Free The Unbound by Victoria Schwab Page A

tangling his fingers in my hair. “I will set you free.”
    He draws the flat side of the knife down my body, bringing the tip to rest between my ribs. He puts just enough weight on the blade to slice through my shirt and nick my skin, and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to get away, trying to wake up, but the hand tangled in my hair tightens.
    “Open your eyes,” he warns.
    I drag them open and find his face inches from mine. “Why?” I growl. “So I can see the truth?”
    His smile sharpens. “No,” he says. “So I can watch the life go out of them.”
    And then he drives the knife forward into my chest.
    I sit up in the dark, one hand clutching at my shirt, the other pressed over my mouth to stifle the cry that’s already escaped. I know it’s a dream, but it is so terrifyingly real. My whole body aches from the fall and the gargoyles’ grip, and the place on my chest where the knife drove in burns with phantom pain.
    My face is damp, and I can’t tell if it’s from sweat or tears or both. The clock says twelve forty-five, and I draw up my knees and rest my head against them, taking a few slow, steadying breaths.
    A moment later, there is a knock on my door.
    “Mackenzie,” comes my father’s quiet voice. I look up as the door opens and I can see his outline in the light spilling from my parents’ bedroom into the hall behind him. He comes to sit on the edge of my bed, and I’m grateful to the dark for hiding whatever is written across my face right now.
    “What’s going on, hon?” he whispers.
    “Nothing,” I say. “Sorry if I woke you guys up. Just had a bad dream.”
    “Again?” he asks gently. We both know it’s been happening too often.
    “It’s no big deal,” I say, trying to keep my voice light.
    Dad tugs his glasses from his face and cleans them on his T-shirt. “You know what your Da used to tell me about bad dreams?”
    I know what Da used to tell me , but I doubt it’s the same thing he told my father, so I shake my head.
    “He used to tell me there were no bad dreams. Just dreams. That when we call them good or bad, we give importance to them. I know that doesn’t make it better, Mac. I know it’s easy to talk like that when you’re awake. But the fact is, dreams catch us with our armor off.”
    Not trusting myself to speak, I nod.
    “Do you want to…talk to someone about it?” He doesn’t mean talk to him or talk to Mom. He means a therapist. Like Colleen . But I’ve got more than enough people trying to get inside my head right now.
    “No. Really, I’m fine.”
    “You’re sure?”
    I nod again. “Trust me.”
    My heart sinks, because I can see in my father’s eyes that he wants to, but doesn’t. Da used to say that lies were easy, but trust was hard. Trust is like faith: it can turn people into believers, but every time it’s lost, trust becomes harder and harder to win back. I’ve spent the last four and a half years—since I became a Keeper—trying to cling to my parents’ trust, watching doubt replace it little by little. And doubt, Da warned, is like a current you have to swim against, one that saps your strength.
    “Well, if you change your mind…” he says, sliding to his feet.
    “I’ll let you know,” I say, watching him go.
    He’s right. I should talk to someone. But not Colleen.
    I listen to the sound of his receding steps after he’s closed the door, and to the murmur of my mother’s voice when he returns to their room. I let the whole apartment go quiet and dark, and only when I’m sure that they’re asleep do I get up, get dressed, and sneak out.
    I step into the Archive, and I shiver.
    My sleep hasn’t been the only thing affected by Owen and Carmen’s recent attack. The Archive has changed, too. It has always been marked by quiet, but where the lack of noise used to feel peaceful, now it feels coiled and tense. The silence is heavier, enforced by hushed voices and warning looks. The massive doors behind the antechamber’s desk