Chapter 2: Wren - Twisted Vows

Wren Loughty died.

That’s how simple it was. How seemingly inconsequential. One moment there, the next . . . gone.

The darkness didn’t last. It swallowed her whole, enveloping her in a warm embrace, dragging her under, but just as quickly as it had come—light. All around her. Exploding through her, bursting through the core of her soul.

There was a feeling of floating. Weightless.

And then . . . soft ground. Blades of grass slipping between her fingers. Warm, damp earth filling her lungs. Mildew and pine and the acrid scent of decay.

Open your eyes. Open your eyes. Open your eyes.

The words echoed in her mind, relentless, a droning alarm she couldn’t turn off.

Why couldn’t she open her eyes? Her lids felt heavy, glued shut. But even through the opaque wall of her eyelids, that glorious light shone brightly, burning and burning, until finally . . .

Wren gasped awake.

Her eyelids snapped open.

“Greetings, Ms. Loughty.”

Above her hovered a face. A man. His eyes were the darkest eyes she’d ever seen—an unnatural shade, like the expanse of a starless universe staring down at her. His features were sharp and angular, and speckles of gray mixed into the dark waves of his hair. One moment, the man looked to be very old, almost ancient, and the next, perhaps only in his mid-thirties. It was impossible to tell . . . as if he existed beyond the normal bounds of aging.

Wren opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. She cleared her throat. It felt raw, rough like sandpaper. Had she been screaming? She couldn’t remember. She couldn’t remember anything.

How did I get here? She thought back to what she could remember: Her sister. The car. The party . . .

“Easy there.” The man with the dark eyes extended his hand toward Wren. “The memories will come back slowly. You want to ease into it. Last thing we want is them hitting you all at once.”

Wren blinked. How had he known she was attempting to recall what had happened?

Somehow, by some miracle, Wren managed to lift her hand, snapping her body out of its strange trance. She placed her palm upon his and let the man gently help her from the ground and steady her onto her feet. Dead yellow leaves clung to her body, and as she brushed them off, it dawned on her that she wasn’t entirely sure what she was wearing. She’d never seen the outfit before, and was certain she hadn’t been wearing it moments earlier, despite being unable to recall exactly where she’d been.

A black turtleneck hugged her torso, tucked into a tartan skirt that fell a few inches above her knees. A black trench coat covered her shoulders; knee-high boots zipped up her calves. Her hands tentatively brushed the fabric of her coat, reaching the soft tip of her braid. That, at least, felt familiar. She always wore her auburn hair in a long braid, and she found a fleeting sense of comfort at knowing there was something she recognized.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Wren found her voice.

“Where am I?” she croaked, clearing the rasp from her throat.

“This . . .” The man gestured to the large iron gates looming in front of them. It was only then that Wren saw what lay beyond, and she had to stifle a small gasp from fluttering out of her lips. “ . . . is Blackwood Academy. Your new home.”

Wren blinked, dazed, and took in the view. Past the gates, towering brick buildings and ornate Gothic structures rose from the ground, blanketing the horizon with pointed turrets and arched rose-tinted windows. Hazy warm light spilled from the glass panels; tendrils of ivy and plant matter engulfed the buildings. Swirling plumes of mist shrouded the grounds, dancing as though caught in a breeze over the gravel path. More buildings hovered in the distance, though Wren couldn’t make them out beyond the hazy silver murk of night. Even so, she could feel an almost sentient force radiating from this strange world. A palpable sense of power.

This place, somehow, felt alive.

“Home?” The word felt odd on Wren’s tongue. Wrong. This isn’t home. She shook her head. “But . . . I . . . My sister . . .”

“There, there.” The man placed a comforting arm around Wren’s shoulders, guiding her forward, and despite her reservations, she found herself unable to protest. “Come with me. I’ll explain it all as soon as we’re in my office.”

