Agatha is waiting, the other Librarians in line behind her—and clearly they’ve been told what happened. Their faces are a spectrum of horror and sadness and confusion and betrayal. Patrick is on one side of Roland, Lisa on the other, and they are both holding him back. My eyes flick from his face to the golden key around his neck and back again, willing him to understand, to trust me even if he can’t. Again I try to fight to my feet, and again the sentinels force me down in front of Agatha.
“I warned Hale this would happen,” she says, cold triumph in her eyes. “A broken mind and a traitor’s heart. Do you have anything to say?”
I’m sorry. Listen. Please. Trust me. This isn’t what it looks like. But I can’t say any of those things. I have to sell it. Everything in me wants to scream NO as I spit blood onto the dark stone floor and say, “The Archive is broken.”
Agatha backhands me hard across the face. Pain blossoms against my brow and blood trickles into my vision. “I’ll summon Hale. Take her away.”
The sentinels wrench me to my feet.
Fight back…
I jerk forward hard and manage to twist free. It takes every ounce of will and strength, but I run into Roland’s arms, pressing my bound hands flat against his shirtfront. It looks like a plea, but only because no one can see my fingers wrapping around the gold key he wears there. The one that turns lives on and off. The one only Librarians are meant to handle. A numbing pain, pins-and-needles sharp, spreads through my fingers and up my wrist, but I don’t let go.
…with everything you have…
“Trust,” I whisper, closing my hand over it just before they pull me off him. The snap of his necklace is buried beneath the sounds of the struggle as I’m dragged away. I palm the key, slipping it under the edge of my sleeve just before a crushing blow sends me forward to my hands and knees. Two more sets of hands—sentinels both—take hold.
…to the very end.
A hood is thrown over my head. Everything goes black. Even then, I try to fight.
“Enough, Miss Bishop,” orders Patrick as I’m dragged through the Archive. All I can think as I’m led away is that it will not be enough, it will not be enough, it will not be enough.
And then I hear it.
Back in the antechamber.
Wesley’s voice.
Shouting my name. Arguing with someone loudly as he storms into the Archive.
Everything in me crumples. This was never supposed to be his fight. As I’m dragged down another corridor, I hear the sound of people chasing after him, hear Patrick give a quiet order, and feel one of the sentinels pull away from my side and turn toward the commotion. Patrick’s hands—hands I know well because they’ve patched me up countless times over the last four and a half years—take his place. He and the second sentinel force me through a pair of doors and into a room so empty our steps echo, my name still bouncing on the walls of the Archive.
Then, abruptly, it stops, and I don’t know if it’s because they’ve closed a door or because they’ve caught Wes, but I tell myself he’ll be okay even as I try to twist free. The hands tighten, digging into the gash on my arm hard enough to make me grateful for the gold key’s spreading numbness as I’m shoved roughly down into a chair. They slice the metal thread free from my wrists, but before I can get to my feet, they’re strapping me down, my waist and legs and wrists cinched to the cold arms of the chair. There’s no way out. I twist in the binds, but it’s no use, and they know it.
“Good-bye,” says Patrick, and then a door opens and closes, and the room is silent.
Totally silent.
And totally dark.
And that’s when the fear finally hits. It’s been chasing me all night, but now it finally catches up.
Fear that none of this is going to work.
Fear that I misjudged, that Owen isn’t going to save me, that I was nothing more than a disposable tool.
Fear that he won’t come in time.
Fear that he won’t make it past the antechamber.
And under all of it, a far worse fear.
A fear that makes me close my eyes, despite the dark.
The fear that maybe, somehow, Owen isn’t real. That the nightmare never gave way to reality, that somehow it’s been me—and only me—all along. That I’ve lost my mind. That I’m about to lose my life.
A prickling pain is spreading through my body from the Archive key pressed against my wrist, and I focus on that as I try to twist my arm against the chair, to work the metal toward my hand.
And then I hear it. The door opens behind me, and the sounds of the Archive—of hurrying feet and muffled shouts, none of them Wesley’s—pour in for a moment before cutting off again. There’s a short, quiet scuffle followed by a sickening crack. I struggle again with my binds, fighting with the chair until someone reaches out and grips my shoulder and the all-too-familiar quiet seeps through my skin.
“Owen?” I gasp.
“Hold still,” he orders, and relief spills over me. I coat myself in it as he pulls off my hood. The room I’m in is a glaring white, nearly as bright but not as seamless as a Returns room and completely bare of shelves—of anything except the chair and a sentinel slumped in the corner, his head tilted at a very wrong angle. Eric flashes up behind my eyes, but I force myself to focus as Owen frees one of my wrists and drops to a knee, setting to work on my ankles, leaving me to free my other hand myself. He gets my legs unbound and circles behind the chair to find the buckle for the waist strap. The final strap falls away, and Owen rounds the chair again.
“You put on quite a show,” he says, offering me his hand.
My heart races as I take it. “I know,” I say as he helps me to my feet. “You were right,” I add, fingers curling around the metal in my hand.
His brow furrows. “About what?”
I meet his gaze. “I just had to commit.”
My grip tightens around his. Confusion flickers across his face, but before he can pull away, I drive the gleaming key into his chest and turn it. For an instant, he stares at me, blue eyes wide. And then the light goes out of Owen’s face, the life out of his body. His knees buckle and I catch him, and the two of us sink together toward the sterile white floor.
I can hear the footsteps rushing down the hall, and a strange sadness spreads through me as I ease Owen’s body to the ground. He kept his word. He believed in something, however misguided.
I don’t know what I believe in anymore.
The only thing I know for sure is that I’m still alive.
And it’s almost over.
Almost.
THIRTY-TWO
I CANNOT SEEM to escape this room.
Cold marble floors. Ledger-lined walls. The long table stretching in the middle.
It is the room I was inducted in. It is the room Wesley and I were summoned to after the History escaped into the Coronado. And now it is the room where the Archive will decide my fate.
When Roland and Agatha and Director Hale found me in the alterations room, kneeling over Owen’s body, a sentinel slumped in the corner, I said only one thing.
“I want a trial.”
So here I am. The remaining sentinel stands beside me, within easy reach, but mercifully hands-off. Roland, Agatha, and Director Hale sit behind the table, Roland’s key on its broken cord in front of them.
I flex my hand, still waiting for the feeling to return to my fingertips after using it. Director Hale offers me a chair, but I’ll fall over before I sit down in here again tonight. My gaze find Roland’s. A minute ago, he paused on his way in and reached out, pretending to steady me.