Chapter 10: Wren - Twisted Vows

There were no words Wren could adequately string together to describe just how embarrassed she felt. In the harsh morning light, the consequences of her actions assaulted her like a sharp slap in the face. And as she attempted to go about her day as normal, attending her regularly scheduled classes and absorbing as much information as she possibly could, the shame tearing at her persisted, unrelenting.

It wasn’t like she had done anything that bad after drinking the enchanted wine, but there was something particularly mortifying about losing control in front of the prim, poised and ever stone-faced Augustine Hughes. She wanted August to take her seriously, and dancing on a table after drinking too much wine probably wasn’t the best way to encourage that.

An image fluttered through Wren’s mind: herself, absolutely plastered, getting tossed over August’s shoulder and hauled out of Chambers and Fiddle like a toddler throwing a tantrum.

“Jesus . . .” Wren muttered, physically recoiling from the memory. She dug her fingers into the cold dirt beneath her, clawing for some semblance of comfort. She’d been sitting in the Main Yard for almost ten minutes, waiting for August at their scheduled meeting point, but no matter how hard she tried, no matter how desperately, Wren couldn’t stop herself from replaying the previous night on an incessant loop.

She tried to focus on anything else. The burnt yellow oak leaves dancing across the ground, fluttering in the breeze. The faint patter of footsteps in the distance. Voices rising and falling in the wind. Her eyes traced the large fountain that sat at the center of the quad. Her gaze drifting to a pair of students lying on the grass, giggling into their textbooks as they scribbled something in the margins.

But her mind continued to wander. Her concentration crumbling with every second.

She was seated on one of the iron benches lining the Main Yard, knees tucked to her chest. She had to admit, at least her mortification over what had happened and her growing annoyance with August was a welcome distraction from her present reality. She’d hardly thought about the fact that she was . . . well, that she was dead. Every once in a while, the thought would slither back into Wren’s mind, and she’d find herself unable to breathe. As if a sudden weight had fallen upon her chest. As if her lungs had collapsed, her airway sealed. And then the feeling would pass, whether through time, or patience, or a vexing smile and a pair of teasing smoke-filled eyes.

“Hello, Loughty.”

Wren nearly jumped out of her skin. She stifled a gasp, turning her head to find August standing behind her, hands leaning against the bench, eyes beaming down at her. He’d donned a black sweater today, slipped on over his usual white shirt. His lips were curled into an amused smile, and a tiny part of Wren couldn’t help but fear that somehow, by some strange magic, he’d been able to read her thoughts.

“August.” Wren spoke his name with as much disdain as she could muster. “You’re late.”

“Did you miss me that much?” August gracefully leapt over the top of the bench, landing squarely next to Wren, who tried to ignore the fact that his leg was now touching hers. Not that she cared. Or noticed.

“Just hopeful,” Wren muttered. “Thought maybe you’d landed yourself in the infirmary.” She sighed and batted her lashes. “A girl can dream.”

August chuckled, leaning back, legs sprawled in front of him. He rapped his fingers against his thighs, the silver ring on his index finger glinting with every flick of his hand. Warm light from the sun washed August’s tanned skin in a faint amethyst hue. Soon the sky would melt into a pool of black, a silverish glow emanating from above. Fog would roll in, ribbons of it coating the ground.

Wren hoped that this excursion of theirs would end before then.

“So.” August sighed, turning to look at Wren. “How are we feeling today? You know . . . after your . . . performance?”

Wren groaned, rubbing her temples. She should have known he’d bring it up as soon as possible.

“I’m fine, thank you very much,” she muttered, doing her best to seem unfazed. “And I would hardly call that a performance. I just . . . had a bit too much. Got a little fuzzy in the brain.” Wren shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “That’s all.”

August shrugged. “It happens,” he replied, catching Wren by surprise. She’d assumed he’d keep making digs at her. Do everything he possibly could to knock her down a peg. “You haven’t formally been inducted into Blackwood until Omar gets you far more inebriated than you intended to be.”

“Even you?” Wren asked, brows raised.

August let out a prolonged sigh.

“Even the infallible Demon of Blackwood—yes.”

“Well.” Wren chuckled, relaxing a bit in her seat. “I guess that makes me feel a tad less mortified.”

“Come on, then.” August jumped to his feet, sauntering away from Wren. “Enough reminiscing. We have a second jewel to find.”

Wren scrambled after him. “And where are we off to today?”

August reached into his pocket, revealing the wrinkled map. “It appears our dear Housemaster Russo is leading us to Memorium.”

Memorium? Wren scoured her brain for any mention of the building but came up blank.

“Never heard of it.”

August waved his hand dismissively in the air. “It’s just another building.”

