The Archived (26 page)

Regina’s eyes. They were going dark. They were smudging into black, like she was
slipping
. But only Histories slip. And only a History could be sitting in her brother’s apartment
after
she died, and that means it wasn’t Regina, in the way that the body in Ben’s drawer
wasn’t Ben, and that means she got
out
. But how? And how did Owen find her?

“Mackenzie?”

I glance up to see Wes coming down the hall.

He quickens his step. “What’s wrong?”

I return my forehead to my knees. “I will give you twenty dollars if you go in there
and get my ring.”

Wesley’s boots come to a stop somewhere to the right of my leg. “What’s your ring
doing in Ms. Angelli’s place?”

“Please, Wes, just go get it for me.”

“Did you break in—”

“Wesley.”
My head snaps up. “Please.” And I must look worse than I feel, because he nods and
goes inside. He reappears a few moments later and drops the ring to the carpet, at
my feet. I pick it up and slide it on.

Wesley kneels down in front of me. “You want to tell me what happened?”

I sigh. “I was attacked.”

“By a
History
?”

“No…by Ms. Angelli’s cats.”

The corner of his mouth twitches.

“It’s not funny,” I growl, and close my eyes. “I’m never going to live this down,
am I.”

“Never. And damn, way to give a guy a scare, Mac.”

“You scare too easily.”

“You haven’t seen yourself.” He fetches a compact from one of the many pockets of
his pants, and flicks it open so I can see the ribbon of blood running from my nose
down over my chin. I wipe it away with my sleeve.

“Okay, that’s terrifying. Put it away,” I say. “So the cats won that round.”

I lick my lips, taste blood. I push myself to my feet. The hall sways slightly. Wesley
reaches for my arm, but I wave him off and head for the stairs. He follows.

“What were you doing in there?” he asks.

The headache makes it hard to focus on the nuances of lying. So I don’t.

“I was curious,” I say as we descend the stairs.

“You had to be pretty damn curious to break into Angelli’s apartment.”

We reach the third floor. “My inquisitive nature has always been a weakness.” I can’t
stop seeing Regina’s eyes. How did she get out? She wasn’t a Keeper-Killer, wasn’t
a monster. She wasn’t even a punk, like Jackson. She was a fifteen-year-old girl.
The murder could have been enough to unsettle her mind, even cause her to wake, but
she never should have made it through the Narrows.

I step out of the stairwell, but when I turn to face Wes, he’s frowning at me.

“Don’t look at me like that with those big brown eyes.”

“They’re not just brown,” he says. “They’re hazel. Can’t you see the flecks of gold?”

“Good god, how much time do you spend looking at yourself in the mirror each day?”

“Not enough, Mac. Not enough.” But the laughter is gone from his voice. “You’re clever,
trying to distract me with my own good looks, but it won’t work. What’s going on?”

I sigh. And then I
really
look at Wesley. The cut on his cheek is healing, but there’s a fresh bruise blossoming
against his jaw. He’s guarding his left arm in a way that makes me think he took a
hit, and he looks utterly exhausted.

“Where were you this morning?” I ask. “I waited.”

“I got held up.”

“Your list?”

“The names weren’t even
on
my list. When I got into the Narrows…I didn’t have enough hands. I didn’t have enough
time. I barely got through in one piece. Your territory’s bad, but mine is suddenly
impassable.”

“Then you shouldn’t have come.” I turn and walk down the hall.

“I’m your partner,” he says, trailing me. “And apparently that’s the problem. You
were there at the trial, Mac. You heard the caveat. We could only be partners as long
as my territory stayed clear. Someone
did
this. And I’ve been trying to understand all morning why a member of the Archive
wouldn’t want us working together. All I can think is that I’m missing something.”
Halfway down the hall he catches my arm, and I force myself not to pull back as the
noise floods through me. “
Am
I missing something?”

I don’t know how to answer. I don’t have a truth or a lie that will fix anything.
I’ve already put him in danger just by having him near, already painted a target on
his back. He’d be safer if he just stayed away. If I could keep him away from this
mess. Away from me.

“Wesley…” Everything else is falling apart. I don’t need this to crumble, too.

“Do you trust me?” His question is so sudden and honest that I’m caught off guard.

“Yeah. I do.”

“Then talk to me. Whatever’s going on, let me help. You’re not alone, Mackenzie. Our
whole lives are about lying, keeping secrets. I just want you to know that you don’t
have to keep them from me.”

