Chapter 9: August - Twisted Vows

You absolute idiot.

What had he been thinking? He should have stepped in front of Wren. He should have pushed her out of the way and told her to back off. She was in no position to fight in a corporeal duel. Not yet, at least. So why had he let her? Why did he seem so completely and utterly incapable of saying no to her?

He told himself it was because she was the catalyst. That was the simple answer, the reasonable one. She was the catalyst sent to usher the end of Blackwood, and his dedication to the Soulless One and the Demien Order’s plan was the reason for his devotion. For this infuriating connection he felt. It had to be. There was no room for anything else. For anything . . . sentimental.

But even now, as he sat on the edge of Wren’s desk in the dimness of her room, staring down at her unconscious body splayed out on her bed, something inside him faltered. When he looked at her, it wasn’t dedication to his cause that he felt. It wasn’t ambition. It was the unnatural, foreign need to protect her. To help her gain her power, not for her to be the Soulless One’s instrument but for herself.

But that was ridiculous. He hardly knew her. He hardly—

The faintest noise snapped him out of his rambling thoughts. Wren was groaning, eyelids fluttering. She’s waking, August thought, relief surging through him. He scrambled to his feet and made his way over to her side. He wasn’t sure where to place himself—something about sitting beside her on the bed felt a bit too intimate—so he settled for awkwardly hovering over her, one hand pressed against the headboard for stability.

“Loughty?” he whispered. A lock of auburn hair spilled over her forehead, cascading over her eyes, and with the faintest and quickest touch he could manage, August gently brushed it away. “You there?”

At the sound of his voice, Wren’s eyes finally opened. For the briefest moment, she stared up at August with wide, adoring eyes. A split second when she must have not entirely recognized who he was. But then August saw it—the recognition flooding through her—and she scrambled up onto her elbows, carving distance between them. As soon as she did, however, Wren winced, clutching her head.

“Whoa,” she muttered. “Dizzy. Really, really dizzy.”

“Easy, partner.” August managed a dry chuckle. “You took a bit of a spill.”

“What happened?” Wren asked groggily, blinking. She was probably attempting to rifle through her memories, recall what had happened. Her eyes grew wide suddenly. “The jewel,” she said, panicked. “Where—”

“I got it,” August interjected, fishing the amethyst from his pocket. He held the glittering crystal between them, and Wren sighed in relief. She nodded, pleased, as she sat up farther.

“Did I . . . did I black out?” she asked. “I don’t really remember much. I know I managed to cast a spell on the statue, and then . . . did it hit me?”

August nodded. “The statue reacted with a counterattack seconds after you cast the first spell. And it . . . hit you. Square in the stomach. You were knocked out from the impact.” He swallowed, bracing himself for this next part. “Your wound is manageable and will heal over time. It might be a bit shocking to see, especially given the fact that you’re not feeling any pain . . .”

Just as the words left his lips, Wren peeled the bedsheet away from her body, revealing the large gash at the center of her stomach, visible through the rip in her black turtleneck. The moment her eyes landed on the wound, Wren’s face went ghostly white, her jaw dropping.

“What. The. Fuck.” Panicked, Wren lifted the hem of her shirt, and she let out a gasp of horror as she revealed the rest of her wound. Not only was there a deep five-inch gash on her stomach, but there was also a constellation of burn marks surrounding it. Scar-riddled flesh. It really wasn’t that bad—not that August thought he could convince Wren of that in her current state.

“Oh my god,” she muttered. “I’m—I should be dead.”

August sighed. “You are dead, Loughty.”

She scowled, staring up at him. August tried not to notice the cute little lines between her brows that formed when she frowned. “You know what I mean. How the hell am I not in the infirmary?”

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” August said. “Really. Plus, it’s already starting to heal. If the wound had been any deeper—say . . . gone through your stomach and out the other side—you’d probably have been unconscious for at least a few days. But your body healed itself pretty quickly while you were out.”

Very quickly. It wasn’t completely out of the ordinary for some students to heal faster than others—every soul was different—but August had to admit . . . Wren had begun to heal at an impressive speed. He’d expected her to remain unconscious at least until morning. Her soul was strong. Resilient. More so than that of the average student.

