His silver-blond hair registers as white in the colorless photo, and that, plus the shocking paleness of his eyes, makes him look like a flare of light in the wash of black uniforms. The ghost of a smile brushes his lips, like he knows a secret. And maybe he does. This would have been before—before he graduated, before he was made Crew, before Regina was murdered, before he brought her back, before he killed the Coronado residents and jumped from the roof. But at the time of the photo, he was already a Keeper. It shows in his eyes, in his taunting smile, and in the hint of a ring on the hand resting on another student’s shoulder…
“You ready?”
I pull away from the photograph to find Cash standing there, holding a short stack of pamphlets.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice a little shakier than I’d like, as I cast another glance at the photo.
You and I are not so different.
I frown. So what if Owen went here? He’s gone. This is nothing more than a faded photograph, a glimpse of the past—a perfectly reasonable place for a dead boy to be.
“Let’s go,” I say as I take the papers.
Cash walks me out.
“Where’s your car?” he asks, surveying the parking lot, which has already emptied out quite a bit.
I cross to the bike rack and give Dante a sweeping gesture. “My ride.”
He blushes. “I didn’t mean to assume—”
I wave him off. “It’s like a convertible, really. Wind through my hair. Leather seats…well, seat.” I dig my workout pants out of my bag and tug them on under my skirt.
He smiles, gold eyes drifting down to the sidewalk. “Maybe we could do this again tomorrow.”
“You mean school?” I ask, unlocking the bike and swinging my leg over. “I think that’s the idea. Doesn’t work very well if you only go once.” I try to say it straight-faced, but the smile slips through.
Cash breaks into a warm laugh as he turns to go. “Welcome to Hyde, Mackenzie Bishop.”
His easy joy is contagious, and I feel myself still grinning as I watch him retreat through the gates. Then I look back out over the parking lot and all the warmth goes cold.
The man from this morning, the one with gold hair and gold skin, is leaning back against a tree at the edge of the lot, sipping coffee out of a to-go cup, and he’s looking at me. This time he doesn’t even try to hide it. The sight of him is like a brick through a glass window, shattering the mundane. It’s a reminder that life couldn’t be further from normal. Normal is a thing I might dream about, if I weren’t too busy having nightmares.
There’s one thing scarier than the fact I’m being followed. And that’s who is following me. Because there’s only one possible answer: the Archive. The thought makes my blood run cold. I can’t imagine it’s a good thing, being tailed by Crew. And that’s exactly what he is. What he has to be.
The way he sips his coffee and shifts his weight and his unguarded body language create an illusion of boredom that’s dampened only by his gaze, which is sharp, alert. But that’s not what gives him away. It’s the confidence. A very specific and dangerous kind of confidence. The same kind Owen had.
The confidence exuded by someone who knows they can hurt you before you hurt them.
The golden man’s eyes meet mine, and he smiles with half his mouth. He takes another sip of his coffee, and I take a step toward him just as a horn goes off in the parking lot. The sound steals my attention for a second, even less, but by the time I look back at the man, he’s gone.
Great.
I wait a second to see if he’ll reappear, but he doesn’t, and I’m left with only a sinking feeling in my stomach and the nagging question: why is the Archive having me followed?
The worry eats at the last of my energy as I pedal home. By the time I get there, my vision is starting to blur from fatigue. When I dismount, the world rocks a little. I have to stand still a moment, wait for the dizziness to pass before I drag myself through the doors and up the stairs.
I want sleep.
I need sleep.
Instead, I go hunting.
SIX
I STIFLE ANOTHER yawn as I step out of the stairwell and into the third floor hall, grateful that Harker’s still the only name on my list. After stashing my skirt in my schoolbag and shoving that behind a table halfway down the hall, I straighten my ponytail in the mirror above the table and fetch the key out from under my collar. The transformation is complete: student to Keeper in under a minute.
Across from the mirror is a painting of the sea, and just beside that is a crack in the wall. A seam where the worlds don’t quite line up. No one else sees it, but I do, and when I tug off my ring, the crack becomes clearer, the keyhole tucked into the fold. I slot my key, and the Narrows door blossoms like a stain, the faded wallpaper darkening as the frame presses against the surface. A thread of light carves the outline of the door, and I turn the key, hear the hollow click, and step through into the dark. I’m lifting my fingers to the nearest wall, about to read the surface for signs of Harker, when I think I hear it.
Humming.
My heart starts to race as I pull away from the wall and turn toward the noise, panic flooding through me. And then between one pulse—one step—and the next, the world disappears.
Everything goes away.
Goes black.
And then, just as suddenly, it comes back—I come back—and the humming is gone and my head is killing me and I’m running. Sprinting. Chasing. A boy sprints several yards ahead of me.
“Harker, stop!” The words tumble out before I even realize they’re mine. “There’s nowhere to run!” I add, which isn’t strictly true, since we’re both covering plenty of ground. There’s just nowhere to run to.
My lungs are burning and my legs ache and I don’t have enough sleep in my bones for this, but adrenaline fills in the place where sleep should be as the Narrows echo with the sounds of the hunt. Heavy breath and pumping limbs and shoes hitting hard against the concrete, his as he flees, mine as I chase.
And I’m catching up.
The kid loses a stride when he looks back, and then another when he takes a corner too fast and slides into the wall. Harker springs off, keeps going. I cut the corner sharp, too, shoes skidding a fraction on the slick ground of the Narrows, but I know these halls, these walls, these floors, and I’m off again, closing the gap.
He’s between one sprinting step and the next when my hand finally tangles in his collar, catching him off balance. I pull hard, and Harker goes sprawling backward to the floor, a few feet from the nearest Returns door, marked by a white chalk circle shaded in. He starts to scramble away, but I haul him to his feet and pin him back against the wall as I get my key into the lock and turn. The door opens, showering us both in glaring white light.
I get a good look at his eyes as they go wide—the pupils wavering, about to slip—right before I shove him into the glaring white, but it’s not until after he’s through the door, the light is gone, and I’m left alone in the dark with my slamming pulse that I process the look he gave me and realize what it was.
Fear.
Not of the Narrows or of the glaring Returns, but of me.
It’s like being doused with cold water, that thought, and it leaves me feeling breathless and dizzy. I bring a hand up to the wall for balance. A shallow pain draws my eyes to my arm, and for the first time I see the scratches there, raked across my skin, and a sick feeling spreads through me.