The Unbound

Fine. Abigail Perry will have to wait, but at least I’ll prove to Mom that I can be left alone. I duck out the back door, relishing my three minutes of privacy and sunlight. As soon as I’m outside, I let my steps slow, savoring every second of freedom.

I’ve just finished loading the bags into the bin when a hand tangles in my shirt and slams me up against the Coronado wall, hard.

“How dare you?” growls Sako, her harsh metallic noise scraping through my bones.

“What are you talking ab—” Her other fist co

“You’ve really made a mess of things. You never should have gone to Agatha.”

“What’s the matter?” I cough, getting to my feet. “Do you have something to hide?”

She grabs me again and slams me back against the stone side of the Coronado.

“I’m loyal to the Archive, you little shit. A fact Agatha can attest to, because thanks to your cracked little head and its paranoid delusions, I just spent the night letting her claw through my life.” She leans in, her face inches from mine. Her black eyes are bloodshot, and dark circles stand out against the pale skin beneath them. “Do you have any idea what that feels like?” she hisses. “Because you will. Once she runs out of Crew, she’ll come for you. And I hope she tears you apart one memory at a time until there’s nothing left.”

I’m still reeling from the fact that Sako’s i

“He shouldn’t have been following me,” I say.

Sako makes an exasperated noise. “He was only following you because Roland asked him to. To keep you safe.” The last word comes out in a hiss. I feel like I’ve been hit again, the air rushes from my lungs as she adds, “Though what Roland sees in you, I have no idea.”

Sako smooths her blue-black hair, her Crew key glittering against her wrist. “Maybe I should tell Agatha about your little boyfriend, Wesley. Maybe he should be a suspect. Couldn’t hurt for her to take a look.”

“Wes has nothing to do with this,” I say through gritted teeth, “and you know it.”

“Do I?” asks Sako. She turns away. “Enjoy your freedom while it lasts, little Keeper. It’ll be your turn soon enough. And when it is, I hope Agatha lets me drag you in myself.”

She storms away, and I’m left sagging against the wall, winded and worried. Sako and Eric are both i

Cracked little head, echoes Sako in my ears.

Broken, echoes Owen in my mind.

I squeeze my eyes shut and wait for the voices to quiet. I know what I saw. I saw a void. Voids are made by Crew keys, so it had to be Crew. Eric and Sako are not the only pages in the ledger. I try to picture the book on the Archive desk, turn through it in my mind. There’s a master page, a table of contents, and then one page for each person who serves in the branch. How many pages total? A hundred? More? Our branch serves a territory with a diameter of two to three hundred miles. How many cities fall within that circle? How many pages of the book could be dedicated to this city? And how many of those pages belong to Crew? How many people for Agatha to go through? Four? Eight? Twelve? I crossed paths with the victims, but have I crossed paths with the criminal?

I take a deep breath, checking myself again for blood before I go back inside.

“There you are,” says Berk. “I was begi

“Sorry,” I say, ducking behind the counter. “I ran into a friend.”

Mom’s on the patio serving some new customers, and I catch her stealing a glance through the glass to make sure I’m back. She taps her watch, but my attention shifts past her as Sako saunters down the curb. She’s talking on the phone now, her head tipped lazily back as if soaking up the sun, and I realize something. Moments ago she was a monster, an animal, all teeth and bite. And now, impossibly, she looks normal. Crew look normal. They have the ability to blend in. Even Eric, made of gold. I didn’t notice him until he wanted me to. Crew could be anyone. What if whoever’s doing this doesn’t stand out? What if they blend right in? What if they’ve slipped into my life u

Berk laughs and chats with a customer at the end of the counter. My eyes go to his hands, and I tense when I see that they’re bare but for a single silver thumb ring. He’s only been here for a couple weeks. But his sleeves are rolled up and free of marks. I scan the coffee shop, searching for regulars. I’m looking for people on the periphery of my life, close enough to watch me without being noticed. But no one stands out. And that’s exactly the problem.

Just then, a second name scrawls itself on the list in my pocket—Bentley Cooper. 12.—and I start to wish I’d risked Mom’s wrath to find Abigail. I’m going to have my work cut out for me later.

“Hey, Mac,” calls Berk, nodding at the door. “Customer.”

I pocket the paper and turn, expecting a stranger, and find Cash instead.

Wesley may trade in his preppy schoolboy persona for guyliner and silver studs, but Cash’s weekend look is still solidly Hyde. His dark-wash jeans and crisp white polo make me feel dingy in my Bishop’s apron.

His gold eyes light up when he sees me. He crosses the café and hops up onto a stool. “So this is where you live!” he says cheerfully.

“This is where I work,” I say, drying a mug. “Upstairs is where I live.”

He spins around on his stool and leans his elbows back on the counter while he surveys the café.

“Enchanting.”

When he turns back around, I’ve already poured him a drink.

“And enchanted,” he says, gesturing at the cup.

“I figured it was my turn to provide the coffee,” I say. “So, what are you doing here?”

He takes a slow sip. “I brought your bike. I saw that you left it at school.”

“Wow,” I say, “you take your ambassador role very seriously.”

“Indeed,” he says with a sober nod. “But if I’m being honest, the bike was an excuse to come say hi.”

I feel myself blushing. “Oh really?”

He nods. “I was worried. Seniors are in charge of organizing Fall Fest, and Wesley bailed on prep yesterday. When I asked where he was, he said with you, and I was about to give him hell for it, as is my friendly obligation, but he told me you’d had a bit of a scrape. So I thought I’d look you up and come make sure you were all right.”

“Oh,” I say. “You didn’t have to, really. I’m fine.”

“We must have different definitions of fine,” he says, nodding at my bandaged hand. “What happened?”

“It’s stupid, really. This old building,” I say, showing him my taped palm. “I put my hand against a window and it broke. It’s not a big deal,” I add, the fourteen stitches aching under my other sleeve. “I’ll live.”

Cash brings his fingertips to my hand, so light I barely hear the jazz and laughter in his touch. “Glad to hear it,” he says, sounding strangely sincere. He rests his elbows on the counter, looking down into his drink. “Hey, so I’ve been thinking—”

Someone clears their throat, interrupting Cash, and I look up to see Wes standing a foot away, considering us. Or more precisely, considering Cash’s hand, which is still touching mine. I pull away.

“Well, this is a surprise,” he says. He looks freshly showered, dressed in simple black, his hair slicked back and still wet, his eyes rimmed with dark.

“Testing out your Fall Fest costume?” teases Cash.

Wes ignores the jab. “Am I interrupting something?” he asks.

“No,” I say at the same time Cash mutters, “Not at all.”

“Cash was just bringing me my bike.”

Wes arches a brow. “The student council is far more involved than it used to be.”