Chapter 8: Wren - Twisted Vows

Walking through campus with the Demon of Blackwood was a rather overwhelming experience. Wren thought she had endured her fair share of prodding eyes and unwanted attention since arriving at Blackwood, but none of that came close to what seemingly followed August everywhere he went. As they made their way along the winding path that led away from the shed and toward the heart of campus, it didn’t take long for the other students milling about to notice August.

Wren watched, perplexed, as the students visibly cowered in fear. Some even audibly gasped, spinning on their heels and bolting in the other direction. Wren wondered if they saw something she didn’t—devil horns jutting from his black curls, or piercing red pupils glowing in his silvery irises. There had to be something to explain why they were so afraid of him.

“Do you always evoke such positivity and comradery?” Wren finally asked, unable to stop herself. At her snide remark, August simply raised a brow and shoved his hands into his pockets, unfazed.

“It’s not my fault they’re scared of me,” he replied with a shrug. At that same moment, a passing student yelped in terror as he spotted August, quite literally sprinting in the opposite direction.

“I mean . . . it kind of is, though, isn’t it?” Wren retorted. “I’ve heard the rumors.”

“Yeah?” August asked, amused. He peered down at Wren, brow arched. “And what did you learn about me, then? Since you clearly have me all figured out.”

“That you’re . . .” Wren shrugged. “You know . . .”

“The Demon of Blackwood?” August supplied with a lilt of annoyance.

“I was going to say a jerk,” Wren shot back. “But yeah. That too.”

August hesitated, eyes roving over her face. Wren couldn’t quite pinpoint what he was thinking or how he was feeling, but before she could even attempt to decipher the enigma that was Augustine Hughes, he continued walking, leaving Wren scrambling to keep up.

“Anybody who I’ve sent to the infirmary deserved it,” August said, not bothering to glance back at Wren as he trekked deeper into the winding graveyard of oak trees, their destination still a mystery.

“I’m sure they’d feel the same way if they sent you there.” As soon as the words left Wren’s lips, August let out a low chuckle, gnawing on the inside of his cheek as if he were biting back a smile.

“What?” Wren pressed. “What’s so funny?”

“Nobody has ever sent me to the infirmary,” August replied, deep and gruff. There was an air of arrogance in his words that made Wren’s eyes involuntarily roll. “And nobody ever will.”

“It must get a bit heavy,” Wren hummed.

“What?” August asked.

“You know . . .” Wren let out a long sigh. “Having to constantly drag around that enormous ego of yours.”

August came to an abrupt halt. He turned to face Wren, blinking. For a moment, Wren wondered if she had crossed an invisible line between them. Pushed the bickering too far. He had a reputation, after all, despite whether Wren believed it. Who was she to say what August was truly capable of? What he was willing to do?

But then August’s lip curled into a smirk and the panic swelling in Wren’s chest deflated.

“Absolutely,” he murmured. “I have terrible back pain.”

Wren bit back her own smile.

“I figured.”

For a moment, their gazes snagged on one another. Something swirled inside Wren’s chest—something warm and inviting. But before she could give it too much thought, August turned away from her, gesturing forward.

“We’re here,” August said. It was then that Wren tore her eyes away from him and realized they were standing in front a building. She hadn’t seen it before, nor did it appear to be one of the buildings Maya had told her about. It was smaller than Elysium and Dalemont Halls, and given its run-down appearance, Wren assumed it to be far older. Or at least less taken care of.

August sauntered up the steps to the arched entrance. Wren’s eyes skated up to the words written on the door, a name etched in tarnished gold.

Bonestrod.

“What is this place?” Wren asked, slowly making her way up the steps. She couldn’t help but wonder if she was making a grave mistake in following August. He’d led her to a creepy old building, and now she was meant to just waltz inside with him? Alone?

“It’s technically a faculty-only building,” August explained, reaching toward the iron doorknob. Golden threads spooled out of his fingertips, funneling into the knob, almost as if the magic were a lockpick. “No students allowed. Though nobody actually pays attention to that rule. I come here most nights. Sneak up to the rooftop to think.”