And that breaks my heart. Because I know he means every word. And because I can’t
confide in him.
I won’t.
I won’t tell him about the murders or the altered Histories or the rogue Librarian
or Regina or Owen. And it’s not some noble endeavor to keep him out of harm’s way—there
is no such thing right now. The truth is I’m scared.

“Thank you,” I say, and it has all the terrible awkwardness of someone responding
to a heartfelt
I love you
with an
I know
. So I add, “We’re a team, Wes.”

I hate myself as I watch his shoulders slacken. His hand drops, leaving a quiet that’s
even heavier than noise. He looks tired, his eyes ringed dark even beyond the makeup.

“You’re right,” he says hollowly. “We are. Which is why I’m giving you one last chance
to tell me exactly what’s going on. And don’t bother lying. Right before you lie,
you test out the words and your jaw shifts a fraction. You’ve been doing it a lot.
So just
don’t
.”

And that’s when I realize how tired I am, of lies and omissions and half-truths. I
put Wes in danger, but he’s still here—and if he’s willing to brave this chaos with
me, then he deserves to know what I know. And I’m about to speak, about to tell him
that, tell him everything, when he brings his hand to the back of my neck, pulls me
forward, and kisses me.

The noise floods in. I don’t push back, don’t block it out, and for one moment, all
I can think is that he tastes like summer rain.

His lips linger on mine, urgent and warm.

Lasting.

And then he pulls away, breath ragged.

His hand falls from my skin, and I understand.

He’s not wearing his ring.

He didn’t just kiss me.

He
read
me.

Wesley’s face is bright with pain, and I don’t know what he saw or what he felt, but
whatever he read in me, it’s enough to make him turn and storm out.

W
ESLEY SLAMS
the stairwell door, and I turn and punch the wall, hard enough to dent the faded
yellow paper, pain rolling up my hand. My reflection stares at me from the mirror
on the opposite wall, and it looks…lost. It’s finally showing in my eyes. Da’s eyes.
I hold my gaze and search for some of him in me, search for the part that knows how
to lie and smile and live and be. And I don’t see any of it.

What a mess. Truths are messy and lies are messy, and I don’t care what Da said, it’s
impossible to cut a person into pielike pieces, neat and tidy.

I shove off the wall, the anger coiling into something hard, stubborn, restless. I’ve
got to find Owen. I turn for the Narrows door, pulling the key from around my neck
and the list from my pocket. My stomach sinks when I unfold it. The scratch of letters
has been near constant, but I didn’t expect the paper to be
covered
with names. My feet slow, and for a moment I think it’s too many, that I shouldn’t
go alone. But then I think of Wesley, and speed up. I don’t need his help. I was a
Keeper before he even knew what Keepers were. I slide off my ring and step into the
Narrows.

There is so much noise.

Footsteps and crying and murmurs and pounding. Fear runs through me but doesn’t fade,
so I hold on to it, use it to keep me sharp. The movement feels good, the pulse in
my ears its own white noise, blotting out everything but instinct and habit and muscle
memory as I cross through the Narrows in search of Owen.

I can’t seem to cover more than a hall without trouble, and I dispatch two feisty
teens. But by the time the door to the Returns room shuts, more names flash up to
fill their spots. A bead of sweat runs down my neck. The metal of the knife is warm
against my calf, but I leave it there. I don’t need it. I fight my way toward Owen’s
alcove.

And then Keeper-Killers begin to blossom across my list.

Two more Histories.

Two more fights.

I brace myself against the Returns door, breathless, and look at the paper.

Four more names.

“Damn it.”
I slam my fist against the door, still out of air. Fatigue is starting to creep in,
the high of the hunt brought down by the fact that the list is matching me one for
one, and sometimes two or three for one. It’s not possible to dent the list, let alone
clear it. If it’s this bad here, what’s happening in the Archive?

“Mackenzie?”

I spin to find Owen. He wraps his arms around me, and there’s a moment of relief and
quiet, but neither is thick enough to block out the hurt I saw in Wesley’s eyes, or
the pain or guilt or anger at him, myself, everything.

“It’s falling apart,” I say into his shoulder.

“I know,” Owen answers, laying a kiss on my cheek, then one on my temple before resting
his forehead there. “I know.”

Quiet blossoms and fades, and I think of him holding Regina’s face, pressing his forehead
to hers, the low static of his voice as he spoke to her. But what was she doing there?
How did he find her? Did he even know what she was? Is that why they carved it out
of his memory?

