Chapter 14: August - Twisted Vows

Their minds collided and became one.

August had endured his fair share of mind integration over the centuries—Housemaster Wesley was a big fan of mentally tormenting his students during his exams—but nothing came close to the moment he felt his mind merge with Wren’s. It was all-consuming. A surge of warmth and electricity coursing through his limbs, sending him plummeting into the core of her mind, their two souls intertwining.

He woke up with a gasp.

Darkness surrounded him. Pure, unfiltered darkness.

Entering a psyche mind landscape was always a bit of a disorienting experience. Just as it did when entering the Ether, a dreamlike haze draped over August’s vision and a languid quality swept over his movements. It was his soul adjusting. His mind recalibrating to make room for Wren’s mind.

Which reminded him . . .

“Loughty?” he called, his voice echoing, as if he were speaking into a canyon.

At first, nobody answered. It was just him and that never-ending darkness. But then he saw something in the distance. A flicker of light. Almost like the faint twinkle of a dying star.

He moved toward it. Pushing through the darkness. Pushing deeper into the psyche landscape. Clawing his way forward, until . . .

The darkness erupted. August blinked, and he was standing at the edge of a dock. A dark river stretched out in front of him. Water lapped gently at the foot of the creaking dock. Behind him, tall pine and red maple trees dotted a short hill, the slightest glimmer of houses visible behind the greenery. Woodsmoke and earth filled August’s lungs, the warm scent of dirt and brine mingling in the air.

“Loughty?” he called again, looking around.

He heard her voice not a second later.

“Holy shit.”

August swiveled on his heels to find Wren standing behind him, arms crossed over her chest, eyes scanning the world around her. He couldn’t quite pinpoint what she was feeling. Her expression was a strange mixture of terror and a deep, aching sadness.

“How . . .” Her voice wavered, and it dawned on August that she was struggling to hold back tears. “ . . . how are we here?”

“I told you,” August began gently. “We entered a psyche landscape by merging our minds—”

“No,” Wren interjected, shaking her head. She knelt on the dock, rubbing her hands against the splintered wood. “I mean . . . how are we here?” She let out a shuddering breath. “It feels so real.”

A rush of understanding fell over August. “You know this place.” It wasn’t a question.

Wren nodded. “It’s . . . my home.” She glanced over her shoulder, pointing toward the thick trees. “My house is just up that hill.”

A shiver ran down August’s spine. He could only imagine how she must be feeling. He wouldn’t have known how to react if he had awoken back at his old home. At the large estate where he grew up.

He hoped he would never see that carcass of a house again.

“It’s not real,” August reminded her. “I know it might be tempting to indulge in the landscape, but you have to remind yourself it’s not real. This is just our combined consciousness projected for us to see.”

“Well, then what about you?” Wren asked, rising to her feet.

August flinched. “What about me?”

“You said it’s a combination of our minds, but we’re in Maine. We’re at my home.” Wren glanced around, searching. “What about yours?”

Panic rose in August’s throat, but he swallowed it down, forcing himself to adopt a stoic mask. “It’s not uncommon for one mind to dominate another. Your memories of your old life are fresh. You’re still clinging to your humanity, to your memories, far more than I am.” It was a lie. A raw, blistering lie. August’s memories were still completely unaffected by the Forgetting, which meant the torment of his past was still as fresh as the moment he had first landed at Blackwood. The pain and loss and grief still had their prickly tendrils wrapped tightly around his soul. But Wren didn’t need to know that.

And nobody ever would.

“I guess that makes sense . . .” Wren whispered, letting out a sigh. “Well—what now? How do we unlock the jewel?”

Just as the question left Wren’s lips, glowing sparks of light emerged from beneath their feet, forming a winding path. It was leading them away from the docks, into the trees, and up the hill.

August gestured Wren forward. “Looks like we found our answer.”

Wren froze, hesitating. “I . . . I can’t go up there.”

“What do you mean?” August asked.

“My . . . my house.” She shook her head. “What if—” But August cut her off before she could continue spiraling.

