The Unbound

“Get out of my head, little Keeper,” she growls.

I slide my ring back on, wondering how much of my mind she saw. She turns on her heel and vanishes the way she came, and I’m left standing there in the dark.

My arm aches, but I can’t bring myself to inspect the damage, so I sink onto the bed and rest my head in my good hand. I wish that Da were here to tell me what to do. I’ve run out of his prepackaged wisdom, his lessons on hunting and fighting and lying. I need him.

As the quiet settles around me, the panic creeps in. What have I done? Bought myself a few days, but at what cost? I’ve made an enemy of Agatha, and even if my theory’s sound and the Crew behind the voids is found, she will not forget my refusal. And if my theory’s wrong? I squeeze my eyes shut. I know what I saw. I know what I saw. I know what I saw.

Music fills my head, strong and steady, and I look down to see Wesley’s hand wrapped around mine, his eyes bleary but open. He must misread the shock and fear in my eyes for the echoes of a nightmare—how I wish this were still a bad dream—because he doesn’t ask what’s wrong. Instead he climbs onto the bed beside me and rolls me in against him, his arms wrapped around my waist.

“I won’t let anyone hurt you,” he whispers sleepily into my hair. And all I can think as his music plays in my head is that this is how Sako saw Eric in her mind: like a shield, strong and safe. This is how Crew partners feel about each other. But we are not Crew. We may never be now. But tonight, I let myself pretend. I hold on to his rock sound and his touch. I let it surround me.

Ten minutes later, the first name appears on my list.

TWENTY

WHEN I WAKE UP, Wesley’s gone. There’s nothing but a dent on the comforter to show that he was ever here. It’s late, light streaming in through the windows, and I lie there for a moment, sleep still clinging to me—dreamless, easy sleep, filled only with music—and savor the calm. And then I move, and pain ripples sharply down my arm and dully through my shoulders, and I remember.

What have I done?

What I had to, I tell myself.

The Archive paper sits on my side table, tucked beneath The Inferno. At least there’s still only the one name.

Abigail Perry. 8.

I pocket the list. The smell of coffee drags me out of bed, and my hand’s on the door before I notice there’s dried blood staining my sleeve. I tug out of the shirt; the outline of Agatha’s grip is nearly visible in the stain. I unwrap the dressing as quickly as possible—my eyes sliding off the gash as if it is a void, something wrong, u

“I sent Wes home,” he says in lieu of a good morning.

“I’m amazed you let him stay,” I say, gingerly tugging the clean shirtsleeve down over the stitches. Maybe out of sight will turn into out of mind.

“Actually, he kind of refused to leave.” Dad pours me a cup. “After what happened.”

I take the mug and drag through my thoughts. Past Agatha’s interrogation and Owen’s nightmare to the room tipping and the water glass shattering on the hardwood floor. “How could she, Dad?”

He rubs his eyes and takes a long sip. “I don’t condone what your mother did, Mackenzie. But you have to understand, she was only trying to—”

“Don’t tell me she was trying to help.”

He sighs. “We’re all trying to help, Mac. We just don’t know how.” I look down at my coffee. “And for the record, that was a one-time deal, having your boyfriend stay the night.”

“Wesley’s not my boyfriend.”

He arches a brow over his coffee. “Does he know that?”

My eyes escape to the coffee cup as I remember his arms folding around me, the comforting blanket of his noise.

“Caring about someone is scary, Mac. I know. Especially when you’ve lost people. It’s easy to think it’s not worth it. It’s easy to think life will hurt less if you don’t. But it’s not life unless you care about it. And if you feel half of what he feels for you, don’t push him away.”

I nod distantly, wishing I could tell him that I do feel half, more than half, maybe even all of what Wesley feels, but that it’s not that simple. Not in my world. I lean my elbows carefully on the counter. “What are you up to today?” I ask lightly.

“I have to go to the university for a bit. Left some work there that I didn’t get to yesterday.”

Because you were playing warden. “And Mom?”

“Down in the café.”

I sip my coffee. “And me?” I ask cautiously. The list is like a weight in my pocket.

“You’ll be with her,” he says. What he means is, She’ll be watching you.

“I still have some homework to do,” I lie.

“Take it down there,” he says. His tone is gentle, but the message is clear. I won’t be left unattended. The love is there, the trust is gone.

I tell Dad I need to take a shower first, and he nods for me to go. A small part of me marvels at the fact I’m allowed to bathe without supervision, until I see that they’ve already taken every remotely sharp object out of the bathroom.

I’m hoping he’ll go on ahead to work and I’ll be able to make a quick detour into the Narrows on my way downstairs, but by the time I’m out of the shower and dressed and my arm and hand are freshly wrapped, he’s waiting for me by the door.

He ushers me down to the coffee shop like a prisoner, passing me over to my mother’s care. She won’t look at me. I won’t talk to her. I know she wanted to help, but I don’t care. I’m not the only one in this place capable of losing someone’s trust.

For a woman who won’t look me in the eyes, it’s amazing how she manages to never let me out of her sight. Thankfully the coffee shop is pretty full, and I welcome the lack of eye contact for the first hour as I clear tables and ring up drinks. Berk’s working today, too, which helps. He has a kind of infectious cheer and a hatred for quiet, so he makes enough small talk to cover up the fact that Mom and I haven’t said a word to each other.

“I hope the guy deserved it,” says Berk when I reach out to take a coffee and he sees my bandaged palm and healing knuckles. “Is that the reason you two are fighting?” he asks, gesturing with a pair of tongs to Mom, who’s retreated by now to the patio to chat with a woman in the corner table, her eyes flicking in my general direction every few moments.

“One of many,” I say.

Thankfully he doesn’t ask more about it—doesn’t even assume it’s all my fault. He just says, “They mean well, parents,” and then tells me to take out the trash, adding, “You look like you could use a little fresh air.”

I weigh my odds for escaping to the Narrows, but they aren’t good. There’s a door in the closet at the back of the café, but that’s not exactly inconspicuous, and my other two doors—the one in the lobby and the one on the third floor—aren’t in easy reach. As for Mom, well, Berk’s barely handed me the bag before her eyes dart my way. I hoist up the trash for her to see and point to the back door. Her eyes narrow and she starts heading toward me, but gets snagged by another table halfway. She flashes me three fingers.

Three minutes.