The Archived

“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.

I slip into the hall behind her.

“I can help you,” says Wes, but I can tell from the tension around his eyes that he’s not used to this level of disorientation. Not used to using words instead of force. “Calm down,” he says finally. “Just calm down.”

“What’s wrong with her?” The question doesn’t come from Wesley or me, but from a boy behind Wes at the end of the hall, several years younger than either of us.

Wes glances his way for a blink, long enough for Dina Blunt to lunge forward. As she grabs for his arm, I reach for hers. Her balance is off from panic and forward momentum, and I use her strength instead of mine to swing her back, get my hands against her face, and twist it sharply.

The snap of her neck is audible, followed by the thud of her body collapsing to the Narrows floor.

The boy makes a sound between a gasp and a cry. His eyes go wide as he turns and sprints away, skidding around the nearest corner. Wesley doesn’t chase him, doesn’t even move. He’s staring down at Dina Blunt’s motionless form. And then up at me.

I can’t decide whether the look is solely dumbfounded or admiring as well.

“What happened to the humanitarian approach?”

I shrug. “Sometimes it’s not enough.”

“You are crazy,” he says. “You are a crazy, amazing girl. And you scare the hell out of me.”

I smile.

“How did you do that?” asks Wes.

“New trick.”

“Where did you learn it?”

“By accident.” It’s not a total lie. I never meant for Owen to show me.

The History’s body shudders on the floor. “It won’t last long,” I say, taking her arms. Wes takes her legs.

“So this is what the adults are like?” he asks as we carry her to the nearest Returns door. Her eyelids flutter. We walk faster.

“Oh, no,” I say when we reach the door. “They get much worse.” I turn the key and flood the hall with light.

Wes smiles grimly. “Wonderful.”

Dina Blunt begins to whimper as we push her through.

“So,” Wesley says as I tug the door shut and the woman’s voice dies on the air, “who’s next?”

Two hours later, the list is miraculously clear, and I’ve managed to go, well, one hour and fifty-nine minutes without thinking about Ben’s shelf vanishing into the stacks. One hour and fifty-nine minutes without thinking about the rogue Librarian. Or about the string of deaths. The hunting quiets everything, but the moment we stop, the noise comes back.

“All done?” asks Wes, resting against the wall.

I look over the blank slip of paper and fold the list before another name can add itself. “Seems so. Still wish you had my territory?”

He smiles. “Maybe not by myself, but if you came with it? Yeah.”

I kick his shoe with mine, and apparently two boots make enough of a buffer that almost none of Wesley’s noise gets through. A little flare of feedback—but it’s growing on me, as far as sound goes.

We trace our way back through the halls.

“I could seriously go for some Bishop’s baked goods right now,” he adds. “Think Mrs. Bishop might have something?”

We reach the numbered doors, and I slide the key into I—the one that leads to the third-floor hall—even though it’s lazy and potentially public, because I really, really, really need a shower. I turn the key.

“Will oatmeal raisin do?” I ask, opening the door.

“Delightful,” he says, holding it open for me. “After you.”

It happens so fast.

The History comes out of nowhere.

Blink-and-you-miss-it quick, the way moments play rewinding memory. But this isn’t memory, this is now, and there’s not enough time. The body is a blur, a flash of reddish-brown hair and a green sweatshirt and lanky teenage limbs, all of which I distinctly remember returning. But that doesn’t stop sixteen-year-old Jackson Lerner from slamming into Wesley, sending him back hard. I go to shut the door, but Jackson’s foot sails through the air and catches me in the chest. Pain explodes across my ribs, and I’m on the ground, gasping for air, as Jackson’s fingers catch the door just before it shuts.

And then he’s gone.

Through.

Out.

Into the Coronado.

TWENTY-FIVE

FOR ONE TERRIBLE, terrifying moment, I don’t know what to do.

A History is out, and all I can think about is forcing air back into my lungs. And then the moment ends, and the next one starts, and Wes and I are somehow on our feet again, rushing through the Narrows door and onto the third floor of the Coronado. The hall is empty.

Wes asks me if I’m okay, and I take a breath and nod, pain rippling through my ribs.

My ring is still off, but I don’t need to read the walls to find Jackson, because his green sweatshirt is vanishing through the north stairwell door near my apartment. I sprint after him, and Wes turns and launches down the hall toward the south set of stairs beyond the elevators. Steps echo in the stairwell below, and I plunge down to the second floor as the door swings shut. I’m out in time to see Jackson skid to a stop halfway down the hall, Wesley rushing forward to block the landing to the grand stairs and the lobby and the way out.

The History is trapped.

“Jackson, stop,” I gasp.

“You lied,” he growls. “There is no home.” His eyes are wide and going black with panic, and for a moment it’s as if I’m back in front of Ben, terrified, and my feet are glued to the ground as Jackson turns and kicks in the nearest apartment door, smashing the wood and charging through.

Wes dashes forward, shocking me into motion, and I run as Jackson vanishes into the apartment.

Beyond the broken door of 2C, the apartment is modern, spare, but very clearly occupied. Jackson is halfway to the window when Wes darts forward and over a low couch. He catches Jackson’s arm and spins him back toward the room. Jackson dodges his grasp and cuts to the side down a hall, but I catch up and slam him into the wall, upsetting a large framed poster.