Read an Excerpt
1
WREN
Wren Loughty hadn’t bothered to lock her bedroom door. She had come to accept that it was rather pointless to pretend that secured locks and protective wards would make a difference. There was simply no avoiding the inevitable. So when she awoke to a set of hands clamped over her mouth, the familiar scent of peppermint and sandalwood wafting up her nose, she wasn’t all that surprised.
In fact, she’d been expecting it.
What disconcerted her was the strange dream of her mother she’d been having only moments earlier. She always found it odd that they still held the ability to sleep and dream. The dead weren’t meant to dream. Though she supposed they weren’t dead—not really. They existed in the place between. The place parallel to life and death, the one right on the cusp of birth and the dawn of the afterlife.
Whatever that meant.
She tried not to give the transitory nature of purgatory too much thought.
Pale light pooled in through the sheer drapes, illuminating the ivy-speckled ceiling in a crescent shape. Wren blinked, her vision adjusting to the darkness, and refocused her attention on her intruder.
Augustine Hughes’s familiar slate-gray eyes hovered above her with smug amusement, the right side of his mouth curled into a smirk.
“I hope you’ll forgive me for the rude awakening, Loughty.” His gaze snaked over her face with careful precision. “Had to be sure you wouldn’t scream and blow my cover. You know . . . given your track record.”
Wren groaned in irritation. It was true that she had acquired somewhat of a reputation for disturbing the other students in Pettyworth House. Multiple complaints had been sent to Housemaster Marigold regarding her loud night terrors, which often woke up the others and sent them running out of the dorm.
It was a flaw . . . one even she could admit needed fixing.
August leaned closer. “I trust I can let go without you making a scene?”
Wren narrowed her eyes in warning and attempted to snap back with a string of obscenities, though her words were muffled by his hand. Either way, the message was clear.
Don’t push it.
August smiled and dropped his hand, his body still leaning precariously close. “No need for fighting words. I’m not here for a brawl, darling.”
“Then maybe next time you can knock, instead of slapping your hand over my mouth like some deranged serial killer,” Wren spat out, swatting him away. Her nightgown was thick enough that she didn’t feel embarrassed under August’s reproachful gaze as she stood up from the bed and made for the window.
She unlatched the hook and pushed it open, cool air wafting into the room. The silver glow of Blackwood washed over her in delicate streams, dancing through the thick nighttime mist. It would be easy to mistake the ethereal light for the glow of the moon, but Wren knew better.
There was no moon in the night sky. No Earth. No universe. No world that she once knew.
None of those things existed in Blackwood.
Not really.
August leaned against the wooden bedpost, arms crossed and face twisted into that perpetual smirk of his. He wore his usual uniform: black trousers with a white button-down, the sleeves rolled up over the muscles of his forearms and a black vest fitted over his torso. A tiny scar marred the skin beneath his right eye, a peculiar detail that had always intrigued Wren, though she hadn’t brought herself to ask how he had gotten it.
They rarely spoke about their old lives. And she wasn’t going to be the one to start.
Despite their animosity, Wren could acknowledge that she might have found August attractive if they had met when they were alive. He was conventionally handsome, she supposed, with his strong jaw and unruly dark curls. Not to mention annoyingly intimidating, weaseling his way out of most situations with his smoke-filled eyes and posh English lilt. Maybe they would have bumped into each other on vacation. She could see August sprawled confidently on some beach, muscles slick with sweat, remnants of sun lotion clinging to his naturally tanned skin as he basked underneath the warm rays of the sun.
The sun.
God, she missed the sun.
“Like what you see?” August tilted his head to the side. “I can paint you a portrait if you’d like.”
Wren rolled her eyes. “What do you want?”
“I’m about to go for a midnight stroll,” he explained casually, clasping his hands behind his back.
“And you thought I’d be interested in accompanying you because?”
“Because . . .” He slipped off the silver ring he wore around his index finger and flicked it up in the air like a coin. “It just so happens I have it on good authority that a new student is going to fall into Blackwood tonight.”
Wren’s entire body reflexively tensed. There was a large chance he was bluffing, seeing as August wasn’t exactly the most reliable and trustworthy person at Blackwood, but it was still a shocking thought.
It was a well-known fact that the arrival of a new student was a rare event, occurring only every few decades. Blackwood ran like clockwork; there were rarely deviations from this schedule. The academy prided itself on order and balance, on maintaining tradition. But a new student had already arrived less than a year earlier, which meant that if August was telling the truth . . . something in the schedule had changed.
“Let’s say I choose to believe you,” Wren said. “Why the hell would I voluntarily go with you to watch?”
“Oh, Loughty.” August chuckled. “You are the most infuriatingly competitive person I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting. Don’t act like you’re not constantly worrying in that pretty head of yours.”
“That’s not true.” It was. “Have you considered that maybe you’re projecting your own insecurities onto me? That you’re the one who’s worried about another student being better at guiding than you?”
