Chapter 12: August - Twisted Vows

August wasn’t exactly one to drink away his sorrows alone, but he supposed it was never too late to start. Either way, it wasn’t like he had many other coping mechanisms he could resort to. He supposed he could call on Omar—he was always eager and willing to be someone’s drinking buddy—but the mere thought of having to evade his relentless questioning made August’s stomach churn. What could he tell him? Ah, well you see, I’m feeling a bit down because I’ve been assigned to get close to the girl prophesized to usher in the destruction of Blackwood, but she also happens to make me feel things I haven’t felt in centuries, and oh—have I mentioned I’m secretly part of the Demien Order and my sister is their High General?

No. It wouldn’t work. So drinking alone in the Library, slumped at the foot of one of the towering bookshelves, would simply have to do. It was way past curfew, which meant August had been blissfully alone for the better half of the hour. There had been the occasional straggler, but when they had spotted August in the distance, they’d darted in the opposite direction.

Good. August had thought grimly, taking a swig of his enchanted whiskey. Go away. Run. Leave me be. This was exactly why he tried so hard to cement himself as the Demon of Blackwood. If people avoided him, then he’d never have to explain himself.

But by the time August had nearly emptied the bottle, he found that his sorrows not only remained but had seemingly doubled.

He hadn’t meant to scare Wren off. He’d only been trying to protect her. August knew what desperation did to Blackwood students, and there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that Carson and Evie would have followed through with their threats. They would have broken Wren. They would have ripped her apart every which way, just to ensure she’d remain in the infirmary for as long as possible.

The thought alone had been enough to send August over the edge.

And now Wren had seen him. Really seen him. The ugliest parts of him. The festering darkness inside him.

“Fuck it.” August chugged the rest of the bottle, letting the bitter liquid travel down his throat, the full effects of the whiskey burning through his limbs. A heaviness swam in his head. A numbness spread over his skin. When he looked around the dimly lit shelves, dazzling lights twinkled in his vision, as if mini fireworks had exploded.

Perhaps if he hadn’t made the decision to chug what remained of the bottle, he would have been sober enough to notice Olivier Dupont standing beside him before the other boy’s thick French accent cut through August’s hallucinogenic bliss.

“Melancholy is not a good look on you, Augustine.”

August tried not to flinch at the sudden intrusion. He turned his head, slowly, and the world seemed to ripple, his vision lagging with his mind. Olivier was leaning against the towering bookcase, a glass of wine in one hand.

August snorted, pressing his head back for stability. When he spoke, his words slurred and there was a wavering chuckle in his voice. “That’s rich, coming from you.” Even in his inebriated state, it didn’t surprise August to find that Olivier had approached him. For whatever reason, Olivier was different from the other students. Perhaps it was simply because he had been at Blackwood almost as long as August had, but they’d always shared a silent understanding. They stayed out of each other’s way but also seemed to hold a mutual respect. In a strange way, Olivier was a reflection of August. Another boy with centuries’ worth of grief filling his soul, desperate to find a way to numb the pain and make it go away—whatever the cost. For August, it was isolation. For Olivier, it was nihilism.

“Ah, but the difference is I wear my melancholy like a badge of honor.” Olivier splayed his hand against his chest, grinning. “My melancholy drinks wine and wears fine fabrics and keeps many lovers. Your melancholy is”—he looked August up and down—“depressing. You look miserable. More than usual.”

“Piss off, Olivier.” August shut his eyes and it felt as though the entire world was spinning. “I’m not in the mood.”

“Does this have anything to do with that pesky little redhead I saw you with the other day?” Olivier asked, a teasing lilt in his voice. “The new girl?”

August’s eyes snapped open. He suddenly sounded far more sober than he felt.

“Don’t call her that.”

Olivier’s brows raised suspiciously. “I take that as a yes, then.”

“And how do you remember that, anyway?” August grumbled. “It didn’t even look like you were aware of what plane of existence you were on.”

Olivier shrugged. “Comes with practice.”

“Just leave me to wallow,” August muttered under his breath, tossing the empty whiskey bottle on the floor. “Go get high in the Main Yard or screw some stranger under a staircase or whatever it is you do every night.”

At this, Olivier’s expression seemed to change. The teasing grin on his lips faded, his green eyes growing dark and somber. He stepped closer, squatting so that he was at eye level with August.

“Do you want to know what I do every night, Augustine?” Gone was the playfulness in Olivier’s voice, replaced by something far more urgent. When he spoke, he made sure to look directly into August’s eyes, his gaze unwavering.