“Is it used for classes?” Wren asked. “Maya didn’t mention it.”

“No,” August replied. Wren waited for him to say something else, to offer some sort of explanation, but August had grown strangely silent. There was also a rigidness in his shoulders, a tightness in his gaze, that hadn’t been there before.

“Okay . . . so . . .” Wren chuckled. “What is it used for?”

“It’s . . .” August’s jaw twitched, the muscles in his neck tensing. “It’s used for . . . thinking.”

“The school has a building solely used for . . . thinking?” Wren deadpanned.

“It’s a quiet hall,” August replied, exasperated. He was losing his patience. Clearly desperate to change the subject. There was something about this Memorium place that he was avoiding. “Sacred. Holy. You sit there and think and pay your respects.”

“Pay your respects to what?” Wren asked.

“Do you always ask this many questions?” August snapped, gray eyes darting down at her.

“Only when the person I’m talking to is being this weird and evasive,” Wren shot back.

And there—Wren saw August’s hardened exterior crack an inch. The hint of a smile on his lips. There was something oddly rewarding about it. Unnaturally satisfying.

There was something intoxicating about making the notorious Augustine Hughes smile.

“Just follow me,” he muttered, guiding her forward.

The campus was quiet as they trekked toward Memorium. After a few minutes of walking in silence, the final bell rang from Elysium Hall, late afternoon enveloping Blackwood in dusty purple light and the faintest trace of fog. A gentle breeze picked up the leaves beneath Wren’s feet, sending goose bumps down her arms. August peered at her, mouth twisted, as if he were contemplating something.

He cleared his throat.

“Are you cold?” he asked, squinting.

Wren shrugged. Truthfully, she’d decided to leave her trench coat in her room, a decision she was currently regretting. “A bit. But I’m fine.”

He sighed, peeling off his sweater, and held it in front of her. Wren stared at the silent offering, brows raised.

“Seriously?” she asked, unable to stop the grin from spilling onto her lips. “You’re offering me your sweater?”

August groaned. If Wren didn’t know any better, she’d even say he seemed flustered.

“Just take it,” he grumbled.

“Augustine Hughes.” Wren chuckled, snatching the sweater from his hands. She slipped it on, the warmth of the wool instantly washing over her. “The gentleman of Blackwood.”

August scowled. “I will end you.”

“But not before making sure I’m nice and warm.” Wren grinned and crossed her arms over her chest.

“You’re insufferable,” August muttered under his breath.

“And no longer cold,” Wren added. “Thank you.”

“Whatever.” August rolled his eyes, but Wren could see the smile peeking at the edges of his mouth. “We’re here.”

She wasn’t sure if it was the cold, but a shiver ran down her spine as she looked up at the building standing before them. Memorium appeared to have been fashioned to look like an old Church, composed of dark granite with a myriad of stained-glass windows that reflected the late-afternoon light. Large oak doors greeted them, a set of steps leading to the dimly lit entrance.

“Looks . . . depressing.” Wren didn’t know why exactly, but there was something about the building that filled her with a profound sense of sadness. A deep ache blossoming in the pit of her stomach. Despair.

“That’s because it is,” August grumbled under his breath as he approached the entrance, hands shoved into his pockets. He simply looked at the door and it swung open, moving at his command. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”

August crossed into Memorium and Wren followed suit.

She was surprised to find it was rather empty, save for a few pews in the center of the main hall. But there was something looming on the other side of the room. A large stone monument shaped like a pillar, surrounded by what appeared to be letters and dozens of half-burned candles. Other than the faint patter of their footsteps, there was no sound. Just silence. Piercing, oppressive silence.

“So . . . are you gonna tell me what this building is used for now, or are you gonna continue to be super weird about it?” Wren asked, voice echoing through the hall. They walked forward, passing row after row of pews, drawing closer to the monument.

August let out a resigned sigh.

“Have you heard of the Demien Order?” he asked.

“No.” Wren shook her head. “Is that, like, a school club or something?”

August let out a bitter chuckle. “No. It is definitely not a club.” There was something dark lingering in his voice. A sharpness. Wren could tell this was a touchy subject for him. “The Demien Order is a separate entity from Blackwood. They exist in the outskirts of purgatory. Nobody knows how and when they formed. All we know is that they follow their leader, a figure known as the Soulless One. And every year, they recruit more and more students.” August grimaced, a look of disgust on his face. “Brainwash them.”

“For what purpose?” Wren asked.

“To raise an army,” August said simply. “Against Blackwood.”

Anxiety coursed through Wren. How had nobody mentioned this before? It seemed odd that Headmaster Silas would conveniently leave out this vital piece of information. Perhaps he didn’t want to scare the newer students more than they already were. It made sense. Wren was terrified—and had been even before she found out about the hellish army planning on attacking them.

