Chapter 3: Wren - Twisted Vows

Adjusting to death was proving to be a challenge.

Wren had spent her first three days at Blackwood cooped up in her room, hidden beneath her covers, crying until her vision blurred and reality lost its meaning. She hadn’t even known it was possible to produce that many tears. She’d just wept and wept—mourning the life she’d lost, the people she’d lost, the world she would never see again. Her home. Her parents. Her sister. Her future.

The move to New York she’d always imagined—gone.

Her dreams of becoming a journalist—gone.

The trip she wanted to take to the Amalfi Coast with her sister—gone.

All those hopes and dreams and big, shiny plans—all of them . . . gone. Forever. Taken from her because of one stupid mistake. One stupid, stupid decision. And worst of all . . . her sister had met the same fate, though her soul, according to the strange Headmaster of the school, had successfully crossed to the Other Side. That, at least, Wren could hold on to. Knowing her sister had found some semblance of peace.

But not Wren. Of course Wren hadn’t. It was her fault, after all. She was the older sister. The one who was supposed to take care of Maeve. The one who was supposed to make the right choices and smart decisions and do better.

Be good.

Be smart.

Be clever.

Be perfect.

And she had fucked it all up. So if she was honest with herself, she deserved this. She deserved eternal unrest, forced to reap lost souls for the rest of eternity, until she could no longer remember all the mistakes she had made.

Light at the end of the tunnel, Wren thought grimly.

After she had awoken from embarrassingly fainting in his office, Headmaster Silas—as he had come to formally introduce himself—had informed Wren of all the grim details. How she would learn magic to help usher souls into the Other Side. The side effects of using too much magic, and that though she might not be able to feel pain, she could still exhaust herself to the point of being forced into a vegetative state and sent to the infirmary. The inevitability of the Forgetting, and how she’d eventually succumb to its amnestic properties unless she was nominated for the Decennial and successfully passed its four trials—though the next one wasn’t for a few years, not that she stood a chance at the nomination, anyway.

She had listened intently, absorbing what she could despite the nausea licking up her throat and the persistent ringing in her ears. It had all felt . . . surreal. Comically impossible. She was just supposed to believe in magic now?

Despite Wren’s reluctance, Headmaster Silas had then sorted her into her House, a process that had bewildered Wren.

“Hold the candle in your hand and blow on the wick,” Headmaster Silas had instructed, handing her a white wax candle set upon a brass holder.

Wren had stared down at the unlit candle, head tilted in confusion.

“What?”

“Blow on the wick,” Silas had repeated, a bit more forcefully this time.

Wren thought it was a rather foolish request, but then again, what did Wren know anymore? Her world had been ripped away from her. Her entire existence flipped on its axis. She supposed blowing on an unlit candle wasn’t the strangest thing she’d done since dying.

“All right.” Wren had sighed, bringing the candle closer to her mouth. “Fine.”

She blew on the wick.

And it came to life.

A deep crimson glow burst from the wick. A swirling red flame.

“Interesting.” Headmaster Silas hummed, nodding. “Very interesting.”

“What?” Wren asked.

Headmaster Silas had smiled. A proud, curious smile.

“Pettyworth House.”

Wren had come to learn that Pettyworth House was home to some of the most academically inclined students at Blackwood Academy. And though Wren could admit that she was rather smart, she had never been top of her class when she was alive. She hadn’t even enjoyed school all that much. In fact, she detested the concept of academia. All the bureaucracy and politics and bullshit that came along with it. But Headmaster Silas had insisted that the sorting process was never wrong—and so, Pettyworth House it was.

Not that it made a difference. Wren refused to leave her room those first few days, despite the myriad of letters that had been shoved under her door, requesting she meet with Housemaster Marigold—instructor for elemental magic and supervisor of Pettyworth House—to receive her class schedule.

Screw this place, Wren had thought bitterly. And everyone in it.