“How long have I been out?” Wren asked, pulling her shirt back down.

“Few hours,” August explained. “Not too long.”

Wren shoved the curtains away from the window beside her. Streams of fog obscured his vision, but the faint haze of dormitory windows loomed in the distance, shrouded by the impenetrable darkness of night. There was still that faint silverish glow from the sky, and thin ribbons of it pooled into the room, illuminating the side of Wren’s face.

“I missed my other classes,” she whispered through a sigh.

“I wrote them a letter explaining,” August told her. He had anticipated that would be her first concern upon waking. Especially given the fact that she was already on thin ice for ignoring her letters and delaying the start of her classes. “Don’t know if it’ll be enough, but I did what I could.”

Wren glanced over her shoulder at him. She looked momentarily confused, as if she were attempting to piece something together. And then her lips curved into a soft smile, her gaze surprisingly tender.

“Careful, August.” She tilted her head, appraising him. “Someone might accuse you of doing something nice for a change.”

An unwelcome flush crept over August’s neck, but he cleared his throat, pushing it down before it could reach his cheeks. “You would love that, wouldn’t you? Believe it or not, my actions are purely selfish. You’ve proven more useful than anticipated. It was far easier to defeat the statue by using you as a distraction.”

“Sure,” Wren grumbled. “Whatever you say.” She rolled her eyes, but a smile remained on her lips. A softness in her stare. There was something about her expression—about being this close to her—that stirred an unwanted wisp of longing in August’s chest. It left him breathless. Hands shaking by his sides.

August took a rigid step backward, creating distance between them before he could conjure up any other absurd thoughts. “Well . . .” he muttered, making his way toward the door. “I should get going—” But Wren’s voice cut him off, causing him to stagger to a halt just as he had wrapped his hand around the doorknob.

“Where are you going?” she asked, pushing herself to her feet.

“It’s late,” August bit out. God . . . couldn’t this girl give him a break? “I have to meet someone.”

“Do you sleep?” Wren asked, and August couldn’t help but be taken aback by the sudden question.

He shook his head. “Hardly ever.”

“Doesn’t it weaken your magic?” she asked. “Maya mentioned something about that. How we don’t need as much sleep as living souls do, but that it messes with our connection to our magic if we don’t get at least some.”

August snorted, leaning against the door, arms crossed. “I don’t believe that. I personally think it’s just a way to get us to stay inside and out of trouble.”

Wren nodded, as if that made sense. “So . . .” She tucked her hands behind her back. “What exactly are you off to do, then?”

August smiled. “Make trouble.”

Wren blinked. August could see the smile itching to light up her face. The way she had to physically fight it back. But God . . . did he want to see that smile. He wanted to memorize it and bottle it and preserve it for eternity.

“I want to go with you,” Wren said, once again catching August by surprise.

This . . . wasn’t good. Yes, he was meant to form a connection with Wren. To gain her trust and strengthen her abilities. But he wasn’t supposed to do this. To form attachments and feelings. Feelings were a complication. An unnecessary distraction. He needed to focus on fostering her potential and strengthening her magic, not hanging out together. Not daydreaming about brushing her hair and hearing her laugh and kissing that smile right off her face.

Jesus Christ.

“Loughty.” August spoke her name slowly. He needed to push her away. To form a line between them, however painful it might be. “Let me make something abundantly clear. Just because we’re partners does not mean we’re friends.” He didn’t miss the slight flinch in her expression as the words left his lips. “It’s not personal. I simply don’t have friends. It’s not something I do.”

But Wren didn’t seem all that deterred. If anything, August’s feeble attempt at pushing her away only seemed to pique her curiosity.

“Yes, I’m well aware,” she muttered with a chuckle. “And I have no intention of being your friend. You don’t exactly make that an enticing prospect. But . . .” She trailed off and let out a throaty sigh, staring down at her unmade bed. “I can’t spend another night lying here. Thinking. I . . . I just can’t.”

