Immortal Consequences(47)

They took two more left turns, following the commotion, until they finally found the source.

“What on earth—” Olivier made a strange choking sound, as though his words had been sucked right out of his throat.

Emilio skidded to a halt. He almost stumbled forward, but Olivier reached out and grabbed him by the wrist, pulling him back. It took him a second to fully comprehend what they were looking at.

Josie and Tristan stood back to back, each of them facing an exact replica of themselves.

It was uncanny. The replicas were nearly identical to their counterparts, though they seemed to lack any semblance of humanity. There was something otherworldly about them, a quality that sent a shiver down Emilio’s spine.

But there was one more detail that concerned him.

They each held a sword in their hands.

The moment they stumbled upon the scene, Tristan—the real Tristan—craned his neck and met Emilio’s eye. He was covered in dirt and grime, his dark brown skin dotted with droplets of sweat.

“Olivier.” Somehow, despite their current situation, Tristan managed to break out in the most brilliant smile Emilio had ever seen. It was no wonder nearly half the student body wanted to either be him, or be with him.

Olivier let out a nervous chuckle. “Tristan, dear…seems you’ve found yourself in quite the predicament.”

Next to him, Josie attempted to kick her replica with the tip of her Mary Janes, though the replica swiftly dodged the attack before she could make contact, as though it had read her mind and anticipated the blow. Her dirty-blond hair was stained with dried blood, the sleeves of her navy sweater rolled up, revealing the tattoo of a compass inked on her wrist.

“These bastards have been circling us for nearly an hour!” Josie snarled. Though she was smaller than the rest of them, Emilio was certain that if anyone was capable of inflicting devastating damage with their bare hands, it would be her.

“Magic doesn’t work on them,” Tristan added through gritted teeth. “So don’t bother. I already tried blowing them to pieces.”

“Have you tried…speaking to them?” Olivier offered.

Josie let out a bark of laughter. “You can try, but it’s pointless. They’re dumber than a bag of bricks.”

“Um…pardon me.” Olivier addressed the replicas with a nervous smile. “There wouldn’t be a chance we could simply talk this through? Have a civilized conversation?”

The replicas kept their eyes on Tristan and Josie, unflinching.

“I told you,” Josie sneered.

Emilio’s eyes snagged on the swords glinting in the replicas’ hands. He swallowed, revealing his own sword, which he had kept tucked behind his back.

“Maybe…maybe you need this to defeat them?” he offered warily.

As soon as the words left his lips, the replicas turned to face him with eerie precision. It was like they had completely forgotten about Josie and Tristan, focusing their attention solely on Emilio. The replicas stepped toward him—one rigid footfall after the other. They showed no sign of stopping, edging closer and closer to Emilio, each of them wearing a sickening grin.

Olivier cursed and stumbled backward. “I’m going to take that as a yes.”

“What—” Emilio braced himself, pointing the sword toward the replicas. “Am I supposed to fight them?”

But then something strange happened. The replicas began to shift closer, their limbs fusing together, until the two replicas became one.

And then the replica’s features morphed.

Green eyes. Blond hair. Crooked smile.

No.

“Hello, my love.”

It wore Olivier’s face. That beautiful yet infuriating face. Emilio had to restrain himself from dropping the sword, summoning all the courage inside him to keep his eyes locked on the replica.

“Well, that is horrifying,” muttered the real Olivier. “And utterly unfair. It got my hair completely wrong.”

The replica dragged the edge of its sword against the dirt, head tilted. “My poor little Emilio…always so scared.”

Truthfully—Emilio wanted to cry. He wanted to fall to the ground and curl up into a ball and close his eyes until this entire nightmare was over. But he couldn’t. So he braced himself, raising the sword high above his head.

The replica swung first.

Emilio lifted his own sword, blocking the blow. It rattled all the way down his arm, seizing his body in a vicious wave. The replica was stronger, not to mention the same height as Olivier, but Emilio had something equally valuable.

Desperation.

He parried a series of blows, ducking his head when the blade sliced over the air above him. The replica of Olivier seemed to be enjoying itself, baring its rotten teeth and smiling in delight.

“You think you can beat me?” it purred, twirling the sword in its hand. “You are weak. A waste. And he knows that.” It gestured to the real Olivier, who flinched at the accusation. “He sees right through you. You think the attention he gives you is genuine? That it’s anything more than pity?”

“Emilio.” Olivier’s voice echoed behind him. “Don’t listen to it.”

“He doesn’t care for you,” the replica went on, pointing the tip of the blade toward Emilio. “He’s bored. You’re nothing but a project. A way to pass the time. You know, deep down, that he wouldn’t have given you a second thought when you were alive.”