“They want to destroy Blackwood?” Wren echoed. “But why?”

August shrugged. “It’s the Soulless One’s greatest desire. And they blindly follow what the Soulless One demands.”

They paused in front of the monument. Wren could see now that there were names carved in the pillar. Hundreds of them. How many students had left to join the Demien Order? How many souls had been tricked by their poisonous words? There had to be a way to stop them. To ensure they didn’t cross Blackwood’s gates.

“But doesn’t the school have magical defenses?” Wren pondered out loud. “Wards to protect against an attack?”

August nodded. “We do.”

“So . . . how do they intend to destroy Blackwood?”

Something in August’s expression shifted upon hearing Wren’s question. His eyes grew dark and grave. His features solemn. He swallowed, hands balled into fists by his sides.

“I don’t know,” he finally replied, letting out a breath. And that was that—Wren could see the conversation shutting down. The wall between them rising once more. “But this building is used to memorialize the students who leave. Who are taken by the Demien Order. Their friends and loved ones write them letters . . . they come here to sit and remember them.”

“To think,” Wren added with a soft smile.

August chuckled. “Exactly.”

“All right, well . . .” Wren cleared her throat, attempting to ignore the weird tension that had built between them. “What now? Where does the map lead?”

August fished the map from his pocket, handing it to Wren. It was the first time since they’d begun the Hunt that August had let Wren hold the map. She did her best not to draw attention to it, worried that August might snatch it right out of her hands. As she stared down at the map, she noted that the path leading to the second jewel stopped inside Memorium but didn’t detail anything beyond that.

“Could be anywhere,” August muttered with a frustrated groan.

“Last time, the secret compartment was marked with the letter R.” Wren shrugged, gesturing to the room. “So . . . let’s find the R.”

They searched for nearly half an hour. Inspecting every crevice. Every stone slab. Every amber-tinted window. Wren was beginning to give up when August’s voice echoed from the other side of the room.

“Think I found something.”

August was squatting next to one of the back pews, peering underneath the wooden bench. He snapped his fingers, producing a small flame, illuminating the underside of the pew for Wren to see.

And there, carved with an elegant flourish, just like in Bonestrod, was the letter R.

“Shall we?” August raised a brow, gesturing her to take the lead.

With a sharp inhale, Wren placed her hand upon the R. Instantly, the pew began to vibrate. A deep rumble echoed all around them. And then the pew was moving, shifting to reveal a hidden hatch embedded in the floor.

“What do you think we’ll find in there?” Wren asked in a hushed whisper.

“I don’t know,” August replied, unhooking the latch. He opened the trapdoor, revealing dimly lit stairs. “But stay behind me. I don’t need you blindly running into battle like last time, okay?” He peered over at her, a coy smile on his lips. “I prefer my partners awake and conscious.”

“That’s funny.” Wren sucked her teeth. “It almost sounds like you care about my well-being.”

August scowled. “Again—selfish reasons.”

Wren shrugged.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Before August could step forward, Wren cut in front of him, taking the first step down into the hidden underground hatch. She wasn’t sure what she might find, but she wasn’t going to let August dictate who should take charge. She had to assume this challenge would be different. Stumbling upon another bloodthirsty statue hell-bent on destroying her seemed highly unlikely.

Much to Wren’s relief, August kept the small flame alight in his palm as they descended deeper underground, illuminating the dimly lit space. Despite the silence that had fallen over them, Wren could sense his presence behind her. His eyes drilling into her. The fact that he was only inches away, dangerously close, given how narrow the stairs were.

“Think we’re almost there?” Wren muttered through a nervous chuckle. She wasn’t exactly claustrophobic, but she was beginning to lose her nerve.

“Look,” August muttered, his voice low.

Wren’s eyes darted forward, relief coursing through her when she spotted a door up ahead. She had no idea what they’d find on the other side, but anywhere was better than this tight staircase.

Before she could second-guess herself, Wren approached the door and swung it open, stumbling forward. Luckily, she had been right: the circular room was far better than the staircase they had been trapped in moments prior. Large and spacious, it greeted them on the other side, illuminated by torchlight and iron sconces lining the walls. Wren inhaled a deep breath as she stretched her arms overhead. August peered at her, a curious smile on his face.

“Not a fan of tight spaces?” he mused out loud.

Wren shrugged. “Is anybody?”

August turned his lips down in an expression that seemed to say fair enough and instantly began searching the room for the jewel.

He didn’t have to search long.

At the center of the room was a glass display case set upon a wide stone column that came up to about Wren’s waist. And in the case, glittering and brilliant, was a bloodred ruby.

But there was something else in front of the display case. As they approached the column, Wren realized what it was.