But it doesn’t add up. The walls of the Coronado and the minds of the Histories were
altered by different people, but in both cases the excavations were meticulous, and
the time missing from the walls seems to nearly match the time missing from the people’s
minds. But Angelli’s place was left unaltered, which means they missed a spot, or
it didn’t need to be erased. So why would it be gone from Owen’s mind? On top of that,
the other altered Histories had
hours
erased, a day or two at most. Why would Owen be missing
months
?

It doesn’t make sense. Unless he’s lying.

As soon as I think it, the horrible gut feeling that I’m right hits in a wave, like
it’s been waiting. Building.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” I ask.

“I already told you…”

I pull free. “No, you told me what you felt. That you didn’t want to leave Regina
there. But what’s the last thing you
saw
? The very last moment of your life?”

He hesitates.

In the distance, someone cries.

In the distance, someone screams.

In the distance, feet are stomping and hands are pounding, and it is all getting closer.

“I don’t remember.…” he starts.

“This is important.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“I want to.”

“Then do,” he says softly.

“Do you want to know the end of your story, Owen?” I say, the gut sense twisting inside
me. “I’ll tell you what I’ve pieced together, and maybe it will jog your memory. Your
sister was murdered. Your parents left, and you didn’t. Instead you moved into another
apartment, and then Regina came back, only it wasn’t Regina, Owen. It was her History.
You knew she wasn’t normal, didn’t you? But you couldn’t help her. So you jumped off
the roof.”

For one long moment, Owen just looks at me.

And then he says in a calm, quiet voice, “I didn’t want to jump.”

I feel ill. “So you do remember.”

“I thought I could help Regina. I really did. But she kept slipping. I never wanted
to jump, but they gave me no choice.”

“Who?”

“The Crew who came to take her back. And arrest me.”

Crew? How would he know that word unless…

“You were part of it. The Archive.”

I want him to deny it, but he doesn’t.

“She didn’t belong there,” he says.

“Did you let her out?”

“She belonged with me. She belonged home. And speaking of home,” he says, “I think
you have something of mine.”

My hand twitches toward the last piece of the story in my pocket. I catch myself,
too late.

“I’m not a monster, Mackenzie.” He takes a step toward me as he says it, hand drifting
toward mine, but I step away. His eyes narrow, and his hand drops back to his side.
“Tell me you wouldn’t have done it,” he says. “Tell me you wouldn’t have taken Ben
home.”

Behind my eyes I see Ben, moments after he woke, already slipping, and me, kneeling
before him, telling him it would be okay, promising to take him home. But I wouldn’t
have. I wouldn’t have gone this far. Because the moment he pushed me away, I saw the
truth in the spreading black of his eyes. It wasn’t my brother. It wasn’t Ben.

“No,” I say. “You’re wrong. I wouldn’t have gone that far.”

I take another step back, toward a bend in the hall. Owen is blocking the way to the
numbered doors, but if I can get to the Archive…

“Mackenzie,” he says, reaching out again, “please don’t—”

“What about those other people?” I ask, retreating. “Marcus and Eileen and Lionel?
What happened to
them
?”

“I didn’t have a choice,” he says, following. “I tried to keep Regina in the room,
but she was upset—”

“She was slipping,” I say.

“I tried so hard to help her, but I couldn’t always be there. Those people saw her.
They would have ruined everything.”

“So you
murdered
them?”

He smiles grimly. “What do you think the Archive would have done?”

“Not this, Owen.”

“Don’t be naïve,” he snaps, anger flashing through his eyes like light.

The bend in the hall is only a few steps behind me, and I break into a run as he says,
“I wouldn’t go that way,” and I don’t grasp why until I round the corner and come
face-to-face with a vicious-looking History. Beyond him there are a dozen more. Standing,
staring, black-eyed.

“I told them they had to wait,” he says as I retreat into his stretch of hall, “and
I would let them out. But they must be losing patience. So am I.” He extends his hand.
“The ending, please.”

He says it softly, but I can see his stance shifting, the series of minute changes
in his shoulders and knees and in his hands. I brace myself.

“I don’t have it,” I lie.

Owen lets out a low, disappointed sigh.

And then the moment collapses. In a blink, he closes the gap between us, and I crouch,
free the knife from my leg, and bring it up to his chest as his hand catches my wrist
and slams it into the wall hard enough to crack the bones. He catches my free hand,
and before I can get my boot up, he forces me against the wall, his body flush with
mine. My ribs ache beneath his weight. The quiet pushes in, too heavy.