Instantly, a piercing jolt of anxiety shot through Wren. Glimpses of slow mental torture flashed in her mind. Terrifying images conjured up by her own imagination. Reformatory. She paused at the final step.

“Won’t we get in trouble?” Wren asked, voice wavering.

“Maybe.” August shrugged. He glanced over his shoulder. “Why?” The smile on his lips was taunting. “Are you scared?”

“No,” Wren shot back, perhaps too quickly. “I just . . . I can’t afford any infractions right now.” After yesterday’s classes, Wren had finally read the dozens of unopened letters she had received. Much to her dismay, Maya had been right. Each letter had grown more and more threatening, and it was clear that if Wren had waited even one more day before joining class, she would have landed herself in reformatory.

But August seemed unfazed. As he finished the last of the spell, the knob clicked and the door swung open. “You’re fine, Loughty. Either way—the first stop on Russo’s map leads us here.” He fished out the map from his pocket and gave it a firm tap with his hand. “Can’t get in trouble if it’s part of the Hunt.”

Wren wasn’t exactly looking forward to breaking a sacred Blackwood Academy rule, but she supposed if a Housemaster had instructed them to enter the building, then it was okay . . . just this once.

“Fine.” Wren straightened her shoulders and summoned her bravery. “Off we go, then.”

She followed August, entering the dimly lit building with as much bravery as she could muster. Mounds of dust floated in the air, and Wren had to carefully make her way over an intricate web of vines covering the floor as she stepped into the main foyer. A musky scent filled the air—something like damp earth mixed with decay. A piercing silence echoed around them, and each creak of the floorboards beneath Wren’s boots seemed to reverberate like a gunshot.

“Where to next?” Wren asked.

August approached the spiral staircase at the back of the building, map in hand. He seemed perplexed by something, brows scrunched together and lips pursed into a scowl. “I don’t understand . . .”

Wren peered over his shoulder, attempting to get a better look at the map.

“What is it?”

“It’s guiding us behind the staircase,” he muttered under his breath. “But there’s nothing there . . . it’s just a wall. Maybe we’re supposed to—” But August’s words were cut short as he lifted a hand and glanced up, as if he had heard something. “Shit,” he whispered, bunching up the map and shoving it into his pocket.

“What is it?” Wren asked, panicked. “What’s—” But her words caught in her throat as August gripped her tightly by the wrist and pulled her behind the staircase. He yanked her closer, pressing his hand tightly against her mouth as he held her firmly against his body.

Wren hadn’t felt her heart beat since she had arrived at Blackwood. Hadn’t felt a pulse. But even without the steady thump of her heart, an electrifying jolt shot through her chest the moment August wrapped his arms around her. A dangerous surge of warmth traveled through her limbs.

She felt dizzy. Weightless.

She felt . . . alive.

She realized then what August had heard. Two voices approaching. The cadence of footsteps drawing nearer. It was coming from above them. The murmur of voices rising as two people emerged from above them and made their way down the staircase.

“Jesus Christ, Masi.” A voice echoed with a throaty chuckle. “I told you it was strong.”

“I’m fine,” said another voice. This one was familiar. The girl with amber eyes who had helped Wren find Housemaster Russo’s classroom.

“We’re skipping Birdie’s class,” said the first voice. Wren could see glimpses of them now through the iron detailing of the staircase. The first girl had long, dark hair with blunt bangs that fell right above her brows. Her skin was ivory pale and she wore a black silk dress that flowed down her frame in delicate waves. She turned to face the other girl—the one with amber eyes whom she’d called Masi—and pointed at her. “No way you’re sitting there with your eyes bloodshot like that—”

“Oh, like she cares.” The amber-eyed girl gave a dismissive wave of her hand. Even with her vision partially obstructed, Wren could tell there was something off about them. They stumbled as they walked. Their words poured out of them slow and sluggish, their movements languid and lazy.

Are they . . . high? Wren wondered. She tried to get a look at August, but his grip was too tight, and she could barely move her neck an inch.

“She’d send your ass to reformatory faster than you could say Irene made me do it,” the girl with bangs muttered, chuckling.

The amber-eyed girl shoved her playfully.

“But you did make me do it.”

