Immortal Consequences(122)

But there was no time to unravel that mystery.

Wren simply counted herself lucky and stepped inside. She made her way up the stairs, cursing as the old wood creaked beneath her weight. The dormitories were on the second and third level, another maze of corridors and doors similar to that of Pettyworth. But Louise had mentioned her room number weeks earlier, which meant Wren knew exactly where to go to find her.

Room 31.

Wren knocked, holding her breath. She expected to hear the shuffle of feet, the sound of the bed creaking as Louise stood up to greet her, but there was nothing.

She knocked once more.

“Lou?” she whispered, pressing her ear against the door. Still nothing.

Wren placed her hand upon the doorknob, surprised to find the door unlocked. She pushed forward, stepping into the room.

A strangled gasp escaped her throat when she found what waited for her on the other side.

The room had been ransacked. A scattered valley of ripped-up papers and journals. The sheets had not only been thrown to the floor but torn. Ripped apart as though they had been mauled by a wild animal. Black ink smeared the walls, spelling out nonsensical ramblings with no beginning and no end.

And, most importantly, there was no sign of Louise.

Wren placed a shaking hand over her mouth as she took in the mess in front of her, scanning the walls, attempting to make sense of the frantic writing. There were words that stood out to her: carnage, deceit, prophecy, awakening. But none of it made sense.

Something caught her eye. A piece of paper placed upon a wooden desk.

She approached it slowly, a horrible tension gripping her chest, twisting her insides mercilessly.

And that was when she saw it.

Her name. Smeared in red ink. Written over and over and over.

Wren. Wren. Wren. Wren. Wren. Wren.

She picked up the paper with a trembling hand, lifting it toward the silver glow of the sky. But something was wrong. This ink wasn’t just red. It was dark crimson, dried and crusted over.

It was blood.

Wren gasped, dropping the paper. She stumbled backward, panic and confusion blotting out her senses. She was paralyzed by a tidal wave of questions, each one more terrifying than the last.

Had Louise done this? Had someone taken her? Had her friend been lying to her this entire time?

Wren needed to find her. She bolted out of the room, determined to locate Louise, only to go crashing straight into another body. She gasped, prepared to fight, summoning a surge of fire through her limbs— “Ms. Loughty!” It was Housemaster Calligan. He gripped Wren’s shoulder tightly with one hand, the other clutching a lantern. “What on earth are you doing here? We’ve been looking for you.”

“I—I came to find Louise. To speak with her.” Wren attempted to steady her breathing, speaking through choked gasps. “But she’s not in her room. She’s not there—”

“Oh, I’m sure Louise has simply snuck off somewhere…much like you, might I add.”

Wren shook her head. “But her room…I think something might have— Wait. Did you say you were looking for me?”

Calligan nodded, solemn. “There has been a change. Unforeseen circumstances have altered the Decennial’s schedule.”

Terror pooled in Wren’s stomach. “What are you saying?”

Calligan stepped forward, the glow of his lantern illuminating the space between them.

“You must come with me,” he whispered. “The fourth and final trial is about to begin.”

57

Olivier

He woke up gasping for air.

Next to him, Emilio was still. Cold. Seemingly lifeless. But not gone. If the wound had destroyed him, then he would have disintegrated into particles by now, consumed by the Ether. But he was still here, lying next to Olivier, flesh and bone, shallow breaths slipping from his lips.

There must be something Olivier could do. If he couldn’t heal the wound with a needle and thread, then maybe he needed to think beyond the physical world.

An idea emerged.

Just because they no longer held the ability to heal themselves with magic didn’t mean others couldn’t heal them. It was a possibility. Hope. And that was enough to jolt Olivier out of the bed and onto his feet.

He knew where he needed to go, though he didn’t like the idea of leaving Emilio by himself. But if anybody had a plethora of useful magical information stored in their room, it was Emilio. His room was a couple of doors away. It would only be a few seconds.

Olivier glanced at Emilio, memorizing every tiny detail of his face.

“Hold on,” he whispered. “Please.”

And then he ran out into the corridor.

He began rifling through Emilio’s desk the moment he stumbled into the room. As he suspected, there were dozens of textbooks and notes stuffed into his drawers and scattered over the wooden surface. There had to be something he wasn’t seeing. Anything. A spell that could help mend the wound. That could slow down the bleeding.

Something caught his eye. It was the book they’d stolen from the Housemasters’ section of the library. The book on shadow magic.

He didn’t think. He grabbed the book and darted back toward his room, skidding to a halt in his doorway.

Emilio was still there. His breaths shallow, rapid. His usually warm brown skin a sickly white.

Olivier darted to the bed and began frantically flipping through the pages. It was mainly unintelligible—pages and pages on soul curses and shadow portals. None of it was useful. None of it was what he needed.