Read Online The Unbound by Victoria Schwab - Free Book Online Page A

balance. A shallow pain draws my eyes to my arm, and for the first time I see the scratches there, raked across my skin, and a sick feeling spreads through me.
    When did this happen?
    When did Harker fight back?
    I rack my brain, trying to rewind my own mind, trying to remember when he scratched me, or what made him run in the first place, or how we met, and panic coils around me as I realize that I can’t .
    I remember stepping through the door and into the Narrows. I remember the sound of humming, and then…nothing. Nothing until halfway through the chase. The time between is just missing . I squeeze my eyes shut, scrambling for the memories and finding only a blur. I sink down to the floor and rest my forehead against my knees, forcing air into my lungs.
    One of Da’s lessons plays in my head, his voice low and steady and smooth: Keep your head on, Kenzie. Can’t think straight when you’re all worked up. Histories panic. Look at all the good it does them.
    I take another breath and try to calm down. What was I doing? I was reading the walls…I was about to read the walls when I heard the humming, and then…and then I lick my lips and taste blood, and just like that, the memories rush back.
    Someone was humming.
    Just like Owen used to do. My heart started to race as I followed the melody through the halls. It sounded so much like humming at first, but then it didn’t—the Narrows does distort things—growing louder and harsher until it wasn’t anything like humming, wasn’t music at all, but a hard and steady thud thud thud .
    Harker kicking a door halfway down the hall, so loud he didn’t hear me coming until I was there behind him, head pounding, and then he spun and, before I could even lie my way into his good graces, caught me off guard with his fist.
    It comes back like still frames, glimpses in a strobe.
    My hand tangled in his shirt.
    Shoving him back.
    A mess of thrashing limbs.
    His shoe coming up against my stomach.
    His hands clawing his way free.
    Both of us running.
    I feel sick with relief. The memory’s shaky, but it’s there.
    As I pull the list from my pocket and watch Harker’s name bleed off the page, one question claws its way through my spinning thoughts: why did I black out in the first place?
    If I had to guess, I’d say sleep. Or rather, the lack of it.
    This—blacking out, losing time, whatever it is—happened once before. A few days after Owen. Last time—which was the first time, and I’d hoped the only time—I hadn’t been sleeping, either. I was so tired, I could barely see straight. One moment I was trying to talk down a History, a teenage girl, and the next I was alone in the hall and my knuckles were raw and her name was gone from my list. When I finally calmed down, the memories came back, blurry and stilted, but there. She’d already slipped, thought I was someone else. Called me M (probably Em, like Emily or Emma). That’s all it had taken to make my hands shake and my heart race and my mind skip. A sliver of Owen.
    I told myself then it wasn’t a big deal. It only happened once—unlike the nightmares that came every night like clockwork—so I didn’t tell Roland. I didn’t want him to worry. Da used to say you had to see patterns, but not go looking for them, and I didn’t want to make something out of nothing. But Da also used to say that one mistake was an accident, but two was a problem.
    As I look down at the scratches on my arms, I know.
    This is officially a problem.
    I will myself to get back to my feet. I consider the door beside the one I just sent Harker through, the one marked with the hollow white circle I use to denote the Archive. I should tell Roland. And I will—later. Right now, I have to get home. Last time I lost a minute, maybe two, but now I can tell I’ve lost more than that. I dig my nails into my palms, hoping the sting will keep me awake as I head back for the numbered doors.
    The key dangles from its cord around my wrist, and I