The Dark Vault

by Victoria Schwab

  I close the gap. Pull Owen’s body flush with mine.

  His mouth is soft but strong, and when he deepens the kiss, the quiet spreads, filling every space in my mind, washing over me. Drowning me.

  And then his mouth is gone, and his hands let go of mine. Everything comes back, too loud. I pull his body against mine, feel the impossibly careful crush of his mouth as it steals the air from my lungs, steals the thoughts from my head.

  Owen steps forward, urging my body against the wall, pushing me with his kisses and the quiet that comes with his touch. I am letting it all wash over me, letting it wash away the questions and doubts, the Histories and the key and the ring and everything else, until I am just M against his lips, his body. M reflected in the pale blue of his eyes until he closes them and kisses me deeper, and then I am nothing.

  TWENTY-THREE

  I CANNOT STAY HERE forever, buried under Owen’s touch.

  At last I push away, break the surface of the quiet, and before I lose my will, before I cave, I leave. I can’t hunt, so I spend what’s left of the night searching the Coronado, moving numbly from floor to floor, trying to read the walls for any clues, anything the Archive—or whoever in it tried to cover things up—might have missed, but that year is shot full of holes. I run through the time lines, scour the memories for leads, and find only dull impressions and stretches of too-flat black. Elling’s old apartment is locked, but I read the south stairs, where Eileen supposedly fell, and even brave the elevators in search of Lionel’s stabbing, only to find the unnatural nothing of excavated pasts. Whatever happened here, someone went out of their way to bury it, even from people like me.

  A dull ache has formed behind my eyes, and I’ve lost hope of finding any useful memory intact, but I keep searching. I have to. Because every time I stop moving, the thought of losing Ben—really losing him—catches up, the pain catches up, the thought of kissing Owen—of using a History for his touch—catches up. So I keep moving.

  I start searching for more of Regina’s story. I put my ring on, hoping to dull the headache, and search the old-fashioned way, thankful for the distraction. I check table drawers and shelves, even though sixty years have passed, and the chances of finding anything are slim. I search for hidden compartments in the study, and take down half the books to check behind them. I remember Owen saying something about garden cracks. I know paper would never last out here, but I still search the mossy stones by feel in the dark, grateful for the quiet predawn air.

  The sun is rising as I look behind the counters and around the old equipment in the coffee shop, careful not to touch the half-painted walls. And just as I’m about to abandon the search, my eyes drift to the sheeting thrown over the rose pattern in the floor to keep it safe. In garden cracks and under tiles, Owen said. It’s a long shot, but I kneel and pull aside the plastic tarp. The rose beneath is as wide as my arm span, each inlaid marble petal piece the size of my palm. I brush my hand back and forth across the rust-colored pattern. Near the center, I feel the subtle shift of stones beneath my touch. One of the petals is loose.

  My heart skips as I get my fingers under the lip of the petal. It lifts. The hiding place is little more than a hole, the walls of which are lined with white cloth. And there, folded and weighted down by a narrow metal bar, is another piece of Regina’s story.

  The paper is yellowing but intact, protected by the hidden chamber, and I lift it to the morning light.

  The pieces are out of order. The last fragment spoke of facing gods and monsters at the top of something. This one clearly goes before. But what comes after?

  My attention shifts to the small bar that had held the note in place. It’s roughly the size of a pencil but half the length, one end tapering just like a graphite point. A groove has been cut from the blunt end down, and it’s made of the same metal as the ring that held the first note.

  For one horrible, bitter moment, I consider putting the pieces back, leaving them buried. It seems so unfair that Owen should have pieces of Regina when I can have none of Ben.

  But as cruel as it is that Ben slipped when Owen didn’t, it isn’t Owen’s fault. He’s the History, and I’m the Keeper. He couldn’t have known what would happen, and I’m the one who chose to wake my brother.

  The sun is up now. The morning of my trial. I slip both the paper and the bar into my pocket and make my way upstairs.