They walked together in silence, passing the arched gates. Wren took in her surroundings as best she could, though her mind still felt clouded. All around them, crooked oak trees creaked and swayed. Their barren branches were gnarled fingers reaching for her, daring her closer. Every once in a while, Wren swore she saw a shadow dart through her peripheral vision. Heard the echo of footsteps drifting beyond the whisper of the wind. A muffled giggle tangled in the breeze. But other than the occasional faint noise and distant figure, the grounds were quiet. Undisturbed.

They had been walking for a couple of minutes when the man stopped abruptly, glancing down at the pocket watch tucked into the pocket of his coat.

“Ah.” He hummed, snapping it closed. “There we go. Looks like it’s been just enough time for your soul to adjust to spacial jumps.”

Wren blinked, confused. “What?”

“Apologies.” The man grabbed Wren firmly by the wrist. “The first time is always a bit of a doozy.”

She had no time to process what happened next. It was like falling through the universe, like slipping through the folds of time. Wren felt the very particles of her soul rip apart and join back together, and suddenly she was no longer standing on the unusual campus she had awoken outside of, but was just past the entrance of an office.

Wren fell to her knees, dry heaving. Her head whirled. Her stomach lurched. When she finally managed to steady the nausea that had flooded her body, she glanced up to find the man seated behind a desk in front of her, his dark eyes watching her with a faint inkling of pity. When did he walk away from me? Wren wondered. She hadn’t heard him move.

“Better?” he asked casually.

Wren coughed and pressed herself back onto her feet. “What the hell was that?” she choked out, struggling to catch her breath. “And how did we get here?”

“A relocation spell.” The man rifled through one of the drawers of his desk, revealing a single wax candle set upon a brass holder. “If I had done it earlier, the symptoms would have been even worse. You usually have to wait a minute or two for the new soul to adjust to the atmosphere of Blackwood.”

“A relocation—what?” Wren’s head spun as the words tumbled in her mind. “What the hell are you talking about?” She staggered forward, her movements still sluggish. It was as if she hadn’t quite gotten the hang of activating her muscles. Like her body was caught between life and death.

Death.

The word pierced something in Wren’s chest. Memories pricked at her consciousness. Something important. Something terrible. Something awful. Something that had happened to her—

“Sit down, Ms. Loughty.”

The man’s voice cut through Wren’s thoughts. He gestured to the empty seat in front of him, and the chair jerked backward on its own, scooting to make space for her as if it had come alive.

Wren jolted, stunned. She stared down at the chair, mouth hanging open in shock. “Did that just . . . Did the chair just . . .” She struggled to find the right words. It all sounded so silly. So completely and utterly absurd. Of course the chair hadn’t simply moved on its own. That would be ridiculous.

The man smiled.

“Please. It’ll all make sense if you just give me a second of your time.”

Wren considered his words for a moment. It wasn’t like she had a lot of options. She was confused and alone and woefully out of her depth. If she was to have any chance of knowing what had happened to her—why she was here—then she’d simply have to sit down and listen to what this peculiar man had to say.

“Fine.” Wren let out a sigh and sank into the chair across from him, hands folded neatly atop her skirt. “Go on, then. I’m all ears.”

But the man didn’t speak. He simply snapped his fingers and one of the teacups on the other side of the room rose into the air, glided toward them and came to a gentle and graceful halt on the desk.

Wren stared, jaw slack and eyes wide.

There was no denying it now. Just like the chair, the teacups had moved of their own accord—No.

They had moved on his command.

Wren could manage to utter only one word in response: “How?”

But the man didn’t answer her. Not directly. He simply gestured to the steaming cup of tea in front of Wren and said, “Take a sip.”

“What is it?” Wren asked, tentatively examining the liquid. It didn’t look malicious or otherworldly. In fact, it looked to be nothing more than a simple cup of tea. The steam rose in gentle ribbons. The familiar, comforting aroma filled Wren’s lungs.

“An English breakfast blend,” he replied with a coy grin. “Two sugars and a dash of milk.”