August’s face fell. “Guiding?”
She stiffened her shoulders. “Yes. That’s what we do, is it not?”
“No.” His expression hardened as he took a step forward, the old wood creaking beneath the weight of his leather boots. “We reap souls. We’re not holding their hands and skipping off into the sunset with them.” He shook his head in disapproval. “Christ, Loughty. I thought you’d know better by now.”
“That’s not—” Wren sucked in a breath. She wasn’t in the mood to get into one of their regular debates. And truthfully, she was curious. She couldn’t help that inherently human part of her that craved to know more. That desired a deeper understanding of everything around her.
She wondered if that would fade—when that would fade.
“Look,” she sighed. “All I’m saying is maybe we’re both downplaying our own curiosity. That maybe we’re both deeply invested in being good at what we do. In being the best. That maybe—”
“I get it,” August interjected, waving his hand in the air. “We’re both competitive arseholes. You’ve made your point.” Competitive arseholes. That was one way to put it. Wren thought sworn rivals was a better way to describe their tumultuous relationship, though she didn’t bother correcting him.
Ever since Wren had died and fallen into Blackwood, August had embedded himself into her existence like some nagging, blistering, swollen splinter that could not be plucked, despite how often Wren tried. She wasn’t certain why he’d specifically chosen her to pester for the rest of eternity, though she tried not to concern herself with unraveling the labyrinthian mind of Augustine Hughes.
Wren pushed past him and ambled toward her wardrobe. She slipped on her usual black trench coat and glanced at August through the tarnished vanity mirror. He’d begun to absentmindedly browse the old leather-bound textbooks adorning her various shelves, index finger trailing over the dusty spines.
“How are you certain?”
He didn’t look up at her. “Certain of what?”
“That another student has been selected,” Wren clarified, discreetly slipping her favorite silver dagger into the pocket of her waistcoat. “It’s a complete deviation from the schedule. It’s been less than a year since that newbie entered—”
“Emilio,” August said, finishing her thought. “Yes. I’m aware.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
August paused and glanced over his shoulder. “Is it really that difficult for you to trust me? This will be a lot more fun if you stop asking so many questions.”
Wren knew that the responsible thing would be to say no. It would be easy. She could send him off, get right back into bed, and pretend he’d never awoken her in the first place. But if there was truly a new student entering Blackwood tonight, then she was determined to know more.
“Fine,” she sighed, gesturing toward the door. “Lead the way.”
August smiled triumphantly. “That’s more like it.” He snapped his fingers and the door swung open. “After you.”
Wren ignored the self-satisfied look on his face as she stepped past him.
Orange light illuminated the doorway, firelight dancing from the dozens of iron sconces adorning the corridor. Deep-crimson wallpaper lined the narrow hallway, the edges peeling and worn with age, curling up in frayed ribbons. Tiny filaments of greenery had snaked their way around the crown molding like a spiderweb, stretching up toward the ceiling.
Wren traced the wall with her fingertip as they walked. “So . . . did you prepare for Calligan’s exam tomorrow morning?”
August raised his brows and peered at her curiously. “Loughty, darling, are you attempting to make small talk with me?”
“I’m not—” Wren staggered to a stop, an unwelcome flush creeping onto her neck. “You are the one who forced me out of bed!”
August leaned against the wall. “Nobody forced you.”
“Well, it’s not like you gave me a lot of options.”
“Christ . . .” He rubbed his face in exasperation. “Look. You can still turn around. We’re only a few feet away from your room. Last thing I need is you making me seem like the bad guy for inviting you somewhere.”
A door creaked open to the left of them.
“Can you quiet down?” Maya Romero stood at the doorway, her black pixie cut sticking up in disheveled spikes. “I know the concept of rest may be foreign to the two of you, but most of us are trying to sleep.”
“Sorry, Maya.” Wren offered her an apologetic grin. “We’re just going for a walk.”
“Past curfew?”
August stepped forward. “Is that a problem?”
Maya instinctively flinched. “No. But . . . a group of Ascended were seen out by the Main Yard. Sent at least a dozen students to reformatory.” She craned her neck forward and glanced around the corridor nervously. “I really don’t think the two of you should be pushing your luck right before the Decennial.”
Wren cursed under her breath. Of course. She’d been so worried about a new student arriving that she’d nearly forgotten that the opening ceremony would happen tomorrow evening. If they were caught . . . it could ruin her chances at the nomination.
Every ten years, the students of Blackwood Academy were considered for the Decennial Festival. Out of the hundreds of students at the academy, only one would secure the nomination, carefully chosen with respect to their skills and talents by the school’s Headmaster and its six Housemasters. The nominee would then participate in four trials meant to test their magical abilities. Truthfully, the trials were more of a formality. A tradition as old as the Decennial itself. Not a single nominee in the entire history of Blackwood had ever failed the trials.