“Miss Bishop,” he says, tightening his grip on my hands. “Keepers should know better
than to carry weapons.” Something crunches inside my wrist, and I gasp as my grip
gives way, the knife tumbling toward the floor. Owen lets go of me, and I lunge to
the side, but he catches the falling knife with one hand and my arm with the other,
and rolls me back into his arms, bringing the blade up beneath my chin. “I’d stay
still, if I were you. I haven’t held my knife in sixty years. I might be a little
rusty.”

His free hand runs over my stomach and down the front of my jeans, sliding into the
pocket. His fingers find the note and the metal square, and he sighs with relief as
he pulls both free. He kisses the back of my hair, the knife still against my throat,
and holds the two things up so I can see. “I was beginning to worry that the painting
wasn’t there anymore. I didn’t expect to be gone so long.”

“You hid the story.”

“I did, but it’s not the
story
I was trying to hide.”

The knife vanishes from my throat and he shoves me forward. I spin and find him putting
away the note, and lining up the metal pieces in his palm. A ring, a bar, a square.

“Want to see a magic trick?” he asks, gesturing to the pieces.

He palms the square and holds up the ring and the bar. He slides the tapered point
of the bar into the small hole drilled into the ring and twists the two pieces together.
He produces the square and slides the notched edge of it along the groove in the bar.

And then he holds it up for me to see, and my blood runs cold. It’s not as ornate
as the one Roland gave me, but there’s no mistaking what it is.

The ring, the bar, the square.

The handle, the stem, the teeth.

It’s a Crew key.

“I’m not impressed,” I say, cradling my wrist. When I flex my fingers, pain sears
through my hand. But my key hangs around my good wrist, and if I can find a Returns
door…I scan the hall, but the nearest white chalk circle is several yards behind Owen.

“You should be,” he says. “But if it’s credit you want, I’m happy to give it. I couldn’t
have done it without you.”

“I don’t believe that,” I say.

“I couldn’t risk it myself. What if the Crew found me before I found the pieces? What
if the pieces weren’t where they should be? No, this”—he holds up the key—“this was
all you. You delivered the key that makes doors between worlds, the key that will
help me tear the Archive down, one branch at a time.”

Anger ripples through me. I wonder if I can break his neck before he stabs me. I chance
a step forward. He doesn’t move.

“I won’t let that happen, Owen.” I have to get the key back before he starts throwing
open doors. And then, as if he can read me from here, the key vanishes into his pocket.

“You don’t have to stand in my way,” he says.

“Yes I do. That is exactly my job, Owen. To stop the Histories, however
deranged
they are, from getting out.”

“I just wanted my sister back,” he says, still spinning his knife. “They made it worse
than it had to be.”

“It sounds like you made it pretty bad yourself.” I steal another step toward him.

“You don’t know anything about it, little Keeper,” he growls. Good. He’s getting mad,
and angry people make mistakes. “The Archive takes
everything
and gives nothing back. I just wanted one thing—”

The sound of a scuffle echoes down the hall, a shout, a scream, and Owen’s attention
wavers for an instant. I attack, shifting my weight forward. The toe of my boot catches
the bottom of his knife midspin and sends it up into the ceilingless dark of the Narrows.
My next kick knocks him backward as the knife falls and clatters to the floor several
feet behind me. Owen hits the ground, too, and rolls over into a crouch, somehow straightening
in time to dodge another blow. He catches my leg, pulls me forward, and brings his
arm to my chest, slamming me to the floor. Pain burns across my injured ribs.

“It’s too late,” he says as I try to force air back into my lungs. “I will tear the
Archive down.”

“The Archive didn’t kill Regina,” I gasp, rolling up onto my hands and knees. “Robert
did.”

His eyes darken. “I know. And I made him pay for that.”

My stomach turns. I should have known.

He got away. They let him get away. I let him get away. I was her big
brother.…

Owen took everything I felt and mimicked it, twisted it, used it. Used
me
.

I spring to my feet, lunging for him, but he’s too fast, and I barely touch him before
his hand wraps around my throat and he slams me back into the door. I can’t breathe.
My vision blurs as I claw at his arm. He doesn’t even flinch.

“I didn’t want to do this,” he says.

And then his free hand drifts to the leather cord around my wrist. My key. He pulls
sharply, snapping the cord, and drives the key into the door behind me.

He turns it, and there’s click before the door swings open behind me, showering us
both in crisp white light. And then he leans in close enough to rest his cheek on
mine as he whispers in my ear.

“Do you know what happens to a living person in the Returns room?”

I open my mouth, but no words come out.

“Neither do I,” he says, just before he pushes me back, and through, and slams the
door.