A mound of sand had been placed on the column, with three wooden discs carefully laid out before it. An image had been carved into each disc—a match, a cake and a basket. A single word was written on a piece of paper beside the display: TRANSMUTE.

August hummed. “Figured the next challenge would be something like this.”

“Are we meant to cast a transmutation spell?” Wren asked. “Change the physical properties of the sand?”

August nodded. “And I believe these three images are meant to be our hints for what we’re supposed to change the sand into.”

A thought occurred to Wren. “What if we get it wrong? What if we change the sand into the wrong thing?”

August let out a dry chuckle, pushing up his sleeves.

“Suppose I’ll be the one to find that out.”

August extended his arm toward the sand, eyes shut tight. Glimmers of yellow and orange light swirled in his palm, blanketing the mound of sand. But when August opened his eyes, the mound remained unchanged. “Hmm.” He rubbed his jaw. “Didn’t work.”

“What did you try to change it into?”

“A candle. Figured it made sense with the match and cake . . . though I’m not entirely sure how the basket is related. Well. Good news is that there don’t seem to be any repercussions to guessing incorrectly.” But as August continued to speak, something began to change on his face. Wren thought she was imaging things for a moment, but as the seconds went by, there was no denying what was forming upon his skin. “Guess we just have to try and—”

Wren let out a gasp. “Oh my God.”

“What is it?” August asked, brow furrowed.

“Your face.” Wren clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle the laughter bubbling up her throat. “You’ve got—” She struggled to get the words out, snorting as a cackle of uncontrollable laughter erupted out of her.

August frantically touched his cheek, eyes widening in anger when he undoubtedly felt the fish scales that now covered his face. “Bloody hell. If you don’t alter the element correctly, you begin to transmute.” He let out a string of colorful curses, staring at the ceiling in frustration. “Are they . . . are they scales?” he muttered weakly, tentatively tracing his jawline.

Wren nodded, biting down on her cheek in an effort to contain her smile.

“They’re pink,” she replied, giggling. “And sparkly. Like a pretty little fish.”

“This is not funny, Loughty.” August crossed his arms in indignation, which only made Wren want to laugh more. “What if I sprout gills next?”

“Maybe you won’t,” Wren replied. “Maybe it’ll be a tail.”

August frowned. “Laugh all you want, but it’s your turn. Go on, Loughty. You said you wanted to learn and participate. So—participate.”

He was right. Wren approached the column and examined the three wooden discs once more, carefully inspecting each image: a match . . . a cake . . . a basket.

But wait. There was something about the basket she recognized. Something she hadn’t noticed at first glance. It wasn’t just a simple woven basket drawn on the third wooden disc. There was a ribbon tied to the handle. Stars were painted on the side.

“How . . . how is that possible?” Wren murmured.

August blinked up at her. The scales had begun to spread, now traveling down his neck.

“What is it?”

“I know that basket,” Wren said, tracing the image with her fingertip. “It’s . . . it’s my mom’s. She’d pick fresh flowers from her garden every few weeks and bring them in using that basket.” If Wren closed her eyes, she could practically see her mom crouched in her garden, hands covered in dirt, auburn hair tied away from her face. “I drew those stars on it when I was six.”

“Russo . . .” August groaned in frustration. “She must have made this challenge specifically for you. To ensure it wasn’t just me participating in the Hunt.” He snorted, crossing his arms. Even those were covered with scales now. “She can never play fair, that one.”

“But the match and the cake . . .” Wren whispered, attempting to piece together the clues. “I don’t see how the two relate to—” A sudden thought stole the words from her throat, and she sucked in a sharp breath as understanding washed over her. “Of course.”

“You know what it is?” August asked, a hopeful lilt to his voice.

Wren nodded.

“I think so.”

“Well, go on.” August craned his neck, rubbing the skin there warily. “I think I feel gills popping out.”

“Every year on my birthday my mom picked a special flower for me from her garden,” Wren whispered. Memories of her mother flooded her mind, bringing with them a painful swell of emotion. Grief threatened to pull her under, but she inhaled a steadying breath, focusing on the task at hand. “She knew they were my favorite. She’d place them in that basket and bring them to my room, along with a small cake. Every single year.”

August had grown quiet since Wren had started talking, despite his worsening condition, his eyes locked on her intently.

“Lupine flowers,” Wren went on. She reached out, placing her hand on the mound of sand, then closed her eyes, locating the core of her magic and focusing on her chest. On the nexus of corporeal magic swirling inside her.

When she opened her eyes, three things had happened.

One: The scales sprouting all over August’s skin had vanished.

Two: A lupine blossom stood where the mound of sand had been only seconds before.

Three: The glass case had vanished, unveiling the glistening ruby nestled inside.