“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.”

“Wesley, you were listening, weren’t you? This isn’t a game.”

“That doesn’t mean we won’t have fun. And look!” He taps the center of my list, where a name stands out against the sea of black.

Dina Blunt. 33.

I cringe at the prospect of another adult, a Keeper-Killer, the last one still vivid in my mind; but Wesley looks oddly delighted.

“Come, Miss Bishop,” he says, holding out his hand. “Let’s go hunting.”

TWENTY-FOUR

WESLEY AYERS is being too nice.

“So then this wicked-looking six-year-old tries to take me out at the knees…”

Too chatty.

“…but he’s two feet shorter so he just ends kicking the crap out of my shins.…”

Too peppy.

“I mean, he was six, and wearing soccer cleats—”

Which means…

“He told you,” I say.

Wesley’s brow crinkles, but he manages to keep smiling. “What are you talking about?”

“Roland told you, didn’t he? That I lost my brother.”

His smile flickers, fades. At last he nods.

“I already knew,” he says. “I saw him when your dad touched my shoulder. I saw him when you shoved me in the Narrows. I haven’t seen inside your mother’s mind, but it’s in her face, it’s in her step. I didn’t mean to look, Mac, but he’s right at the surface. He’s written all over your family.”

I don’t know what to say. The two of us stand there in the Narrows, and all the falseness falls away.

“Roland said there’d been an incident. Said he didn’t want you to be alone. I don’t know what happened. But I want you to know, you’re not alone.”

My eyes burn, and I clench my jaw and look away.

“Are you holding up?” he asks.

The lie comes to my lips, automatic. I bite it back. “No.”

Wes looks down. “You know, I used to think that when you died, you lost everything.” He starts down the hall, talking as he goes, so I’m forced to follow. “That’s what made me so sad about death, even more than the fact that you couldn’t live anymore; it was that you lost all the things you’d spent your life collecting, all the memories and knowledge. But when my aunt Joan taught me about Histories and the Archive, it changed everything.” He pauses at a corner. “The Archive means that the past is never gone. Never lost. Knowing that, it’s freeing. It gave me permission to always look forward. After all, we have our own Histories to write.”

“God, that’s cliché.”

“I should write greeting cards, I know.”

“I’m not sure they have a section for History-based sentimentality.”

“It’s too bad, really.”

I smile, but I still don’t want to talk about Ben. “Your aunt Joan. She’s the one you inherited from?”

“Great-aunt, technically. The dame with the blue hair…also known as Joan Petrarch. And a frightening woman she is.”

“She’s still alive?”

“Yeah.”

“But she passed the job on to you. Does that mean she abdicated?”

“Not exactly.” He fidgets, looks down. “The role can only be passed on if the present Keeper is no longer capable. Aunt Joan broke her hip a few years back. Don’t get me wrong, she’s still pretty damn fierce. Lightning fast with her cane, in fact. I’ve got the scars to prove it. But after the accident, she passed the job on to me.”

“It must be wonderful to be able to talk to her about it. To ask for advice, for help. To hear the stories.”

Wesley’s smile falls. “It…it doesn’t work like that.”

I feel like an idiot. Of course she left the Archive. She would have been altered. Erased.

“After she passed the job on, she forgot.” There’s a pain in his eyes, a kind I finally recognize. I might not have been able to share in Wes’s clownish smile, but I can share in his sense of loneliness. It’s bad enough to have people who never knew, but to have one and lose them… No wonder Da kept his title till he died.

Wes looks lost, and I wish I knew how to bring him back, but I don’t. And then, I don’t have to. A History does it for me. A sound reaches us, and just like that, Wesley’s smile rekindles. There is a spark in his eyes, a hunger I sometimes see in Histories. I’ll bet he patrols the Narrows looking for a fight.

The sound comes again. Gone are the days, apparently, when we actually had to hunt for Histories. There’s enough of them here that they find us.

“Well, you’ve been wanting to hunt here for days,” I say. “Think you’re ready?”

Wesley gives a bow. “After you.”

“Great,” I say, cracking my knuckles. “Just keep your hands to yourself so I can focus on my work instead of that horrible rock music coming off you.”

He raises a brow. “I sound like a rock band?”

“Don’t look so flattered. You sound like a rock band being thrown out of a truck.”

His smile widens. “Brilliant. And for what it’s worth, you sound like a thunderstorm. And besides, if my soul’s impeccable taste in music throws you off, then learn to tune me out.”

I’m not about to admit that I can’t, that I don’t know how, so I just scoff. The sound of the History comes again, a fist-on-door kind of banging, and I pull the key from around my neck and try to calm the sudden jump in pulse as I wrap the leather cord around my wrist a few times.

I hope it’s not Owen. The thought surprises me. I can’t believe I’d rather face another Hooper than return Owen right now. It can’t be Owen, though. He would never make this much noise…not unless he’s started to slip. Maybe I should have told Wesley about him, but he’s part of the investigation, which puts him under the blanket of things I’m not supposed to speak of. Still, if Wes finds Owen, or Owen finds Wes, how will I explain that I need this one History, that I’m protecting him from the Archive, that he’s a clue? (And that’s all he is, I tell myself as firmly as possible.)

I can’t explain that.

I have to hope Owen has the sense to stay as far away from us as possible.

“Relax, Mac,” says Wes, reading the tightness in my face. “I’ll protect you.”

I laugh for good measure. “Yeah, right. You and your spiked hair will save me from the big bad monsters.”

Wes retrieves a short cylinder from his jacket. He flicks his wrist, and the cylinder multiplies, becoming a pole.

I laugh. “I forgot about the stick! No wonder the six-year-old kicked you,” I say. “You look ready to break open a piñata.”

“It’s a bˉo staff.”

“It’s a stick. And put it away. Most of the Histories are already scared, Wes. You’re only going to make it worse.”

“You talk about them like they’re people.”

“You talk about them like they’re not. Put it away.”

Wesley grumbles but collapses the stick and pockets it. “Your territory,” he says, “your rules.”

The banging comes again, followed by a small “Hello? Hello?” We round a corner, and stop.

A teenage girl is standing near the end of the hall. She has a halo of reddish hair and nails painted a chipping blue, and she’s banging on one of the doors as hard as she can.

Wesley steps toward her, but I stop him with a look. I take a step toward the girl, and she spins. Her eyes are flecked with black.