bone-deep letters from elbow to wrist. I search my pockets and come up with a piece of cloth, and I’m halfway through tying it around my forearm, covering the cuts, when I realize how quiet the roof has gotten. The footsteps have stopped, the metallic scratching has stopped, and all I can hear is my heart. Then, the knife.
I turn just in time to dodge Owen’s blade as it slashes through the air, putting a few desperate steps between our bodies. The gargoyles have shifted to form walls, no gaps to get through: no escape. And that’s okay, because I’m not running.
He slashes again, but I grab his wrist and twist hard, and the knife tumbles from his grip into mine. This time I don’t hesitate. As his free hand goes for my throat, I bury the blade in Owen’s stomach.
The air catches in his throat, and I think it’s finally over—that I’ve finally done it, I’ve beat him, and it’s going to be okay. I’m going to be okay.
And then he looks down at me, at the place where my hand meets the knife and the knife meets his body. He brings his hand to mine and holds the knife there, buried to the hilt, and smiles.
Smiles as his hair goes black, and his eyes go hazel, and his body becomes someone else’s.
“No!” I cry out as Wesley Ayers gasps and collapses against me, blood spreading across his shirt. “Wesley. Wesley, please, please don’t…” I try to hold him up, but we both end up sinking to our knees on the cold concrete, and I feel the scream rising in my throat.
And then something happens.
Wesley’s noise—that strange chaotic beat—pours into the dream like water, washing over his body and mine and the rooftop, filling it up until everything begins to dim and vanish.
I’m plunged into a new kind of darkness, warm and full and safe.
And then I wake up.
It’s the middle of the night, and Wesley’s hand is tangled with mine. He’s in a chair pulled up to my bed, slumped forward and fast asleep with his head cradled on his free arm on the comforter. The memory of him crumpling to the concrete almost makes me pull away. But here, now, with his hand warm and alive in mine, the scene on the roof feels like it was just a dream. A horrible dream, but a dream—already fading away as his noise washes over me softer and steadier than usual, but still loud enough to quiet everything else.
My head is still filled with fog, and the hours before the nightmare trickle back first in glimpses.
Mom pushing the water into my hand.
The tilting room.
The breaking glass.
Wesley’s arms folding around me.
I look down at him, sleeping with his head on my covers. I should wake him up. I should send him home. I slide my fingers from his, and for a moment he rouses, drags himself from sleep long enough to mutter something about storms. Then he’s quiet again, his breathing low and even. I sit there, watching him sleep, discovering yet another of his many faces: one without armor.
I decide to let him sleep, and I’m just about to lie back down when I hear it: the sound of someone in the room behind me. Before I can turn, an arm wraps around my shoulders, and a woman’s hand closes over my mouth.
Her noise crashes through my head, all metal and stone, and all I can think as her grip tightens is that it takes a cruel person to sound like this. It’s how I imagine Owen would have sounded when he was alive, before his life was compiled and his noise replaced by silence.
When she leans in to whisper in my ear, I catch sight of the blue-black fringe that sweeps just above her black eyes. Sako.
“Don’t scream, little Keeper,” she whispers as she hauls me backward, out of the bed and to my feet. “We don’t want to wake him.”
Her hand falls away from my mouth, her arm away from my shoulders, and I spin on her in the dark.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I hiss, almost soundless, still dizzy from whatever Mom put in my water.
“Trust me,” growls Sako as she grabs my arm and drags me across the room. “I’d rather be a thousand other places.”
“Then get out,” I snap, pulling free. “Shouldn’t you be hunting down Histories?”
“Haven’t you figured it out yet, little Keeper?” she says, driving her Crew key into my closet door. “We hunt down people for the Archive. Only some of them are Histories.”
I barely have time to pull off my ring before she turns the key, opens the door, and shoves me into darkness.
Agatha is waiting.
She’s sitting behind the front desk in her cream-colored coat, her red hair sweeping perfectly around her face. One gloved hand turns through the ledger like it’s a magazine, while Roland stands at her side, looking stiff and pale. His attention snaps up when Sako drags me in, but Agatha continues to play with the pages of the massive book.
“See, Roland?” she says, the heavy paper crinkling under her touch. “I told you Sako would find her.”
Sako nods a fraction. Her hand is still a vise on my shoulder, but nothing filters in with her touch now. The silent buffer of the Archive surrounds us. Only the Librarians can read people here.
“She was asleep,” says Sako. “With a boy.”
Agatha raises a brow. “I’m so sorry to disturb you,” she says in that milky voice.
“Not at all,” I say tightly. “I would have come sooner, but I was indisposed, and my doors were out of reach.” Only Crew can turn any door into an Archive door. I turn to Sako. “Thanks for the lift.”
Sako smiles darkly. “Don’t mention it.”
Roland’s eyes have locked onto the bandage wrapping around my right hand and up my wrist—You should see my other arm, I think—and they hover there as Agatha quietly shuts the ledger and rises to her feet.
“If you’ll excuse us, I think it’s time for Mackenzie and me to have a little chat.”
“Requesting permission to be present,” says Roland.
“Denied,” she says casually. “Someone needs to watch the front desk. And Sako, please stay. You might be needed.” Agatha points to one of the two sentinels by the door. “With me, please.” I stiffen.
“I really don’t think that’s necessary,” says Roland as one of the two black-clad figures steps forward. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen one move.
“I hope it’s not,” says Agatha, “but one should always come prepared.”
She turns toward the open doors behind the desk, and I scramble to pull my thoughts together as I follow. Roland catches my shoulder as I pass.
“Do not grant her permission,” he whispers before the sentinel gives me a push through the doors.
I pad barefoot through the atrium of the Archive, the white of Agatha’s coat in front of me, the black of the sentinel’s cloak trailing behind, and for the first time, I feel like a prisoner. As we turn down one of the halls, I catch sight of Patrick standing at the edge of a row of stacks. His eyes follow us—curious, but otherwise unreadable.
Agatha leads me into a room with no shelves and two chairs.
“Have a seat,” she tells me, waving at one as she takes the other. When I hesitate, the sentinel forces me down. His hands stay pressed onto my shoulders, holding me in place until Agatha says, “That won’t be needed,” and then he takes a step back. I can feel him looming like a shadow behind the chair.