  Dad is already up, and I tell him I went running. I don’t know if he believes me. He says I look tired, and I admit that I am. I shower numbly and stumble through the early hours, trying not to think of the trial, of being deemed unfit, of losing everything. I help Mom settle on new paint chips and pack up half the oatmeal raisin cookies for Nix before I make a lame excuse to leave. Mom is so distracted by the paint dilemma—it’s still not right, not quite right, has to be right—that she simply nods. I pause in the doorway, watching her work, listening to Dad on a call in the other room. I try to memorize this before, not knowing what after will be.

  And then I go.

  I cut through the Narrows, and the memory of last night sweeps over me with the humid air and the far-off sounds. The memory of quiet. And as panic eats through me, I wish I could disappear again. I can’t. But there’s something I should do.

  I find the alcove, and Owen in it, and press the note and the small iron bar into his hands, staying only long enough to steal a kiss and a moment of quiet. The peace dissolves into fear as I reach the Archive door and step through.

  I don’t know what I expected—a row of Librarians waiting, ready to strip me of my key and my ring? Someone named Agatha waiting to judge me unfit, to carve my job right out of my life, taking my identity with it? A tribunal? A lynch mob?

  I certainly don’t expect Lisa to look up from her desk, over her green horn-rimmed glasses, and ask me what I want.

  “Is Roland here?” I ask unsteadily.

  She goes back to her work. “He said you’d stop by.”

  I shift my weight. “Is that all he said?”

  “Said to send you in.” Lisa straightens. “Is everything all right, Miss Bishop?”

  The antechamber is quiet, but my heart is slamming in my chest so loudly, I think she’ll hear. I swallow and force myself to nod. She hasn’t been told. Just then, Elliot rushes in, and I stiffen, thinking he’s come to tell her, come to collect me; but when he leans over her, he says only, “Three, four, six, ten through fourteen.”

  Lisa lets out a tight breath. “All right. Make sure they’re blacked out.”

  I frown. What kind of technical difficulty is this?

  Elliot retreats, and Lisa looks at me again, as if she’d forgotten I was there.

  “Firsts,” she says, meaning first wing, first hall, first room. “Can you show yourself?”

  “I think I can handle it.”

  She nods and throws open several massive ledgers on the desk. I step past her into the atrium. Looking up at the vaulted ceiling of stone and colored glass, I wonder if I’ll ever feel at peace here again. I wonder if I’ll have the chance.

  Something in the distance rumbles, followed shortly by an aftershock of sound. Startled, I scan the stacks and spot Patrick on the far side of the atrium, and when he hears the noise, he vanishes down the nearest wing, pulling the doors closed behind him. I pass Carmen standing by a row of stacks before the first hall. She gives me a small nod.

  “Miss Bishop,” she says. “What brings you back so soon?”

  For a moment, I just stare at her. I feel like my crimes are written on my face, but there’s nothing in her voice to suggest she knows. Did Roland really say nothing?

  “Just here to talk to Roland,” I say at last, managing only a ghost of calm. She waves me on, and I turn down the first wing, then the first hall, and stop at the first door. It’s closed, a heavy, glassless thing, and I press my fingertips against it and summon the courage to go in.

  When I do, two pairs of eyes meet mine: one gray and quite stern; the other brown and rimmed with black.<
br />
  Wesley perches on a table in the middle of the room.

  “I believe you two know each other,” says Roland.

  I consider lying, based on the gut sense that Keepers are supposed to work alone, to exist alone. But Wes nods.

  “Hey, Mac,” he says.

  “What’s he doing here?” I ask.

  Roland steps up. “Mr. Ayers will be assisting you in your territorial duties.”

  I turn to him. “You gave me a babysitter?”

  “Hey, now,” says Wes, hopping down from the table. “I prefer the term partner.”

  I frown. “But only Crew are partnered.”

  “I am making an exception,” Roland says.

  “Come on, Mac,” says Wes, “it will be fun.”

  My mind flicks to Owen, waiting in the dark of the Narrows, but I force the image back. “Roland, what’s this about?”

  “You’ve noticed an uptick in your numbers.”

  I nod. “And ages. Lisa and Patrick both said there was some minor technical difficulty.”