August knew exactly what she meant. The memories. Her old life. What she had lost and left behind. He had no idea what had happened to Wren. How she had died and what she was grieving—but he didn’t need to. It was the one thing all the students of Blackwood truly shared. Grief. The pain of not only losing their lives and the people they had loved, but losing a future that had belonged to them. Losing control of their existence. So it didn’t matter what had happened to Wren, because August already knew.

He knew loss well.

“I’m making a pickup.” The words were tumbling out of August before he could stop himself. Before he could think twice about what he was about to do. “Collecting something I’m owed. You could . . . come with me . . . I suppose.”

Wren’s pale blue eyes lit up. “And what exactly are you picking up?”

August mulled the words over, attempting to figure out the best way to explain it to her, but came up empty. Instead, he simply snapped his fingers, swinging the door to Wren’s room open.

“I think it’s best if I just show you.”

* * *

“Drugs,” Wren muttered, aghast. “We’re here to pick up drugs.”

August knew she wouldn’t react well. He didn’t know all that much about Wren, but she didn’t strike him as the party animal type. Plus, he could admit it probably seemed a bit silly. They were dead. Trapped in literal purgatory. Partying didn’t exactly seem like it should be a top priority.

“They’re technically called elixirs,” August muttered.

Wren huffed. “Oh, whatever. Same thing.”

The pickup was at the usual spot most Blackwood students got their fix—the basement that connected Chambers and Fiddle. Both Houses were known for being home to students with a penchant for partying and a rather impressive proficiency in crafting hallucinogenic elixirs and enchanted liquors.

The basement was rather spacious, carved between the two buildings, nestled just underground. A smattering of deep-forest-green and indigo lights were strung from one side to the other, engulfing the space in a cool sheen. Everything seemed to be tailor-made for comfort: Low-set velvet couches and swooping chaise lounges. Large, inviting cushions scattered across the floor, enchanted to lull someone into a false sense of total relaxation—August had made the mistake of lying on one of them once and had found he couldn’t get up until two days later. A perpetual cloud of prismatic smoke seemed to hover in the air, billowing clouds in shades of deep plum, glittering sapphire and hazy orange. All around them, students lounged, either smoking or chatting among themselves, all of them seeming perfectly at ease.

It was a rare sight at Blackwood. And the only place August had ever seen a student seem actually relaxed in his presence. Sure, half the time it was because they were so out of their mind that they barely registered it was him—but he’d take it.

“What are we waiting for?” Wren asked, arms crossed. She tapped her foot impatiently, eyes scanning the room.

“It’s not what we’re waiting for,” August corrected her. “It’s who.”

And then, as if he had been summoned by mere thought alone, Omar Hamdi appeared behind them, dazed smile on his lips. He wore his usual dark blue suit, two thin silver hoops adorning his brow. In one hand he held a pink-tinted glass vial; in the other, a black pouch. August’s shipment, no doubt.

“Omar.” August nodded in greeting. “You’re late.”

“Hello, beautiful. Apologies for the delay. Marley got absolutely plastered and she mixed up your bag with another, and I had to rifle through the whole damn—” Omar’s voice caught in his throat as his eyes landed on Wren. “And who is this stunning creature? Augustine, you’re not known for keeping company. And such beautiful company, at that.”

Wren blinked, clearly taken aback. Her cheeks burned pink at Omar’s sudden attention.

“This is Wren Loughty,” August cut in. “Blackwood’s newest recruit.”

Omar pouted his lips. “Tough luck, sweetheart. But don’t worry. You’ll find there are plenty of ways to pass the time here. A myriad of delicious elixirs to make the passage of eternity more . . . bearable.”

“What is that?” Wren asked, reaching for the pink-tinted glass vial in Omar’s right hand.

“Careful, now.” Omar pulled the vial back before Wren could make contact. “One whiff of Devil’s Kiss and you’ll be talking to the walls for the next twenty-four hours.” Omar chuckled and handed August the vial, along with the small black pouch in his other hand. “There you go, beautiful. Everything you requested. And please, don’t bother attempting to repay me; you know your bargaining is no good here.”

“How do you pay?” Wren asked. “I mean . . . there’s no money here. And even if there were, wouldn’t it be rather pointless?”

