Immortal Consequences(2)

“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?”