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Wesley.
He’s standing on the path, holding his lunch tray and talking to Amber. I’ve been clinging to the hope that even if he saw him, Owen might not recognize Wes—the boy he stabbed on the roof of the Coronado had spiked hair and lined eyes and a different ma
“You tried,” I say as, to my horror, Wesley catches sight of me and waves before turning back to Amber.
“I saw him written on your skin, but I didn’t realize the marks were so fresh,” says Owen, withdrawing his knife from its holster with one hand, gripping my arm with the other. “You’ve been keeping a secret,” he growls, quiet forcing through my head.
He has nothing to do with our plans, I think as calmly as possible. But this time, the plural pronoun does nothing to placate Owen.
“He is a tether to the life you’re leaving,” he says, tightening his grip. “A rope to be cut.” He twirls the knife.
No. My mind spins with his blade. He can be salvaged. If your grand scheme is for the Keepers and Crew to rise up against the Archive, you’ll need every one of them you can get. And when the call goes out, he’ll stand with me. Killing him would be a waste.
“I’m not convinced of that,” says Owen. “And don’t pretend to be pragmatic where he’s concerned.”
“Fine,” I say, pulling free of his touch, “if you don’t want to listen to logic, then listen to this: this isn’t Wesley’s fight. I haven’t dragged him into it, and neither will you. If you hurt him in any way, you will never get my help. Trust me.”
Owen’s eyes harden. The knife stops spi
“Hey, you,” says Wesley, waiting for me to reach him before setting off again toward the Court. My eyes go to his hands to make sure he’s wearing his ring. He is.
“Why weren’t you in Physiology?” asks Amber.
“Doctor’s appointment,” I lie.
“We were just talking about the cops on campus,” says Wesley. “Did you see them?” He’s asking another question underneath the words: Do you know why they’re here?
I shake my head. “No. Amber, do you know what’s up?”
“No idea,” she says with a groan. “Dad’s not giving me anything.”
“The elusive Mackenzie Bishop!” calls Cash as we reach the Court. “No lunch?”
“Not hungry,” I say. Owen wanders over to the Alchemist and watches the scene unfold, and it’s all I can do to keep from looking at him.
“Missed you again in gym,” he says. “Another meeting?”
I’m about to go with “doctor’s appointment” again, but Saf cuts in.
“Gee, what kind of meeting forces you to miss gym multiple days in a row?”
“Don’t be an ass, Saf,” shoots her brother. “You were sent to Dallas, like, seven times last year.”
“It was three, jerk.”
Cash turns his attention to me. “Point is, no big deal. We’ve all been there. Eventually your parents come up with an excuse, or the school does.”
“What did they send you for?” I ask, eager to turn the attention on someone else.
“Hyperactivity,” he a
“Perfectionism,” says Saf.
“Stress-induced anxiety,” adds Amber.
“Antisocial tendencies,” says Gavin.
All eyes go to Wesley. “Depression,” he says, twisting a straw absently around his fingers. My heart aches at the thought of Wes suffering. I imagine us in bed, imagine myself pulling him in against me, wrapping my arms around him and warding off his demons. He’s worth it, I think. And I will not—ca
“And you, Mackenzie?” asks Cash, drawing my attention back. “What have you done to land yourself in Dallas’s office?”
My eyes flick toward Owen. “Apparently I have a problem with authority.” I say.
“Is that why you can’t go to the dance?” asks Gavin. Owen frowns.
“Actually,” I say lightly, “I’ll be there after all.”
Wesley’s eyes light up. “Really?” he asks with a smile. It breaks my heart.
“Yeah,” I say, forcing myself to echo his happiness. “Really.”
I’m relieved as the conversation turns toward the more i
Mercifully, the bell rings.
I practically spring to my feet. But as I turn toward class, I feel Wes come up beside me. He knocks his shoulder against mine, but instead of his usual noise I’m hit with something’s off what’s going on did I do something distant pulling back does she know how much I missed her noise couldn’t sleep before I can put space between us. I keep my ringless finger carefully out of his line of sight.
“Are you really coming tonight?” he asks as Owen appears at my other side.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” whispers Owen.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I echo, stomach twisting.
“I can’t believe the watch and the warden gave in.”
“Yeah, well”—they haven’t yet—“I can be very persuasive.”
A pair of students calls to Wes across the quad. He hesitates. “Go on,” I say. “I’ll see you tonight?”
“Can’t wait,” he says with a smile before taking off across the grass.
“What’s going to happen tonight, Owen?” I ask when we’re alone.
“Why?” he challenges. “Are you having second thoughts?”
“No,” I say before doubt can weaken the word. “As long as my friends don’t get hurt.” Before he can reach out and read the questions in my skin, I turn and walk away, telling myself I will stop this before it goes too far.
But how far am I willing to go? And how can I possibly stop it when I don’t know what it is?
Owen shadows me all afternoon. I focus on the clock instead of his pacing form, and as soon as the last bell rings, I make my way toward the door in the shed, thinking that maybe, if I can get him to follow me into the Narrows, then—
“This way,” he says, changing course when we’re halfway there. My heart sinks as I follow him toward a copse of trees, where he stops and draws a key from a hidden pocket in his sleeve. His Crew key. It takes everything I have not to lunge for it. But we are nowhere near a real door, and I now know that sending him into the void isn’t a permanent solution. I have to shelve him, and only one key is going to let me do that, so I still myself as he lifts it to a spot in the air and the teeth vanish into nothing.
No, not nothing. A shortcut. Right here, at the edge of Hyde. Another reminder that this was Owen’s campus long before it was mine.
He turns the key and offers me his hand, and I do my best to clear my mind before I let him take it and lead me through.
My shoe hits the ground on the other side, and my heart lurches when I look up and see them. Gargoyles. We are standing on the Coronado roof. I suppress a shudder. How many of my nightmares have started like this?
But if Owen sees the strange poetry of our being here again, he doesn’t mention it—only looks out over the edge of the roof and down.
“The day I died,” he says, “it was Agatha who gave the order. Alteration. I remember ru