“Very astute, my dear.” Omar fished a thin cigarette out of his pocket, lighting it with nothing but a snap of his fingers. He inhaled deeply, exhaling a faint lilac smoke. “Here at Blackwood, favors are our payment. Bargains. You want a bit of Angel’s Breath and a fresh supply of enchanted whiskey? Then you better get me the answers to next week’s exam. You want a bottle of enchanted wine and enough Sunflower Powder to keep you dancing until the next Decennial? Then I expect you to send my student of choice to the infirmary in order to secure my top grade in the next assignment.”

Wren nodded, expression grim. “I see.”

“But our dear friend August here,” Omar continued, dramatically draping his arm around August’s shoulder, “requires no payment.”

“And by no payment, what Omar really means is that I let him run his affairs without a hiccup,” August added, lifting his lips in a tight-lipped smile. “I see nothing. Say nothing. And don’t interfere with any of his transactions.”

“Having the Demon of Blackwood on my side seems like a fair enough payment,” Omar said through a chuckle, slapping August on the shoulder. But there was still an inkling of fear simmering behind his olive-green eyes. Omar could pretend all he wanted that he saw August as a friend, but August knew the truth.

Omar was terrified of him. Just like everyone else.

“What do you need these for?” Wren asked, gesturing to August’s shipment. “You don’t exactly strike me as a recreational drug user.”

“Blackmail,” August mused out loud. “Bartering. The occasional bit of fun.” He smiled, unable to help himself. “Oh, apologies. I realize that might be a foreign concept for you.”

“What?” Wren choked out, actually offended. “Fun? I can have fun. I’m very fun.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” Omar smiled and took a long drag from his cigarette. “You seem the type.”

“I am!” Wren retorted, arms crossed indignantly. “I was the life of the party. Plus, you don’t even know me!” She pointed an accusatory finger at August. “Who are you to say whether or not I’m not fun—” Her voice caught in her throat as her eyes snaked up and down August’s face. “What? What is it?”

August let a smile slowly creep onto his lips.

“I just wanted to see how easily I could get you worked up,” he whispered, dipping his voice down lower. “Turns out, quite easily.”

Wren pouted, clearly displeased that she’d let August get exactly what he wanted. But her attention was quickly diverted by something over his shoulder. Her eyes skated past him, brows pinched together in concern.

“Is he okay?” she asked.

August glanced over his shoulder and spotted the source of Wren’s apprehension.

Olivier Dupont lay sprawled on one of the velvet couches, his shirt half unbuttoned and his hair absolutely disheveled, as if a dozen hands had run their fingers through it. Which, given his current state, was very possible. There were three girls encircling him, giggling as they whispered into his ear. One of the girls, Eleanora, was drawing flowers on his exposed forearm with lipstick, while another braided a lock of his blond hair. The third simply stared adoringly into his eyes while he muttered something under his breath.

“Who? Olivier?” Omar chuckled. “Oh, he’s fine. Nothing new. He’s one of my best customers.”

“He seems . . . sad.” Wren’s voice was soft, barely audible.

“What makes you say that?” Omar asked, brow raised. “Seems like he’s having a perfectly lovely time to me.”

Wren hesitated. She stared down at Olivier, who blinked, dazed, as he reached for one of the girls and began to kiss her.

“His eyes,” Wren whispered.

“They’re beautiful,” Omar sighed. “I know.”

“No. It’s not that,” Wren said. “They’re . . . sad. His eyes are sad.” She let out a quivering breath. “He’s lonely.”

Omar inhaled a drag from his cigarette and chuckled.

“We must have very different definitions of the word.”

For a brief moment, Olivier’s eyes landed on August. There was a tense beat. A knowing stare lingering between them. August was the only one who knew that Wren was right—Olivier was sad. He’d been at Blackwood almost as long as August had. And though Olivier had managed to trick everyone else into thinking he enjoyed his debaucherous, partying ways, August saw right through him. He knew what centuries at Blackwood did to a soul. He knew the loneliness plaguing Olivier. The regret.

Olivier was a sad, lonely mess.

Just like August.

“I have to go—” August began, but Omar quickly interjected, gripping August by the wrist before he could turn away.