She ignored the letters. She even ignored the textbooks that had begun to appear at the front of her room—though she had no idea how they were materializing there on their own. Out of sheer curiosity, she’d picked up a few and flipped through them, though most of what she found inside was pure and utter nonsense. Transmutation spells. Psyche mind puzzles. Spacial relocation strategies. She’d tried to make sense of them, skimming and digesting what she could, but no matter how much she read, she refused to acknowledge the reality of what had happened to her. She refused to leave her room and acknowledge her admission into Blackwood.

That was, until, the fourth day.

Today.

Wren awoke not to another letter but to a knock on her door.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Wren peeled the covers away from her face and sat up. She listened intently, waiting, and another set of knocks echoed. Thump. Thump. Thump. Whoever it was, they weren’t giving up. She wondered who it could be . . . Surely it was Headmaster Silas here to reprimand her for ignoring his letters. Better yet, maybe he was here to revoke her admission.

Curiosity piqued, Wren slid out of bed and slipped on her boots before walking across the room.

But when she opened the door, it wasn’t Headmaster Silas staring back at her. It was a girl. And given that the girl appeared to be no older than Wren, perhaps even slightly younger, Wren assumed it wasn’t this Housemaster Marigold person either. Which meant that whoever this was . . . it was another student.

“Hello!” the girl chirped. Her dark hair was fashioned into a wavy pixie cut and her large honey-brown eyes were wide and eager. She had a thin, upturned nose and full lips, which she had painted a deep plum color. Her Blackwood uniform—which Wren had come to learn was tailored to fit each student’s unique personality—consisted of a lavender vest fitted over a billowing white blouse, which she had tucked into a flowing plaid skirt that fell just below her knees. Her shoes, Wren noticed, were sparkling. Shimmering, glittery flats the same color as her vest.

Wren cleared her throat.

“Hey.”

“I’m Maya Romero.” The girl extended her free hand with surprising vigor, hand flexed in anticipation. Her other arm was holding a stack of textbooks precariously tucked under her elbow. “We’re neighbors. Well, kind of. I live across from you—” But Wren interjected before the poor girl could get another word in, keeping her own hand planted firmly on the doorframe.

“What do you want?”

Maya blinked in surprise. She held her hand out for another beat, awkwardly letting it hover between them, before dropping it to her side. “You’ve been ignoring your letters.”

“Very astute.” Wren glanced down at the dozens of unopened letters strewn across the floor. She’d stopped opening them after the first one—she assumed they all said the same thing. Some variation of how important it was for her to start her classes, how it was imperative she leave her room, how it was essential that she acclimate to the school, blah blah blah. Wren sighed and flitted her eyes back up to Maya. “Let me guess, you’ve been sent here to drag me out of my room?”

Maya chuckled, nervously scratching the back of her arm. “Uh . . . sort of.” She let out a long sigh, and when she spoke next, it was as if she were reciting something she had memorized, each word carefully parsed out. “I am here to help you. I know Blackwood can take some getting used to . . . and learning about one’s own demise is never easy—” Her voice caught in her throat as Wren cut in gently.

“Maya, is it?” Maya’s mouth remained open; she was clearly taken aback by Wren’s unwillingness to listen. “Look. I bet you’re a really nice girl, and I’m not trying to be mean, but I really, really don’t give a shit, okay?” At this, Maya’s mouth clamped shut. The tips of her ears burned pink. “I’m not leaving this room. I’m not going to class.”

Maya blinked. She gnawed on the inside of her cheek. “But . . .” Her voice was small and thready. “You have to.”

Wren snorted. “Or what?”

At Wren’s question, Maya’s face grew unnaturally solemn. She leaned in closer, the next word creeping out of her in a conspiratorial whisper. “Reformatory.”

Wren sighed. “Am I supposed to know what that is?”