“I distract myself,” he continued, each word punching out of him slowly. “I take and consume and indulge because it is the only thing that distracts me from the wretched fate that I’ve been handed. It is the only thing that makes it feel as though I can stand to exist here, eternally, until my memories are ripped away from me and I’m finally left an empty husk of who I once was. It is the only thing that distracts me from knowing that all of my happiest days are behind me . . . buried. Dead. Decaying in the earth while I exist here, perpetually bored and dissatisfied and wholly miserable.” He leaned closer, his face inches from August. “That is what I do every night, Augustine. That is my entire purpose.”

August tried to find the right words but settled for silence. Either way, it didn’t matter. Olivier seemed to be done with the conversation, straightening to his full height, swigging the last of his wine.

“And on that note . . .” Olivier wiped the back of his mouth, offering a final bow of his head. “I bid you farewell. Try not to mope for too long . . .” He spun on his heels, glancing over his shoulder. “I’d hate for that pretty face of yours to go to waste.”

And then Olivier Dupont sauntered away, leaving August to sit there, alone, drowning his sorrows until he could think of nothing better to do than to close his eyes and sleep for the first time in two hundred years.

* * *

August dreamt of warmth. There was nothing concrete about the dream, nothing he could make sense of—just warmth and tenderness and light. In his dream, there was no darkness that could hurt him. No memories shackling him to the present. A soft hand touched him. A gentle voice lulled him closer. He was happy. Truly, blissfully happy.

But then something changed. A sharp slap across the face. An intrusion.

There was somebody else entering his dream.

August blinked, and the scene transformed, the warm sensation vanishing as the dream became clear and his vision solidified. He was standing at the center of a clearing. Flowers encircled him—dark purple chrysanthemums and bloodred lilies. And standing in front of him, hands clasped in front of her and a smile on her lips, was Edith.

“What is this?” August sputtered. He looked around, confusion muddling his mind. He could see a dark sky stretched out above him, wispy crimson clouds swirling in the air. “Did you . . . did you infiltrate my dream?”

“Well, I would have used the mirror portal, but someone decided to fall asleep in the Library.” Edith shrugged innocently, prowling closer with slow, steady steps. “I had to get creative.”

August ground his teeth together.

“What do you want, Edith?”

Edith’s response was quick and to the point. Not a moment of hesitation.

“Wren needs to go to reformatory.”

The anger rising in August vanished, replaced by complete and utter panic. He tilted his head, hands balled into fists. “What?”

“You know just as well as I do that it isn’t enough for her magic to be strengthened,” Edith explained. “Her mind must be strengthened as well. She has to be able to endure a great amount of psyche magic. Learn to withstand her mind being poked and prodded at. Reformatory is the fastest and most efficient way to do that.”

Bile and anger rose in August’s throat. Part of him knew this was inevitable; he’d known from the beginning what Wren’s fate would be. She would have to transform into the catalyst. She’d have to endure whatever mental torture Edith had planned for her in order for the switch to go off in her mind.

“There are other ways,” August said, but even as he spoke the words, he knew it was pointless. “Subtler ways. Let me handle it. I can strengthen her mind without having to send her to reformatory.”

“Maybe . . .” Edith nodded, though her lips curved into a menacing smirk. “But why risk a hitch in the plan when reformatory is foolproof?” His sister crossed her arms, pouting her lips. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, little brother.”

“Like what?” August seethed.

“Like I’m a monster.” Her smirk grew wider, as if she relished the mere thought. “I know you didn’t have the best time in reformatory. Lord knows how long it took you to snap out of it afterward—”

Memories threatened to overtake August once again: A dark, cold room . . . His father’s voice echoing in a never-ending loop . . . August clawing at the door, fingers bleeding from the sheer effort . . . His voice hoarse from screaming, begging to be let out, swearing over and over that he would behave—

August pulled himself out of the past, wincing. “Enough.” He wasn’t sure if he was speaking to Edith or himself. “What . . . what do you need from me?”

“Tomorrow you will find the third jewel for your assignment.” Edith’s voice was cold and unfeeling. “The following day, the two of you must report your findings to Housemaster Russo for full credit. It’s your job to ensure that Wren goes. I’ve enlisted two potential Demien Order recruits within Blackwood to ambush her after class and get her in trouble with a group of Ascended.”

“So I just . . . what?” August scoffed. “Walk her to class?”

“Precisely,” Edith replied. “Make sure she goes.”

“How exactly are these recruits going to get her sent to reformatory?” August asked, rubbing his temples. “Surely I should have more details—” But Edith cut him off, swift and curt.

“Just do it, Augustine.”

The finality in her voice sucked all the air from August’s lungs. There was no talking his way out of this. No reasoning with Edith. She was lost to the shadows. Her humanity ripped from the core of her soul. He could grovel and beg and plead his case, but nothing would change.

There was only one thing left for him to do.

“Fine.” August nodded. “Consider it done.”