“No, no,” he muttered. “Stay. August, I insist. You told me last time you’d stay and have a drink with me.” Omar uncorked a bottle of enchanted wine, expertly gripping two glasses in one hand. “You promised.”

“I know.” August sighed, anxiety tightening the muscles up and down his neck. “But I have company . . .”

“The more the merrier!” Omar exclaimed, scooping up a third glass. “You know me, my dear, I love to share.”

Wren shrugged, gripping her wrist as though it might run away from her. “I could have a drink . . .”

“No,” August bit out, the word shooting from his mouth almost involuntarily. He inhaled a steadying breath. “Absolutely not.”

Wren blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You’re not drinking this stuff,” August replied, flexing his fingers in an effort to settle the buzz of panic in his chest.

Wren scoffed, turning to face August, and instantly, he knew he’d messed up.

“Believe it or not, partner, I’m not some delicate flower who can’t handle a bit of alcohol.” Each word was a sharp slap across August’s face, dripping with disdain. “I’ve partied. I’ve had a beer or two. I can have a drink.”

August peered down at her, dipping his voice lower. He was aware of Omar standing beside them, but as he stared down at Wren, he couldn’t help but feel as though the two of them were the only ones standing in the room. Everyone else—everything else—seemed to melt away the moment he locked eyes with her.

“I’m certain you were capable of partaking in alcoholic consumption when you were alive, but this . . .” August gestured around the room. “This is different. These drinks are strong. Enchanted. Infused with magic. We have no way of knowing how you will react—”

“Why are you coddling me?” Wren interjected, taking August by surprise. Her voice wasn’t as sharp as it was before. It was almost soft . . . a gentle curiosity in her eyes. Sincerity.

August cleared his throat.

“I’m . . . I’m not.”

Wren stepped toward him, and August pretended not to notice the warm amber scent that filled his lungs the moment she got closer. The faint hint of vanilla that seemed to be intertwined with her hair. Clinging to the soft planes of her skin.

“We’re supposed to be partners, right?” she asked. “Just partners? Not friends?”

August swallowed the knot in the back of his throat. “Right.”

“Then why the hell do you care whether or not I do this?” Wren asked. “Why do you care if something happens to me?”

Why do I care? August wondered silently. He couldn’t understand it himself. Couldn’t decipher his complex web of feelings. He felt mad. Tormented. There was just something about her.

He had felt it the moment he saw her. The moment their shoulders brushed in that corridor. But what was that feeling? You know what it is, whispered a voice in the back of his mind. He could sense the word rising up his throat. Lingering on the tip of his tongue. But he wouldn’t let himself indulge in it. Wouldn’t dare dream of uttering it out loud. It was a foolish feeling.

One he had buried long ago.

“I don’t,” August muttered back through gritted teeth, the lie burning his insides. “I don’t give a damn what happens to you.”

“Good.” Wren gave a tight-lipped smile, and before August could stop her, before he could even fully comprehend what she was about to do, Wren snatched the glass vial out of Omar’s hand, brought it to her lips, and took a swig.

She swallowed, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, and thrust the bottle in August’s direction.

“Then bottoms up.”

* * *

“Loughty. Get down from there.”

Wren was standing atop one of the tables, third glass of enchanted wine in one hand, the other tugging on one of the strings of twinkling lights hanging above her. She giggled, twirling in place, spilling a bit of wine down her arm. Without hesitation, she brought her forearm up to her lips, licking the droplet of red wine before it could go to waste. She’d been standing there, dancing, making an absolute fool of herself, for the better half of the hour. She was completely drunk. She was maddening.

She was—fucking hell, she was beautiful, but that was beside the point.

“Well, well, well.” Wren peered down at August, pouting. “Look who it is. The party pooper. Come to poop all over my party.”

August pinched the bridge of his nose, exasperated. “Get. Down.”

“Or what?” Wren hummed, resting her hands against her knees as she peered down at August. Her pupils were large and dilated—a side effect of the enchanted wine. Unlike regular wine, enchanted wine offered a . . . full sensory experience. It was quite possible that Wren was hallucinating. Not to mention filled with a false sense of euphoria. “You’re gonna send me to the infirmary? I think you’ve made it pretty clear that you’re not going to do that. You”—she pointed at August, legs swaying slightly—“don’t scare me, August.”

