The Unbound: An Archived Novel Part 9

Black, black, or black?

My favorite color. You shouldn't have.

Slimming.

s.e.xy.

Sensible.

And good for hiding bloodstains.

I smile and pocket the phone as I reach Bishop's. Mom is busy talking to Ms. Angelli, a cat-happy antiques dealer from the fourth floor, and I swipe a m.u.f.fin and a coffee and head out, feeling more awake than I have in weeks. Four hours of sleep, I marvel as I unchain Dante and pedal off.

I keep my eyes peeled for the golden man from yesterday, but he's nowhere to be seen, and I actually start to wonder if he was ever there or if he was just another side effect of the sleeplessness. I hope for the latter, not wanting to think about what the former could mean.

The morning is cool, and I balance my coffee on the handlebars with one hand and steer with the other. As I ride, something fills my chest. Not fear or fatigue, but something lovely and light: hope. I was beginning to think I'd never find dreamless sleep again; but if I could find it in Roland's daybed, then it's possible to find it elsewhere, too. Right now, high on those four small hours of rest, possibility is enough.

When I get to Hyde, I find Cash leaning up against the bike rack, holding two coffees and shooing freshmen away like flies from the spot he's saving me near the front gate. He smiles when he sees me, a broad grin that brightens the morning and helps push any lingering thoughts of Mr. Phillip from my mind. He scoots aside so I can park Dante.

"I wasn't going to wait for you," he explains, "but you see, the schedule flips. I showed you the route for the A block, but not the B block."

"Isn't it just the A block in reverse?"

"Well, yes," he says, offering me one of the coffees. I take it, even though I just finished mine. "But I wanted to make sure you knew that. I didn't want you to think me a negligent amba.s.sador."

"That would be a travesty," I say, tugging off the workout pants beneath my skirt.

"Truly," he says, sipping his drink. "I'm going to lose points as it is for not being able to show you to your morning cla.s.ses. I'm on the opposite side of campus, and the teachers around here will lock you out if you're late."

"I won't fault you." I get the first pant leg off.

"Good. There are feedback cards around here somewhere, you know."

"I'll be sure to fill one out...." My shoe catches on the second pant leg; when I try to tug it free, my backpack s.h.i.+fts from my other shoulder and my balance falters. Cash's hand comes up to steady me, and his noise-all jazz and laughter and pulse-pounds through my head, loud enough to make me flinch and pull away, toppling the other direction, straight into the metallic rock band sound of Wesley Ayers.

He smiles, and I can't tell if it's my rare moment of clumsiness or the fact I lean into his noise instead of away from it that makes his eyes glitter.

"Steady there," he says as I finally free the fabric from my shoe. I get both feet back on the ground, but his touch lingers a moment before sliding away, taking the thrum of music with it.

"Morning, Ayers," says Cash with a nod.

"Where did you come from, Wes?" I ask.

He tips his head back down the sidewalk.

"What, no fancy car?" I tease.

"Ferrari's in the shop," he shoots back without missing a beat.

"And the Lexus?" chirps Cash.

Wesley rolls his eyes and s.h.i.+fts his attention to me. "Is this one giving you trouble?"

"On the contrary," I say, "he's been a perfect gentleman. One might even say a knight."

"In s.h.i.+ning armor," adds Cash, gesturing to his gold stripes.

"He brought me coffee," I say, holding up my cup.

Wes runs a hand through his black hair and sighs dramatically. "You never bring me coffee, Ca.s.sius."

And then, out of nowhere, a girl swings her arm around Wesley from behind. He doesn't even tense at the contact-I do-only smiles as she puts her manicured hands over his eyes.

"Morning, Elle," he says cheerfully.

Elle-a pretty little thing, bird-thin with bottle-blond hair-actually giggles as she pulls away.

"How did you know?" she squeaks.

Because of your noise, I think drily.

Wesley shrugs. "What can I say? It's a gift."

"All the cool powers were taken," mutters Cash, half into his coffee.

The girl is still hanging on Wesley. Perching on him. Like a bird on a branch. She's chirping on about some fall dance when the bell finally rings, and I realize I've never been so happy to go to cla.s.s.

It's a good thing I've had two coffees to go with my four hours of sleep, because Mr. Lowell kicks off the day with a doc.u.mentary on revolutionaries. And whether it's the healthy dose of caffeine or the strange way the subject sinks its nails in, I manage to stay awake.

"The thing to remember about revolutionaries," says Lowell, killing the video and flicking on the lights, "is that, while they may be viewed as terrorists by their oppressors, in their own eyes, they are champions. Martyrs. People willing to do what others won't, or can't, for the sake of whatever it is they believe in. In a way, we can see them as the most extreme incarnations of a society's discontent. But just as people elevate their revolutionaries to the station of G.o.ds, avenging angels, heroes, so those revolutionaries elevate themselves...."

As he continues, I picture Owen Chris Clarke, eyes blazing on the Coronado roof as he spoke of monsters and freedom and betrayal. Of tearing down the Archive, one branch at a time.

"But the mark of a revolutionary," continues Lowell, "is the fact that cause comes first. No matter how elevated the revolutionary becomes in the eyes of others-and in his own eyes-his life will always matter less than the cause. It is expendable."

Owen jumped off a roof. Took his own life to make sure the Archive couldn't take his mind, his memories. To make sure that if-when-his History woke, he would remember everything. I have no doubt that Owen would have given or taken his life a hundred times to see the Archive burn.

"Sadly," adds Lowell, "revolutionaries often find the lives of others equally expendable."

Expendable. I write the word in my notebook.