“Whatever.” The first girl—Irene, Wren assumed—shrugged. “You know I hate smoking alone.” The pair were moments away from exiting when Irene came to a sudden halt, pausing at the doorway.

She glanced over her shoulder. Back toward the staircase.

Instantly, August tensed behind Wren.

“What?” the amber-eyed girl asked. “What is it?”

Irene hesitated. She squinted, as if she were peering through the darkness straight at Wren. She’s seen us. Wren was certain of it. But then, with a quick shrug, Irene spun on her heels to face the entrance again.

“Nothing,” she mumbled. “I thought I heard something.”

“Look who’s paranoid now.” The amber-eyed girl chuckled. “So much for my tolerance is unbeatable—”

“Oh, shut it.” Irene pushed her friend through the door and the pair stumbled back into the night. “Let’s go.”

The door slammed closed behind them, echoing. For a moment, Wren and August stood there, his hand still clamped over her mouth, their proximity overwhelming Wren’s senses. And then he was dropping his hand away, stepping back, and it was as if a cold gust of wind had swept over Wren, extinguishing the strange warmth that had erupted inside her.

Wren cleared her throat, composing herself. She fidgeted with the end of her braid and turned to face August. He was impossible to read, but even he looked slightly frazzled. He twisted the silver ring on his index finger, struggling to keep eye contact with her.

“Who was that girl? The one with the bangs?” Wren asked.

August inhaled a long breath, and whatever nervousness Wren had sworn she’d seen in his gaze seemed to vanish. “That is someone you actually want to avoid.” He made his way from behind the staircase and Wren followed. “Irene Manette Bamford. An absolute lethal force of chaos who will not hesitate to strike you down if you simply look at her the wrong way. Or, quite frankly, look at her at all.”

“And the other girl?” Wren asked.

“Masika Sallow,” August explained. “She’s more forgiving than Irene, but just as uninterested in making friends—so don’t bother.”

Wren nodded. That wouldn’t be a problem. She wasn’t interested in making friends either. It was probably for the best if she never spoke to either of those girls—and given their seemingly lovely dispositions, Wren doubted she ever would.

“But I did notice something,” August added, peeking behind the staircase. “While we were”—he hesitated, clearing his throat, and Wren swore she saw the faintest pink flush sweep over his cheeks—“waiting.”

“What is it?” Wren asked, squinting. She could hardly make out what August was looking at through the opaque shadows of the room. But he must have noticed, because August quickly snapped his fingers and produced a small flame from the tip of his thumb. With the hazy orange glow from August’s flame, Wren could now see what he had been talking about.

Carved into the wooden wall beside them was a small, almost indiscernible letter.

R.

“Think it’s part of the Hunt?” Wren asked. “R for Russo?”

With his free hand, August placed his palm against the letter. Almost instantly, the wall came to life. It rumbled and shifted, the ground beneath Wren’s feet vibrating from the sheer force, until the wall had completely split to reveal a hidden passageway.

August glanced over his shoulder, a devilish grin spread over his lips.

“Suppose there’s really only one way to find out.”

* * *

Wren couldn’t help but wonder if she’d lost all instinct for survival upon her death.

Not only had she followed August—a boy notorious for incapacitating other students—into a creepy old building, but she was now also following him into a creepy dark passageway. Two for two on the immensely moronic decision front. But she wasn’t exactly rich in options at the moment. It didn’t help that the looming threat of reformatory still felt like a tightening noose, perpetually haunting her with the imminent possibility of psychological torture.

So . . . into the creepy passageway it was. Even if it meant following a homicidal maniac who just so happened to have a dangerously beautiful smile.

Not that she had noticed.

“Is this the part where you murder me with an axe?” Wren asked through a half-hearted chuckle. They’d been walking through the dimly lit passageway for what felt like an eternity but really had probably been a few minutes. Their only source of light was the small flame August had produced from his fingers, and Wren could scarcely see the floor in front of her. Her only guiding light was August—literally.

August snorted.

“I wouldn’t murder you with an axe,” he muttered, offended. “I’d be far more creative than that.”

Wren sighed. “Fair point.”

