Immortal Consequences(36)

“Is she…drunk?”

Wren scoffed. “She is perfectly fine.”

“Right.” August strode across the room and caught Wren by the elbow before she could topple over. “Because talking about yourself in the third person is a clear sign of sobriety. Come on. Let’s get you to your room.”

“I’m fine,” Wren whined, though her left ankle wobbled dangerously in her shoe. She usually had no problem sauntering around the halls in those knee-high boots she always wore, but now she had taken on the appearance of a baby deer attempting to walk fresh out of the womb.

To be fair, the few sips of enchanted whiskey had started to make their way through Olivier’s system as well, sending a rather warm feeling throughout his legs and into his chest. The room had a fuzzy haze to it, like somebody had draped gauze over his eyes and lit a fire nearby. He had the sudden urge to sing. Or take his clothes off.

Maybe both—if the occasion called for it.

“August is right,” Olivier sighed. “We should go to bed. The sooner we go to sleep, the sooner we’ll know who the nominees are.”

“Already leaving.” Irene offered one last disparaging look toward August before snapping her fingers and vanishing in a puff of smoke.

Masika chuckled. “That girl lives for the dramatics.” And then she was gone too, disappearing the same way she’d arrived.

August helped Wren out of the room, whispering something in her ear that Olivier couldn’t quite hear. Emilio hovered by the door. Olivier wasn’t certain how long he’d been standing there.

“I should go too.”

Olivier nodded. It felt as though a colony of bees had begun to buzz in his head. “I think that’s maybe for the best…whiskey’s a bit stronger…than I thought.”

“See you tomorrow, then?”

“Right.” Olivier plopped down onto his bed and closed his eyes. “The big day…”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Emilio’s voice sounded distant. Slightly muffled. “Maybe a glass of water?”

“I…feel…wonderful.”

The whiskey swept over him like a dense fog, slowly lulling him to sleep. Maybe if he hadn’t been so drunk, he might have noticed the expression on Emilio’s face. The sadness in his eyes.

But he didn’t.

Instead, the enchanted whiskey swept him away, to a place where he dreamt of sunlit cobbled streets and open blue skies and a knight with a lumpy wool sweater and the kindest eyes he’d ever seen.

13

August

Wren wasn’t drunk. She was absolutely plastered. August struggled to keep her upright as they walked out of Olivier’s room, hoisting her arm over his shoulder despite her slurred mumbles of protestation.

Wren groaned against his shoulder. “Don’t need help…I’m fine…”

“I’m sure you are,” August whispered into her ear as they walked into the corridor. It would only be a ten-minute walk from Litterman to Pettyworth, but something told August that Wren’s inebriated state would lengthen their trip quite substantially. Not to mention the risk of being caught wandering past curfew…again.

He steadied her, holding on to her shoulders. “I’m going to relocate us to your room.”

“No, no, no…” Wren shook her head. “I can walk…I don’t need…”

“Loughty. Look at me.” August grabbed her chin, angling her face toward him. “I am not letting you walk by yourself in this state. And if I’m going with you, we may as well relocate together.”

She hiccupped, eyes sluggishly blinking. “Since when do you care, hm? I assumed you’d be finding a way to weed out the competition already.”

August tensed. His grip on her loosened.

“You truly think so little of me?”

“What does it matter?” Her eyes struggled to stay focused on his. “It’s not like you care what I think.”

“Loughty.” He inhaled a sharp breath and shook off the tightness in his chest. “I’m not going to leave you here defenseless, despite what you may think of me. Don’t worry. Come tomorrow morning, you can go on hating me and cursing my name. I promise.”

Wren groaned and shoved him firmly in the chest, catching him by surprise.

“You absolute idiot.”

He blinked at her, stunned. “What?”

“You’re so”—she stumbled and gestured wildly with her arms—“you.”

August sighed. “Thank you for the rave review. Now, if we’re done here—”

“No. You know what? We’re not done.” Wren pressed her hand against the wall in a feeble attempt to steady her wobbling stance. “You are…you are so infuriating. You think I hate you? You think it’s that simple?”

August shook his head. He didn’t mean for the words to come out so bitter, but he couldn’t help himself. “Isn’t it?”

“God, I wish it were.” Wren rubbed her face with her hands and sighed. “I wish…I wish I could despise you. It would make all of this so much easier.”

“Loughty—”

“But despite my better judgment, despite everything about you that drives me insane…I can’t bring myself to hate you.” August tried to ignore the agony in her voice, the desperation. It was enough to drive him mad. “I can’t—I can’t even convince myself to stay away from you.”