“None of it is real, Loughty.” August stepped closer. He drew her gaze away from the house, gently placing a thumb beneath her chin and angling her face toward him. She stared up at him, blinking, tears welling in her blue eyes. “It’s just your mind. Your subconscious and memories forming a projection. Just keep repeating that. It’s just a projection.”

“It’s just a projection,” Wren echoed, voice shaking.

August nodded. “Good.”

With that final push of encouragement, Wren inhaled a steadying breath and turned on her heels. August followed closely as she made her way off the dock and into the trees, slowly trekking up the hill.

Dusk painted the world around them in hues of dusty purple and indigo blue. Everything was hazy, slightly blurred at the edges. It was vivid enough to feel real, but there were flaws in the facade. Small, almost indiscernible errors that showed the projection for what it really was.

A lie.

A tree that was slightly transparent. A house with no doors or windows. A crow with no beak.

But a part of August knew that Wren wasn’t noticing these flaws. Too caught up in the shock of being back at home. Too fixated on what felt real. Maybe a part of her even wanted to believe it was real.

The glowing lights led them up a driveway and onto a narrow street. Tall streetlights glowed orange, illuminating their path as the world around them grew darker. Wren had fallen unnaturally silent, and August could only imagine the panic coursing through her. The tension in the air only seemed to double the farther they walked, and it soon became clear where exactly the path was leading them.

The house was small and square, with olive-green shutters and flower boxes adorning each rectangular window. There was a car parked out front—or what August assumed was a car. Considering he’d died over two centuries ago, he’d never actually seen one, but this seemed to match up with the information on modern transportation that he’d heard from the other students. Upon seeing the car, Wren came to a staggering halt, her eyes wide and face pallid.

“It wants us to go in there,” she whispered, fear and panic twisting her words.

August stopped beside her. “Seems like it.”

Wren shook her head. She turned to look at him, panicked, eyes roving over his face.

“August.” The way she spoke his name sent a blossoming ache of longing through his body, and he had to step away, to physically distance himself, before he did anything he might regret later. “Please. I can’t. I really, really can’t.” Finally, the restraint inside Wren seemed to break free, and the tears she’d been forcing back fell freely down her cheeks. “Please don’t make me go in there.”

“Loughty.” August winced. His hands itched to reach out and touch her. To wipe the tears from her eyes and pull her toward him. He settled for placing his hands upon her shoulders, hoping it was enough to steady her. “Look at me. You can do this.”

“What if it was your house?” she asked, hurt in her eyes. “What if it was your past? Your memories? Your mistakes?”

He would have crumbled. He would have fallen apart completely. But August didn’t say that out loud, simply keeping his gaze anchored on Wren, hunching slightly to meet her eyes.

“It’s just a projection,” he reminded her, his voice barely a whisper.

Wren closed her eyes and shuddered. “August—”

“Say it,” he interjected. “Come on.”

Wren’s eyes fluttered open. She let out a steady exhale. “It’s just a projection,” she muttered weakly.

“Good.” August nodded. “Again.”

“It’s just a projection,” Wren echoed, this time with a bit more conviction. Her breathing seemed to grow steadier. The tears that had been falling only seconds earlier, subsiding. “It’s just a projection.”

“That’s it,” August whispered encouragingly, dropping his hands away, placing a palm on the gentle slope of her back as he guided her forward. “Just keep repeating it. You can do this.”

As Wren made her way to the entrance of the house, approaching the forest-green door, she kept repeating those words softly beneath her breath, over and over like a mantra. “It’s just a projection. It’s just a projection. It’s just a projection.”

She pushed the door open and entered the house. August followed.

They were greeted by a foyer with dozens of photographs adorning an old wooden entry table. But the faces in the photos were blurred. Crossed out. Burnt.

“It’s just a projection.”

They entered a small kitchen. In the corner was a circular table with four chairs. Cups filled with coffee and plates littered with half-eaten food sat there, unattended, an interrupted breakfast. But the food was old and moldy. The coffee, cold. The clock hanging on the wall showed no time.