“But, for the record, no.” August glanced over his shoulder. “I have no plans to send you to the infirmary, Loughty. If I did, you’d already be there. So how about you trust me from now on, okay?”

Trust.

Wren had to restrain a laugh from pouring out of her. She wasn’t sure how she was meant to trust anything, or anyone, ever again. Not when her entire existence had been spun on its axis. Not when everything she had put her trust in—everything she had believed to be true—had vanished in an instant.

“Whatever you say, partner,” Wren drawled sarcastically.

August chuckled. “Much better.”

He came to a sudden halt, and Wren nearly crashed into him. She regained her footing, craning her neck to see over his shoulder. “Why did you stop?” she asked, standing on her tiptoes. All she could see was the impenetrable darkness stretching out before them.

“I believe we’ve found our first jewel,” August said. He snapped his fingers again, and the small flame vanished, replaced by a glowing yellow light that beamed from his palm and hovered in the air in front of them. Instantly, the passageway was bathed in its brilliant glow, illuminating the once-dark space.

In front of them was a statue. It appeared to be made of smooth ivory stone, depicting a woman draped in robes, with a pointed crown on top of her head and a sword clenched in her hands. It was so detailed, so intricate in its design, that the fabric itself appeared to be flowing, as if it were soft to the touch. Embedded in the top of her crown was a glistening amethyst. It sparkled, glowing from within, as if a fire burned inside. It bathed the wooden floors in a shimmering purple light, mixing with the yellow sheen of August’s sphere.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” Wren whispered, her voice a piercing echo against the silence. “Right there. On the crown.”

August nodded. “That’s it.”

“Well . . . what’s next?” Wren asked. “Do we just . . . grab it?”

August cocked his head. “Seriously? You think it would be that easy?”

Wren rolled her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she huffed, crossing her arms. “But are you actually incapable of answering me like a normal person? Or is pretentious prick simply your default?”

“I prefer brooding prick,” August corrected her.

Wren rolled her eyes. “Apologies.” She shoved him out of the way and walked up to the statue. She wasn’t about to stand there and let him do all the work. For one, he’d probably never let her live it down. But more importantly, Wren wasn’t going to let herself continue to feel helpless. To feel as though she was constantly scrambling to keep up. She had been chosen for Blackwood for a reason. Whether or not she fully understood that reason didn’t matter.

Magic was her right, just as much as it was August’s.

And if she couldn’t escape this place . . . then the least she could do was make sure she had the upper hand.

“Show me,” Wren instructed.

“Excuse me?” August’s voice echoed behind her.

“Show me how you’d magically extract the crystal,” Wren clarified, gesturing toward the statue. “I want to learn.”

“Well . . .” August cleared his throat. He stepped forward so that he was standing beside her. He stared up at the statue, hands shoved into his pockets, and assessed it with a furrowed brow. “This is a corporeal assignment. Which means Russo would expect us to access that type of magic for the extraction. Corporeal magic consists of transmutation spells—altering the atoms of the universe—and battle spells. Things you’d use in a fight. The latter doesn’t entirely make sense for this, so . . . I’m assuming it’s the former. Altering the matter of the stone in a way that it relinquishes the jewel.”

“Could you melt the stone?” Wren asked without hesitation. “Turn it to liquid?”

August hummed.

“Suppose you could,” he muttered, uncertain. “It’s a bit odd, though . . .”

“What is?”

“I don’t know.” August shrugged. He reached toward the statue, gently brushing the flowing robe. “It just seems too simple. That’s not exactly Russo’s style. She tends to prefer a more . . . hands-on approach.”

“Well, there’s no harm in trying,” Wren supplied.

August nodded. “I suppose you’re right.”

He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, the muscles of his forearms flexing as he spread his fingers, sparks of magic bursting at the center of his palm. But before he could cast whatever spell he intended to show Wren, something in the statue began to change. At first, Wren thought it might just be a trick of light, the purple hue from the amethyst melting into the yellow sheen of the glowing sphere.

But this was no trick of light.

The eyes of the statue turned red. Two piercing crimson eyes peering down at them, fury burning behind them. No . . . it couldn’t possibly be fury. It was a statue. It wasn’t alive. It couldn’t—

“Thieves.”