“Think of it like detention,” Maya said, swallowing. “But . . . a lot worse.” She shook her head, and something about the look in her eyes sent a shiver down Wren’s spine. “Trust me. You do not want to go there.”

“Oh, come on. I’ve had my fair share of detention. It’s not like they torture you.” But at Wren’s comment, Maya’s expression only grew more grave, and Wren had the sinking feeling that she was very wrong.

“Physically?” Maya shook her head. “No. Given our numbed pain receptors, that would be rather pointless. But there are other ways to torture someone. Other ways to inflict suffering.”

A blanket of goose bumps traveled down Wren’s arms. The suggestion was . . . ominous. Despite her reluctance to join Blackwood’s routine, she wasn’t exactly keen to find out the different ways a soul can be tortured. Which meant acclimating to her surroundings was no longer a choice.

It was a means of survival.

Wren groaned.

“Fine,” she muttered. “I guess I’ll consider going to—”

“Perfect.” Without warning, Maya shoved the textbooks into Wren’s arms, gripped her tightly by the elbow and practically yanked her into the corridor. “Follow me.”

Wren had no time to protest. She found herself walking beside Maya, dragged along as the girl sauntered down the winding corridors of Pettyworth’s upper dormitories. Wren’s eyes skated past the dozens of doors lining the path, and a part of her couldn’t help but wonder how many students were housed in the building.

“How many—”

“Fifty-three,” Maya interjected. “There are fifty-three of us in Pettyworth House.”

Wren cocked her head. “How did you—”

“Newbies always ask the same questions,” Maya cut in with a smirk.

They made their way down a spiral staircase, pushing past a few students making their way upstairs. They reached the last few steps, and Wren stifled a gasp when they finally entered a large common room on the first floor.

Orange streams of light radiated from the candelabras scattered across the room, a hazy glow emanating from the intricate chandelier dangling above their heads. A crackling fire roared in a stone hearth, and Wren couldn’t help noticing there was something strange about the flames that danced inside. The flames weren’t simply flames—they were alive. From one second to the next, the fire morphed from a roaring lion to a soaring bird to a ballerina spinning in elegant circles.

But that wasn’t the only magical quality to the room.

Dozens of students lazed about, sprawled on crimson leather couches or sitting by the large bay windows on the western side of the room. A few of them were studying, and Wren watched in fascination as one student simply flicked her wrist and the page she was on turned on its own. Another student was practicing for some sort of exam, face contorted in concentration as he produced glittering purple runes from his palms. The runes shifted and morphed, changing shape as he rearranged them, and he grunted in frustration when they fizzled away.

As Wren and Maya made their way across the room, Wren couldn’t help but notice the attention that followed them like a second shadow. Curious stares drilled into the back of Wren’s neck as she walked past the other students. A gentle murmur of whispers.

Newbie . . . That’s the girl . . . Look who decided to grace us with her presence.

But despite their snide comments, most of the students actually looked at Wren with a surprising amount of warmth. A few even smiled up at her, and Wren found herself smiling back.

“Funny . . .” Wren whispered to Maya. “I was expecting a colder welcome.”

“Not here.” Maya shook her head as they approached the large double doors at the entrance of the building. “Everyone at Pettyworth is fairly nice,” she explained as she pushed open the doors and sauntered outside, stepping into the brisk morning air. Wren followed suit, her eyes straining to adjust after days spent cooped up inside. Hazy amethyst light fell from the sky, blanketing the graveled path in a purple hue. Night fog lingered, but it dissipated with every step, breaking to reveal the range of Gothic structures that stretched out on all sides.

Students moved across campus in groups, speaking to one another in hushed whispers. Textbooks wedged between arms. Pens tucked behind ears. Brows furrowed in concentration.

“We Pettyworth students have a reputation for being a bit . . . antisocial,” Maya continued with a chuckle. “But we’re kind enough. Especially compared to some of the other Houses.” Maya’s breath hitched in her throat. “Well . . . all of us except . . . you know who.”