“It’s just a projection.”

Wren cut through the dining room. A large rectangular table with a lace runner sat at the center of the room. There were dozens of half-burned candles, a few of which had begun to melt onto the table, tiny embers coating the runner.

“It’s just a projection.”

Wren pressed on, making her way deeper into the house, pausing at the bottom of a staircase, hand clutching the railing. To the left was a wall with more photographs, but just as before, the people in them had no faces. A blur of color and shapes where a face should be. A vacant nothingness where eyes should be looking back at them.

“It’s just a projection.”

Wren made her way up the stairs, stopping in front of the first room at the top. The door was ajar, and warm light from the other side spilled onto the floor. Her hand landed on the doorknob, fingers trembling.

“It’s just . . . it’s just . . .”

August placed his hand on Wren’s shoulder.

“Open the door, Loughty.”

For the first time since they’d entered the house, Wren glanced over her shoulder to look at August. Her eyes were red rimmed. Lip trembling as she fought back a swell of emotion. “I can’t.”

“You’ve made it this far.” August gave her shoulder an affirming squeeze. “You might as well see it through.”

Wren nodded, defeat written in her eyes. And then she turned back to the room, inhaled a sharp breath, and opened the door. There was a burst of light. Colors and shapes melting together, until—

August blinked. As his vision cleared, it became apparent that they were no longer in Wren’s old home. No longer in her memory.

Because this room . . . he recognized.

Amber light cascaded from iron sconces lining the walls. Towering shelves filled with dusty tomes and leather-bound journals. Tall windows lined the far wall, where a wooden desk sat, piles of pages and inkpots littering the surface. And surrounding the desk, coating every inch of the floor, was blood.

Dark. Splotchy and reddish brown. Thick streams of oxidized blood.

Wren blinked in confusion. She turned to face August, mouth open, as if she were about to speak, but no words came out when she spotted the look on his face. Because this room, this blood-drenched room, was the room that August had taken his last breath in. The room where his life had been taken from him.

The room where he’d watched his father kill his sister.

“August?” Wren’s voice wavered, soft and tender. “Are you okay?”

But what could he say? What good would come of her knowing what had happened in this room? The darkness and violence and torment buried inside him. If he opened up to her about this, what was to stop him from exposing more? From unveiling all the secrets and lies he was keeping from her?

“We should look around,” August bit out, swallowing. “Maybe the jewel is in here.”

Wren stepped closer.

“August—” But he interjected sharply before she could get in another word.

“Don’t,” August choked out. “Just . . . please. Don’t.”

For a tense beat, Wren simply looked at him, clearly torn between her desire to help him and her understanding that this was a subject August didn’t want to broach. Luckily, she seemed to come to the decision that listening to August was for the best, and she gave a gentle nod of her head.

“Okay,” Wren whispered softly. “Okay.”

They searched the room in silence. August tried to keep his eyes focused on anything but the blood on the floor. Nausea twisted his insides. A burning pit of rage and agony building in his stomach. But he swallowed it down. Pushed it deeper. It’s just a projection. It’s just a projection. It’s just a—

“Uh . . .” Wren’s voice wavered behind him. “August?”

August dragged himself away from his thoughts. He turned to face Wren, preparing to step toward her, but what he saw made his legs freeze beneath him.

The curtains adorning the windows closest to the desk had caught fire. Flames burning, burning, burning. For a moment, paralysis gripped August’s body in an iron hold. An immobilizing current.

He could practically feel the flames eating away at his skin. The searing pain. And then the nothingness—the numbness. The darkness.

No, August pleaded silently. Not again.

Terror clutched his chest. Paralyzed by the fear of the memory, August seemingly lost all sense of reality. His eyes blurred, brown dots spreading over his vision. Make it stop, he pleaded. But nobody was listening. Why would they? Nobody ever had. August knew there was no way to stop the torment he was destined for. That there was no God that could save him from the darkness.

“August.”

A soft voice catapulted him back to the present. Wren was standing in front of him, cupping his face, eyes brimming with concern. August wanted her to let go, to peel her hands away, to distance herself. Couldn’t she see that he was an infection? A vicious virus? Why would she want to get close to that?