The voice seemed to come from all around them, echoing with power. Wren physically recoiled, and she had to muster all the energy inside her to stay upright, as if the voice itself had pressed on her shoulders. Even August flinched at the voice, wincing slightly.

“You shall not take what rightfully belongs to me,” the voice echoed once more. Wren realized then that the voice wasn’t disembodied. It had a source: the statue. Just as the thought fell upon Wren, the statue shifted, its movements slow and rough, stone grinding together. Its arm lifted, revealing cracks of silver light bursting from the center of its palm. It was preparing to strike.

It was preparing to strike them.

August placed a protective arm in front of Wren, pushing her backward.

“Now, this feels more like Russo’s style,” he muttered, smiling. Perhaps August truly was mad, because he genuinely seemed to savor the possibility of a fight. “Step away, Loughty. I’ll handle this.”

But something rose inside Wren. A strange resistance.

No.

“I’m not running,” she shot back, shoving his arm away. She ignored the look of disbelief splattered across his face. “I told you I want to learn. And you promised we’d work together. So show me how to fight this thing. Teach me.”

August hesitated. He looked quickly from the statue to Wren, clearly torn. But then he let out a weighted sigh and said, “Fine. But listen. The second we send the first spell toward the statue, it’s going to attack. We have to be prepared.”

Wren nodded. “Okay. What do I do?”

“Corporeal magic is activated by anger. You’ll have to locate the core of your corporeal magic first, and then, once you find it, tap into your anger,” August explained. “There’s a connection. I know it sounds vague and complicated, but it really is quite simple. You close your eyes . . . and feel it. For corporeal magic, it’s here.” He splayed a palm over his chest. “Once you make that connection, you just have to take it. Claim it.”

“That does sound vague,” Wren muttered with a huff.

August glanced warily at the statue before dragging his gaze back to Wren.

“Go on. Try.” He flexed his hands, fidgeting with his ring. “Don’t make me regret this.”

Wren certainly hoped she wouldn’t regret it either.

With one final breath, Wren closed her eyes. She looked inward, searching for that connection August was talking about. That spark. It felt as though she was digging through her soul, clawing at the core of it.

Where are you? Where are you? Where are you?

There was something there—Wren could feel it. The faintest ember burning inside her. She just had to reach out and grab it. Thread her fingers through it. But there was some sort of blockage in her way. A wall caging the core of her soul. She had to push through it. She had to fight.

“You can do it.” August’s voice echoed from beyond the darkness. He sounded close, close enough that she could reach out and touch him. “Dig deeper, Loughty. It’s there. It’s yours.”

The power. The magic. For once, it was something that was in her control. Something nobody could take from her.

It’s mine.

As the two words echoed in Wren’s mind, she felt the wall crumble. The barrier between her and her corporeal magic disintegrated, and then she was surrounded by it, the heat of it bursting through her limbs.

And now . . . anger. Wren almost wanted to laugh. Of course she could tap into anger. She had a million things to be fucking furious about: Losing her life. Her sister. Being torn away from her reality and forced into an eternity she never asked for.

She didn’t just feel anger.

She felt fury.

Wren opened her eyes. In her palms swirled silver sparks of corporeal magic.

She’d done it. She’d summoned the magic.

Wren didn’t allow herself to stop and think.

The first spell hurled out of her hand without warning, the force of it nearly sending her flying backward. She stumbled, regaining her footing just before she could slip and land squarely on her ass. Wren watched, breath held, as the sparks of silver light flashed across the room and burst against the statue. A chunk of the statue’s shoulder fell away, crumbling upon making contact with the floor.

Relief rushed through Wren. A surge of excitement.

And for the first time since arriving at Blackwood—joy.

“I did it,” she muttered, slightly out of breath. “I actually—” But the statue’s retaliation was swift and merciless. It turned its sights on Wren, glowing eyes beaming down at her, hand raised.

Next to her, August’s voice echoed. For a moment, Wren swore he was screaming her name, her first name, but before her mind could piece together what she was hearing, the statue’s spell came hurtling toward her, striking her hard in the gut, and—

Darkness.

Complete and total darkness.