  Roland crosses his arms. “It’s called a disruption.”

  “A disruption, I take it, is worse than a minor technical difficulty.”

  “Have you noticed how quiet the Archive is kept? Do you know why that is?”

  “Because Histories wake up,” says Wesley.

  “Yes, they do. When there’s too much noise, too much activity, the lighter sleepers begin to stir. The more noise, the more activity, the more Histories. Even deep sleepers wake up.”

  Which explains the older Histories in my territory.

  “A disruption happens when the noise Histories make waking up causes other Histories to wake up, and so on. Like dominoes. More and more and more, until it’s contained.”

  “Or they all fall down,” I whisper.

  “As soon as it started, we acted, and began blacking out rooms. Lighter sleepers first. It should have been enough. A disruption starts in one place, like a fire, so it has a core. Logic says that if you can douse the hottest part, you can tamp out the rest. But it’s not working. Every time we put out a fire, a new one flares up in a perfectly quiet place.”

  “That doesn’t seem natural,” says Wes.

  Roland shoots me a meaningful glance. That’s because it isn’t.

  So, is the disruption a distraction from the altered Histories? Or is it something more? I wish I could ask, but following Roland’s lead, I don’t want to say too much in front of Wes.

  “And the Coronado,” Roland continues, “is being hit harder than other territories at the moment. So, Mackenzie, until this minor technical difficulty is resolved and your numbers return to normal, Wesley will be assisting you in your territory.”

  My mind spins. I came in here expecting to lose my job, lose my self, and instead I get a partner.

  Roland holds out a folded slip of paper.

  “Your list, Miss Bishop.”

  I take it, but hold his gaze. What about last night? What about Ben? Questions I know better than to ask aloud. So instead I say, “Is there anything else?”

  Roland considers me a moment, then draws something from his back pocket. A folded black handkerchief. I take it and frown at the weight. Something is wrapped in the fabric. When I peel back the cloth, my eyes widen.

  It’s a key.

  Not like the simply copper one I wear around my neck, or the thin gold ones the Librarians use, but larger, heavier, colder. A near-black thing with sharp teeth and pricks of rust. Something tugs at me. I’ve seen this key before. I’ve felt this key.

  Wesley’s eyes widen. “Is that a Crew key?”

  Roland nods. “It belonged to Antony Bishop.”

  “Why do you have two keys?” I ask.

  You look at me like you never thought I’d notice the second cord around your neck. Now you tug it up over your head and hold it out for me, the metal hanging heavy on the end. When I take the key, it is cold and strangely beautiful, with a handle at one end and sharp teeth at the other. I can’t imagine a lock in the world those teeth would fit.

  “What does it do?” I ask, cradling the metal.

  “It’s a Crew key,” you say. “When a History gets out, you’ve got to return them, fast. Crew can’t waste time searching for doors into the Narrows. So this turns any door into an Archive door.”

  “Any door?” I ask. “Even the front door? Or the one to my room? Or the one on the shed that’s falling down—”

  “Any door. You just put the key in the lock and turn. Left for the Librarians, right for Returns.”

  I run a thumb over the metal. “I thought you stopped being Crew.”

  “I did. Just haven’t brought myself to give it back yet.”

  I hold up the key, sliding it through thin air as if there’s a door with a lock I simply can’t see. And I’m about to turn it when you catch my wrist. Your noise washes through my head, all winter trees and far-off storms.

  “Careful,” you say. “Crew keys are dangerous. They’re used to rip open the seams between the Outer and the Archive, and let us through. We like to think we can control that kind of power with left turns and right turns, but these keys, they can tear holes in the world. I did it once, by accident. Nearly ate me up.”

  “How?”

  “Crew keys are too strong and too smart. If you hold that piece of rusted metal up, not to a door, just a bit of thin air, and give it a full turn, all the way around, it’ll make a tear right in the world, a bad kind of door, one that leads to nowhere.”

  “If it leads nowhere,” I ask, “then what’s the harm?”