Wren’s eyes snapped up toward him. “That’s my go-to order.” It was her favorite morning drink. She’d make herself a steaming cup every morning, or walk down to her local coffee shop in the small mid-coast Maine town she lived in.

“I know, Ms. Loughty.” The man pushed the teacup an inch closer. “Please. Drink.”

With a shaking hand, Wren reached for the teacup. She brought it toward her lips, slowly, allowing the steam to gently billow into her mouth. She took a sip, bracing herself for something terrible, for poison to drip into her mouth. But as the warm liquid traveled down her throat, all Wren tasted was the familiar bold notes of spice and citrus on her tongue. The perfect level of sweetness.

It really is just tea, Wren thought, taking another long sip. She drank and drank, comfort and familiarity flowing through her. But there was something else. A sense of ease and relaxation that didn’t feel entirely natural. It was as if all the fear and doubt that had been buzzing in her chest since she’d awoken had vanished the instant she took the first sip. She felt calm.

Sedated.

“What . . . is this?” Wren whispered to herself, swishing the nearly empty cup of tea.

The man seated across from her leaned forward. “What do you remember?”

Wren blinked lazily up at him. “What?”

“What. Do. You. Remember.” Each word punched out of him, slow and deliberate. His eyes bored into hers with unusual intensity. Gone was the playful glint in his eyes. The teasing, all-knowing smirk.

Wren swallowed. She set the teacup down with a shaking hand. She understood what the man was asking. What he was requesting of her.

“My sister . . .” Wren muttered, her eyelids closing. And there, just beyond the fog and confusion . . . Wren could see her. The gentle slope of her nose. The strawberry-blond waves of her hair. The delicate chime of her laughter. “We were in a car. We’d . . . we’d gone to a party.”

“What else?” The man’s voice echoed, weaving through Wren’s memory.

“I . . . I remember a road. A deer.” Wren shook her head. Somehow, she knew what the memory should be making her feel. The terror that should have been coursing through her veins. The horror. But there was something about the tea . . . something about her body . . . that wouldn’t quite let her feel those emotions. “She was driving . . . We swerved.” Wren opened her eyes. When her vision refocused, she found the man staring back at her, stone-faced and solemn. “We flipped.”

The man nodded.

“I have some rather unfortunate news I must share with you, Ms. Loughty. It will take some time for you to process it. I’ve offered you a bit of a . . . delay. The tea you drank has hindered your emotions. Dulled those receptors.”

Wren stared down at the teacup, numb. “You drugged me?”

The man’s mouth twisted into a rueful smile. “I’ve helped you.”

Wren swallowed. Her hands trembled, but just briefly.

“Well, go on,” she said. “What do you need to tell me?”

The man nodded. He placed his hands upon the desk, fingers interlocked. “Your memories are correct. You were in a terrible accident. Your sister . . . she did not suffer. It was very fast. Upon impact.” He let out a slow, trembling breath. “You did not make it either, I’m afraid.”

Wren shook her head.

“I don’t understand.”

The man’s voice seemed to echo around the room as he spoke the next words aloud.

“You are dead, Ms. Loughty.”

Even as the words settled upon her, Wren struggled to piece together what she was hearing. As if her mind, body and soul were incapable of accepting the truth. “You died on that road. And now your soul has been chosen to reside here, at Blackwood Academy. It’s a prestigious honor . . . one few are granted. Here, you will train to become a reaper of lost souls. You will harness power and magic beyond anything that you have ever known was possible. Here . . . you will be handed a purpose. A guiding light. Here . . . you will find peace.”

“That’s . . . not possible.” Wren’s hands went numb beneath her. Her head spun. “I . . . I couldn’t have. I can’t be . . .” Wren tried to find the right words, to say something, but no other sound came out.

And then Wren Loughty did the one thing she could do.

The one thing she seemed capable of doing, despite her numbed emotions.

She fainted.