Immortal Consequences(17)

Students couldn’t access shadow magic. That was an indisputable fact. Yet this girl, this seemingly innocuous girl, had just done the impossible. She’d summoned shadows the moment she entered Blackwood.

“Olivier!” Emilio shook him roughly by the shoulders. “Snap out of it.”

Olivier blinked. He glanced around the rooftop and noticed they were alone. “Where are the others?”

“They already went downstairs! I tried to get your attention, but you were—” Emilio gestured vaguely in his direction. “Out of it.”

“Right.” Olivier cleared his throat and tugged on his collar. “Off we go, then.”

He bolted across the rooftop, pushing the door open with what Emilio would probably call unnecessary dramatic flair. He could hear the others downstairs. A cacophony of whispers and nervous pacing. And as Olivier and Emilio descended the spiral staircase, he caught sight of the rest of the group scattered across the entry hall. Wren stood like a stone pillar, arms wrapped tightly around her chest. Irene and Masika seemed, unsurprisingly, bored by their current company.

August, whose voice dominated the room, leaned against the double doors with a sense of eerie calm.

“We go back to our dorms and say nothing,” he instructed. “Keep quiet.”

“Keep quiet?” Wren echoed. “Have you lost your mind? We just saw a new student cast shadow magic!”

“Not to mention we have no idea who that person was who relocated her away from the gates,” Masika added. “For all we know, it could have been a Demien. Headmaster Silas needs to be made aware of this…now.”

It was the obvious course of action. They were out of their depth. Yet something about Masika’s suggestion clearly displeased August, who turned to look at her with a withering frown.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“And why not?” Wren sighed, exasperated. “If anybody knows what to do next—it’s him.”

“Because Augustine here has a vendetta against our great and noble Headmaster,” Irene mused. “Isn’t that right?”

“I don’t have a—” August shook his head. “Look. I just don’t think we should involve Silas when we’re not even sure what we’re dealing with.”

“Who we’re dealing with,” Masika corrected. “Don’t you get it? We have no idea who actually just entered Blackwood. That girl could be working for the Demien Order!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Irene muttered. “She just died. We all saw her fall into Blackwood with our own eyes.”

“And we also saw her cast shadow magic,” Emilio reminded her, tentatively edging closer.

Irene’s eyes snapped toward Emilio. “No one asked for your opinion, newbie.”

“Easy,” Olivier warned. Irene watched him with an amused grin, as if silently egging him on. Begging him for a fight. And he would give her one. If she opened her mouth and spoke to Emilio like that again.

“All I’m saying is that we can’t ignore what happened just because we think it’s impossible,” Emilio explained carefully. “We’ve been told that Demiens are the only ones capable of harnessing shadow magic…but maybe they’re not. Maybe this new student accidentally unlocked something during her crossing.”

“Well, that’s profoundly unhelpful,” Irene sighed. “Sounds like we have no idea what we’re talking about and we should probably involve somebody who does. Like, oh, I don’t know, the Headmaster of the school?”

August slammed his palm against the door. “Enough!”

The force of his voice reverberated in the space between them, casting an uneasy silence upon the group.

“Don’t you all realize what would happen if we went to Silas?” He looked around the room, eyes dark and downcast. “We’d effectively be turning ourselves in.”

Wren let out a gasp. “No nomination…we’d be barred from the Decennial.”

A chill ran up and down Olivier’s spine. How could they have forgotten? The Decennial was looming just around the corner. They were less than a day from the opening ceremony. If they went to Headmaster Silas…they’d destroy any opportunity they had to be chosen.

Irene paled. “I…I didn’t think about that.”

“Which is exactly what I’m proposing we do,” August sighed. “Think. Before we do something profoundly stupid that will ruin our chances at nomination. Now, my suggestion is we go back to the dorms and—”

It was in that exact moment that the doors to Bonestrod swung open, a gust of wind scattering rotten yellow leaves across their feet.

A triumvirate of familiar faces greeted them with identical scowls—Housemaster Birdie, Housemaster Wesley and Housemaster Russo. Birdie, who stood at a towering six foot two, with bleached-blond hair and eyes that looked like polished turquoise, was positioned at the front of the trio. Wesley, with his tawny hair and yellow-green eyes, assessed them nervously. Russo, on the other hand, was stoic as ever, her face expressionless and dark eyes eerily blank.

For a moment, nobody said a word. The opposing groups simply stared at one another, as if each was waiting for the other to make the first move.

It was Birdie who broke the silence in her sharp Texan twang.