Owen definitely saw the lives of others as expendable. From those he murdered to keep his sister a secret, to those he tried to murder-Wesley bleeding out so Owen could make a point-to me. Owen gave me the chance to come with him instead of standing in his way. As soon as I refused, I was worthless to him. Nothing more than another obstacle.

If Owen was a revolutionary, then what does that make me? Part of the machine? The world isn't that black-and-white, is it? It doesn't all boil down to with or against. Some of us just want to stay alive.

TEN.

AMBER'S LATE TO PHYSIOLOGY, so she has to snag a seat in the back and I have to spend the period studying the nervous system and trying to stay awake. As soon as the bell rings, I'm out of my chair and standing by hers.

"That eager to get to gym?" she asks, packing up her bag.

"Question," I say casually. "Is your dad a cop?"

"Huh?" Amber's strawberry eyebrows go up. "Oh, yeah. Detective." She hoists the bag onto her shoulder and we head into the fray. "Why?"

"I just saw him on the news this morning."

"Kind of sad, isn't it?" she says. "I didn't get to see my dad this morning."

Treading dangerous waters, then. "He works a lot?"

Amber sighs. "On a light day. And the Phillip case is killing him." She almost smiles. "My mom hates it when I use words like killing in casual conversation. She thinks I'm becoming desensitized to death. I hate to tell her she's too late."

"My grandfather was a detective, too." Well, a private eye, and mostly under the table work at that, but close enough.

Her eyes light up. "Really?"

"Yeah. I grew up around it. Bound to make you a little morbid." Amber smiles, and I take my shot. "Do they have any idea what happened to that guy, Mr. Phillip?"

Amber shakes her head and pushes the door open. "Dad won't talk about it around me." She squints into the late morning light. "But the walls in our house are pretty thin. From what I've heard him say, none of it adds up. You've got this one room, and it's trashed, and the rest of the house is spotless. Nothing missing."

"Except for Mr. Phillip."

"Exactly," she says, kicking a loose pebble down the path, "but n.o.body can figure out why. He was apparently one of the nicest guys around, and he was retired."

"A judge, right? Do they think someone might have been angry with a sentence or something?"

"Then why not kill him?" says Amber, pus.h.i.+ng open the gym doors. "I know that's cold, but if you have a vendetta, you usually have a body. They don't have one. They don't have anything. He just vanished. So my question is, who would go to all the trouble to make someone disappear and then leave a mess like that? Why not make it look like he just walked away?"

She has a point. She has a lot of points.

"You're really good at this," I say, following her into the locker room.

She beams. "Crime dramas and years of eavesdropping."

"What are you two going on about?" asks Safia, dropping her bag on the bench. I hesitate, but Amber surprises me by giving a nonchalant shrug and lying through her teeth. "Arteries and veins, mostly."

Saf screws up her nose. "Ewww." She keys in her locker code and starts to change, but Amber smiles and keeps going. "Did you know that veins move around beneath your skin?"

"Stop," says Saf, paling.

"And did you know-" Amber continues.

"Amber, stop," says Saf, tugging on her workout clothes.

"-that the brachial artery," she says, poking Saf's arm for emphasis, "is the first place blood goes after being pumped through your heart, so if you sever it, you could conceivably lose all five liters of blood in your body? Your heart would just pump it right out onto the floor-"

"Gross, gross, stop," snaps Saf, slamming her locker and storming away toward the gym doors.

Amber looks back at me with a smile after Safia has stormed out. "She gets squeamish," she says cheerfully.

"I can see that." I'd be lying if I said it didn't lighten my mood. "Hey, will you let me know if they find anything?"

She nods a little reluctantly. "Why so interested in the case?"

I flash a smile. "You're not the only one who grew up on crime shows."

Amber smiles back, and I make a mental note to spend more time watching television.

There's a nervous energy in my bones. I want to run-want to sprint until it dissipates-but I'm terrified of triggering another tunnel moment, so I spend the first half of gym walking on the track, trying to clear my head. Amber and Gavin are "stretching" on a mat across the room, trying to hide a magazine on the floor between them. Safia is fencing-she's actually good, in an obnoxious way-and Cash is on the weight machines with a few other guys. And Wesley is...right beside me. One moment I'm alone, and the next he's fallen casually into step next to me. I count the number of strides we walk in silence-eleven-before Wesley feels the need to break it.

"Did you know," he asks, affecting an accent that I think is supposed to be Cash's, "that the hawk, which is Hyde's mascot, is known for performing dazzling aerobatic feats to impress prospective mates?"

I can't help but laugh. Wes smiles, and slips back into his own voice. "What's on your mind?"

"Crime scenes," I say absently.

"Never a dull answer, I'll give you that. Care to be more specific?"

I shake my head.

"Bishop! Ayers!" shouts the gym teacher near the sparring platform. "Come show these idiots how to fight."

Wesley knocks his shoulder against mine-a ripple of ba.s.s through two thin layers of fabric-and we make our way to the mat and suit up. I roll my wrist, testing.

"Do you really have a Ferrari?" I ask as I cinch my gloves.

He gives me a withering look. "For your information, Miss Bishop," he says, pulling on his helmet, "I don't own a car."

We go to the center of the platform.

"Shocking," I say as the whistle blows.

Wes throws a punch, and I dodge and catch his wrist.

"Waste of gas," he says, before I turn and flip him over my shoulder. Instead of resisting, he moves with the flip, lands on his feet, and throws a kick my direction. I lunge backward. We dance around each other for a moment.

"So you live in walking distance?" I ask, throwing a punch. He catches it-his grip oddly gentle around my bad wrist-and rolls my body in against his, one arm snaking around my shoulders.

"I use the Narrows," he says in my ear. "Fastest transportation around, remember?" He shoves me forward before I can try to flip him again. I spin to face him and catch him in the stomach, on his good side.