Why would she want to get close to him?

“It’s just a projection,” Wren whispered, nodding. “Say it, August.”

August inhaled a sharp breath. His hands were trembling. When had his hands begun to tremble?

“It’s just a projection,” he echoed, hardly recognizing his own voice. It was deep and hoarse, wavering under his loss of control. But just as the words left his lips, something in the fire changed.

The flames eating away at the curtains began to move. Shifting away from the curtains, rising higher and higher, slinking toward them. There was something forming within the flames. Limbs stretching out. A torso built in the growing embers. Until it wasn’t just a mismatch of limbs but a body. A figure made entirely of flames.

“Oh my God . . .” Wren whispered. “What . . . what is that?”

The fire figure remained rooted to the ground. It wasn’t moving, just standing there, staring at them. Despite not having any distinguishable features, the figure felt familiar somehow. A prickle of recognition in August’s chest made the hairs on the back of his neck rise in warning.

The figure cocked its head. Was it mocking them?

“Do we fight it?” Wren asked, readying her stance.

August stood there, rooted to the ground. He knew he should call on his magic, that he should throw the first spell before the figure could attack, but he found himself unable to move. Paralysis held him in place. Panic and terror snuffed his voice from his throat. And then the fire figure lifted its hand, and a wave of flames rose behind him, completely engulfing the curtains, snaking its way higher and higher up the walls.

Next to August, Wren let out a shuddering breath. “August. Look.”

She was staring over his shoulder, and August turned. The door behind them, the one they had walked through to enter the room, had vanished. There was no exit. No escape.

They were trapped.

And still August couldn’t snap out of his stupor. He couldn’t conjure up even the beginning of a plan. He was frozen . . . pathetically, uselessly frozen. Next to him, Wren was screaming his name. Calling out to him. The fire roared, slowly engulfing the room, swallowing every inch of the walls around them.

Move! a voice in August’s head screamed. Do something!

But it wasn’t enough. August couldn’t tear his gaze away from the fire figure, from the feeling rising in his chest. I know you, the voice echoed in his head. I know who you are. But he couldn’t admit it out loud. He couldn’t bring himself to say his name.

The figure stepped forward, the flames moving with it. But just as it drew closer, there was a sharp crack as Wren extended her arm, sending a blast of corporeal magic at the figure. The magic crashed against its shoulder, and the figure wavered, a perfect circle carved into the flames.

“August!” Wren called, desperate. “Snap out of it and do something!”

Maybe it was the terror in her voice. Or maybe it was simply the sound of Wren Loughty speaking his name. But whatever it was, August finally snapped out of his dazed state, blinking as he regained awareness.

The fire figure was approaching. And it was focused on Wren.

No.

August hurled a corporeal spell at the figure without a moment of hesitation, hitting it squarely in the chest. The instant the spark of magic made contact, the fire figure disintegrated, exploding into tiny embers that slowly fell to the ground. But though the figure was destroyed, the rest of the fire continued to roar around them. It drew closer, devouring everything in its path, just like it had all those years ago.

“August.” Wren gripped him by the wrist. “Why isn’t it stopping? What did we do wrong?”

August had no clue. He wasn’t sure why the fire hadn’t stopped or why the third jewel hadn’t been revealed to them. They’d followed the glowing light. They’d faced their haunted pasts. They’d destroyed the fire figure. Shouldn’t they be freed from the mind integration? Shouldn’t it be over?

As the questions ricocheted in August’s mind, he suddenly noticed something on the desk at the far end of the room: A jewel. A glistening emerald, to be exact. He wasn’t sure if it had been there before or if it had appeared after he’d destroyed the figure, but there was no doubt in August’s mind that it was the third jewel, concealed behind a towering wall of flames.

A sudden wave of fear descended upon August. Because at that same moment, he realized what he had to do.

There would be no escaping. No cowering from the flames.

No more running.

August stepped forward . . . and walked straight into the fire.