Wren quirked a brow.

“Who?”

Maya sucked in a breath. She leaned in closer, dipping her voice to a faint whisper.

“Augustine Hughes.”

Wren cocked her head in confusion. “Augustine—” But Maya silenced her before she could repeat the name.

“Shh.” She staggered to a halt in the middle of the path, gripping Wren tightly by the wrist. Students pushed past, flanking them. “You have to be careful. He might hear you.”

“You’re acting like this guy is the boogeyman or something.” Wren chuckled.

“Well.” Maya glanced over her shoulder, and Wren couldn’t help but notice the stiffness in her stance. The way the color drained from her cheeks. “He kind of is. They call him the Demon of Blackwood for a reason.”

The Demon of Blackwood?

Wren snorted. “Guy sounds like a real peach.”

“He’s cutthroat,” Maya added, continuing forward. Wren scurried after her, matching her pace. For a small little thing, Maya sure was fast. “Handsome . . . but cutthroat. He’ll snap your neck if he perceives you as a threat. Push you off a building just to get ahead in class. Most Blackwood students are competitive and desperate to be nominated for the next Decennial . . . but he takes it to another level.” She shook her head, as if the mere thought of Augustine Hughes was too much for her to handle. “Just . . . avoid him. If you can. You don’t want to get on August’s bad side.”

Wren shivered.

“Well . . . how will I know who he is?”

Maya gnawed on the inside of her cheek as she considered Wren’s question. “You’ll just know,” she said finally. “Trust me.”

Wren had no idea how she would just know who this Augustine Hughes guy was in a sea of hundreds of students, but she supposed she’d just have to take Maya’s word for it. In any case, Wren’s attention was instantly diverted when she noticed that Maya had begun to lead them toward a large building on the eastern side of campus. It had two jagged, pointed spires, each with a circular, amber-tinted window at the top. The arched double doors at its entrance were staggeringly large—at least fifteen feet tall—and fashioned from a dark wood carved with swirling shapes and patterns.

“Maya.” Wren came to a halt in front of the building. “Quick question: Where the hell are we going?”

Maya turned to face Wren. Her mouth curved into a grin. It was then that Wren noticed the piece of paper clutched in her hand. “It’s time for you to become an official Blackwood student.”

Wren did not like the sound of that. “What is that?” she asked warily.

“Your class schedule . . .” Maya revealed the paper with a flourish. “Ta-da!”

Wren did her best to bite back a smile. This Maya girl was so painfully endearing that it was becoming really difficult for Wren to keep up her “I hate the world” routine.

“That’s a long list . . .” Wren muttered, taking the class schedule in her hands. There were about eight classes listed on the piece of parchment, and Wren’s stomach instantly sank at the thought of being forced to sit through all of them. She traced the first one with her index finger and read it out loud. “Elemental Activation and Sense Connection.”

As soon as the words left her lips, something about the piece of paper began to change. Wren watched, fascinated, as the schedule melted away, the ink slowly disappearing until a detailed map took its place. It showed Wren exactly where she was—standing outside Elysium Hall—and a sparkling path emerged, guiding her into the building. “What in the . . .” Wren muttered, bewildered.

“Cool, right?” Maya beamed. “You just have to say the class you’re looking for out loud, and the map guides you to where it is! It’ll help you acclimate these first few weeks. After a while, you won’t need the map anymore.”

Wren didn’t want to admit it, but it was pretty cool. She supposed there were some perks to this magic business after all.

“We actually have your first class together,” Maya said, smile deepening. “So I can take you there.”

Relief coursed through Wren. She had been a little nervous about navigating the campus on her own. “So . . . what do I do once I’m in class? I mean . . . I don’t really know how to do magic yet. Am I just supposed to sit there?”

Maya chuckled and linked her elbow with Wren’s.

“Don’t worry. It’ll be easy.” She nudged her, smirking. “Trust me.”