  “A door that leads nowhere and a door that leads to nowhere are totally different things, Kenzie. A door that leads to nowhere is dangerous. A door to nowhere is a door into nothing,” you say, taking the key back and slipping the cord over your head. “A void.”

  I look down at the Crew key, mesmerized. “Can it do anything else?”

  “Sure can.”

  “Like what?”

  You give a tilted smile. “Make it to Crew and you’ll find out.”

  I chew my lip. “Hey, Da?”

  “Yes, Kenzie?”

  “If Crew keys are so powerful, won’t the Archive notice it’s gone?”

  You sit back and shrug. “Things get misplaced. Things get lost. Nobody’s going to miss it.”

  “Da gave you his key?” I ask. I’d always wondered what happened to it.

  “Do I get a Crew key, too?” asks Wes, bouncing slightly.

  “You’ll have to share,” says Roland. “The Archive keeps track of these. It notices when they go missing. The only reason they won’t notice this key is gone is because—”

  “It stayed lost,” I say.

  Roland almost smiles. “Antony held on to it as long as he could, and then he gave it back to me. I never turned it in, so the Archive still considers the key lost.”

  “Why are you giving this to me now?” I ask.

  Roland rubs his eyes. “The disruption is spreading. Rapidly. As more Histories wake, and more escape, you need to be prepared.”

  I look down at the key, the weight of the memory pulling at my fingers. “These keys go to and from the Archive, but Da said they did other things. If I’m going to have it and play Crew, I want to know what he meant.”

  “That key is not a promotion, Miss Bishop. It’s to be used only in case of emergency, and even then, only to go to and from the Archive.”

  “Where else would I go?”

  “Oh, oh, like shortcuts?” asks Wes. “My aunt Joan told me about them. There are these doors, only they don’t go to the Narrows or the Archive. They’re just in the Outer. Like holes punched in space.”

  Roland gives us both a withering look and sighs. “Shortcuts are used by Crew to move expediently through the Outer. Some let you skip a few blocks, others let you cross an entire city.”

  Wes nods, but I frown. “Why haven’t I ever seen one? Not even with my ring off.”

  “I’m sure you have and didn�
��t know it. Shortcuts are unnatural—holes in space. They don’t look like doors, just a wrongness in the air, so your eyes slide off. Crew learn to look for the places their eyes don’t want to go. But it takes time and practice. Neither of which you have. And it takes Crew years to memorize which doors lead where, which is only one of a dozen reasons why you do not have permission to use that key on one if you find it. Do you understand?”

  I fold the kerchief over the key and nod, sliding it into my pocket. Roland is obviously nervous, and no wonder. If shortcuts barely register as more than thin air, and Da told me what happens when you use a Crew key on thin air, then the potential for ripping open a void in the Outer is pretty high.

  “Stick together, no playing with the key, no looking for shortcuts.” Wes ticks off the rules on his fingers.

  We both turn to go.

  “Miss Bishop,” says Roland. “A word alone.”

  Wesley leaves, and I linger, waiting for my punishment, my sentence. Roland is silent until the door closes on Wes.

  “Miss Bishop,” he says, without looking at me, “Mr. Ayers has been made aware of the disruption. He has not been told of its suspected cause. You will keep that, and the rest of our investigation, to yourself.”

  I nod. “Is that all, Roland?”

  “No,” he says, his voice going low. “In opening Benjamin’s drawer, you broke Archival law, and you broke my trust. Your actions are being overlooked once and only once, but if you ever, ever do that again, you will forfeit your position, and I will remove you myself.” His gray eyes level on mine. “That is all.”

  I bow my head, eyes trained on the floor so they can’t betray the pain I feel. I take a steadying breath, manage a last nod, and leave.

  Wesley is waiting for me by the Archive door. Elliot is at the desk, scribbling furiously. He doesn’t look up when I come in, even though the sight of two Keepers has to be unusual.

  Wes, meanwhile, seems giddy.

  “Look,” he says cheerfully, holding out his list for me to inspect. There’s one name on it, a kid. “That’s mine…” He flips the paper over to show six names on the other side. “And those are yours. Sharing is caring.”