The Unbound

Silver, black, green, and gold. The colors trail in streamers down the building fronts to every side and across the lawn, forming a colorful canopy. Lanterns hang from the trees, lights line the paths, and the grass below the streamers is filled with students and edged with booths. The music seems to come from everywhere, not the way it does when I touch Wes—not filling my bones—but simple and normal and real and loud and all around. A group of girls in brightly colored wigs is perched on a bench eating and laughing, a huddle of boys is playing booth games, and a ton of students decked out in wild makeup and glittering accessories are dancing. The air is alive with their bodies and voices.

Teachers dot the crowd, chatting with one another—none of them with face paint or fake hair, but all in dark clothes like shadows cast around the festival. Mr. Lowell and Dallas hover in front of a booth; Ms. Hill and Ms. Wellson sit on a bench at the edge of the grass dance floor. And there, leaning against a drink stand, is Eric. I tense when I see him, looking grim as he surveys the crowd. I should have known he would be here, watching. But is he still acting as Roland’s eyes? On the other side of the lawn, Sako sits perched on the edge of another bench. She is definitely here for Agatha. I scan the crowd for any other vigilant eyes and spot a third—a man I’ve never seen before, one with dark skin and Sako’s same cold grace—which means that somewhere there’s probably a fourth, his partner, but I don’t see her. Everyone else looks like they belong. And really, somehow, so do the Crew.

But there is no sign of Owen. Not yet. Even with the whole school here and everyone decked out with crazy hair and strange eyes, I know I’ll spot him at a glance.

The party starts at seven. The show’s at eight.

What is he pla

Amber and Gavin link arms and head for the nearest food stand, and Safia grabs Wesley’s sleeve and demands a dance.

“It’s tradition,” she says. “You always dance with me.”

Wesley hesitates, clearly not wanting to leave my side. And if I’m being honest, I don’t want him to leave, either. I’m struck by the sudden fear that if he does, I won’t have a chance to… To what? Say good-bye? I won’t say that anyway.

“Go on, you two,” says Cash. “Mac and I will get along fine.”

Safia pulls Wesley into the throng, and Cash holds out his hand. “May I?”

I accept, and my head fills with his jazz and laughter and all of his thoughts, and as we dance I do my best to let them be like music instead of words and listen only to the melody. Cash is full enough of life and energy that, as we spin and twirl and smile and sing along, I almost forget. Even hearing his voice and his music and his life in my head for one whole song, I almost forget. That is the beauty of Cash. Another me in another life would have fallen for this pretty boy who looks at me and only sees a pretty girl and helps me pretend for one song that anything could be that simple.

But even if I believed in Owen’s dream of a life without secrets and lies, Cash is not the boy I’d share it with.

Soon the song trails off and a slower one picks up. A senior girl appears at Cash’s shoulder and asks for a dance. Wesley appears at my side at the same time.

“Dance with me,” he says. And before I can say anything, he wraps his arm around my waist and fills my head with his sadness and his fear and—threaded through it all—his ever present hope. I rest my ear against his shoulder and listen to his heart, his noise, his life. Every moment of it hurts, but I don’t let go or push away.

And then, near the end of the song, I see Owen hovering at the edge of the dance floor. His eyes meet mine. My pulse quickens, and I tighten my grip on Wes, gathering up the strength to pull away. I can do this. Whatever I have to do to put an end to this—to Owen—I will do it. I have to. I let him out. I’ll return him. I’ll lay him at the Archive’s feet and earn my life back with his body.

Owen turns and makes his way to the shadow beside the clock tower. The song ends, but Wesley doesn’t let go, and I look up into his dark-rimmed eyes.

“What is it?” he asks.

“You’re worth it,” I tell him.

His brow crinkles. “What do you mean?”

I smile. “Nothing,” I say gently. “I’m going to get a drink. Save me another dance, okay?”

My fingers begin to slide through his. He hesitates and starts to tighten his grip, but Amber grabs his other hand and pulls him toward her. “Where’s my dance, Ayers?” she asks. Our hands fall apart. The music starts up again and I vanish into the crowd, forcing myself not to look back.

Eric’s back is turned and Mr. Bradshaw is trying to strike up a conversation with Sako as I slip away into the dark. Owen is humming (you are my sunshine, my only sunshine…), and I follow the sound of it into the shadows of the clock tower, where I find him leaning against the brick side, turning his knife over between his fingers.

“Hyde School always knew how to throw a party,” he says, eyes lost in the glittering lights.

“Will you tell me now what’s going to happen here? When do we steal the page?”

“That’s the thing,” says Owen, putting away his knife. “We don’t.”

I stiffen. “I don’t understand.”

“There’s a reason this plan requires two people, Mackenzie. One of them distracts the Archive while the other steals the page.”

“You want me to create the diversion?”

“No,” says Owen, “I want you to be the diversion.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re already on thin ice with the Archive, right? Well, if they’re busy dragging you to your alteration, they’re less likely to notice me.”

“Why would they be doing that?” I ask slowly.

“Because you’re not going to give them a choice. You’re going to make a scene. The Archive hates scenes. I’ve already staged it for you.” He toes the grass, and even in the dark I can see wires. Fuses.

“I said I didn’t want anyone to get hurt.”

“You have to play your part, Mackenzie. Besides, they’re only fireworks. I told you, something short and bright. Flash and show. Once you’ve lit the match—a literal one this time—all you have to do is be ready to run. I’ll take care of the hard part.”

“What hard part?”

“All eyes are on you,” he continues. “Waiting for you to mess up or make a move. So that’s what you’re going to do. And then you’re going to run, and Crew will chase you. And when they catch you—and they will—you’re going to fight back, with everything you have, to the very end.”

My mind spins. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. We are supposed to go into the Archive together. I am supposed to return him. How am I supposed to do that if I’m being executed?

“You don’t want a diversion, Owen. You want a sacrifice.”

“Don’t be dramatic.”

“I am not a martyr,” I snap.

“I won’t let them erase you.”

“Oh, well, if you won’t let them…” I say sarcastically.

“I’ll save you,” he insists. “Trust me.”

I scoff. “You want me to put my life in your hands.”

In an instant, Owen has me back against the brick wall. “Your life has been in my hands since the moment I stepped out of that void,” he growls.

A sickening realization dawns on me. He’s already set the scene. He doesn’t need my consent to make me a diversion. But the only way he’ll come for me is if he thinks I’m worth saving.

But the ledger is on the desk at the very front of the Archive. What’s to stop him from walking in and taking it and leaving without me?

“I won’t,” he says, reading the thoughts through my skin. “I will not leave you behind. I still need you. We are the bringers of change, Mackenzie. But I need you to be the voice of it.”