August let out a sigh. This was utterly hopeless. He turned to Omar, who was seated beside him, staring up at Wren with a mixture of admiration and the faintest hint of vicarious embarrassment.

“Omar,” he pleaded. “Do something.”

“What?” Omar splayed a hand over his chest in feigned innocence. “What do you want me to do?”

August groaned, frustration welling in his chest. Wren was going to hate herself—or him—if she missed more classes the following morning. And the longer she stayed awake, the longer the intoxicating properties of the enchanted wine would last. If they wanted it to pass through her system, then she needed to rest.

She needed to get off that damn table.

“Loughty.” August pushed up the sleeves of his shirt. “I am going to count to three—”

“Uh-oh.” Wren giggled, twirling. “He’s scowling. What’s a girl to do?”

Omar whistled, shaking his head. “You’ve certainly got your hands full with this one, August.”

“One . . .” August stepped closer. He tilted his head in warning. “Two . . .”

“Oh, please, August,” Wren interjected with a dismissive wave of her hand. “What are you going to do, hmm? It’s not like you’re just going to pick me up and throw me over your—” But Wren’s words were cut short, a resounding shriek taking their place as August gripped her tightly by the thighs, quite literally tossing her over his shoulder before she could say another word. She wriggled and kicked against his grip, but her efforts were ultimately futile. August was stronger, not to mention the elixir’s intoxicating properties made her movements sluggish. Even if Wren wanted to put up a fight, she wouldn’t get very far.

“Put me down!” Wren bellowed, though August drowned her out, turning to face Omar.

“Thanks for your help,” August muttered through gritted teeth.

Omar bowed his head.

“Always a pleasure doing business with you.”

August chuckled dryly, peeling his gaze from Omar. Luckily, he had been conservative with his relocation spells recently, and his spacial reserve was fairly full. He probably had enough juice to get them to Pettyworth. Last thing he wanted to do was haul Wren the whole way there.

August shut his eyes and summoned the relocation spell. Thick black smoke engulfed his vision, and suddenly he was no longer standing in the basement of Chambers and Fiddle but standing in Wren’s room again, shrouded in darkness.

“All right.” August set Wren down on her bed, biting back a smile as she ungracefully struggled to right herself. “There you are.”

“Don’t you ever”—Wren snapped at him, shoving him firmly in the chest—“do that again.”

August rolled his eyes. “You’ll be thanking me tomorrow morning when you’re actually functioning and able to go to your classes.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” Wren shot back, kicking off her boots.

God, she was stubborn.

“Tomorrow afternoon,” August said, pausing by the door. “Meet me at the Main Yard after your final class.”

Wren waved her hand, as if to say she heard him but didn’t have the energy to respond verbally. August watched as Wren succumbed to the inevitable exhaustion that came after an enchanted wine high, curling up on the bed, her eyelids already beginning to flutter shut the moment she lay her head on her pillow.

“Good night, Loughty.”

Wren mumbled something under her breath, though August couldn’t quite hear her, only catching the words Whatever . . . good night. Still, he found himself smiling.

He summoned his last relocation spell for the day, feeling his reserve deplete. When he opened his eyes, he was back in his own room. As the smoke from his relocation spell dissipated, August realized there was something waiting for him in his room.

Written upon his mirror in red—in blood—were four words.

A reminder.

A warning.

THE SOULLESS ONE WAITS.

August swallowed, disgust burning in his throat, and backed away from the mirror. He had been foolish to let himself forget. To delude himself into thinking he could feel things that no longer belonged to him. Staring at the warning written in blood, the Soulless One’s promise carved into his soul, August was reminded of his duty. Of the twisted vows binding him to this fate.

Brutally. Unforgivingly.

The answer was simple: There would be no happiness for him.

He knew then, with striking clarity, exactly what he had felt when he had first bumped into Wren. What he had dared to feel when he first saw her.

Hope.

But with the four words written on the mirror, that same inkling of hope was slaughtered, ripped from his soul and forgotten.