Immortal Consequences(8)

Emilio’s breath hitched in his throat. He was attempting to formulate a coherent response when he spotted a flurry of movement outside. He darted toward the window, elbow pressed firmly against Olivier. His stomach involuntarily tightened at their closeness, though he pretended not to notice.

“Look.”

Two shapes. A girl and a boy, he assumed. The boy was tall with broad shoulders, his raven curls illuminated by Blackwood’s ethereal glow. The girl’s auburn hair was tied messily into a braid that fell to her waist.

Weird.

She wasn’t wearing any shoes.

“Is that…” Olivier’s voice trailed away as he leaned in closer. “I think that’s August and Wren. It looks like they’re heading toward the main gates.”

A deep sense of dread settled upon Emilio. The infamous pair were the last two people he wanted to bump into in the dead of night. He’d never been able to muster up the courage to speak to Wren, seeing as she was top of the class and one of the most brilliant people he’d ever encountered. And August was…well…August. If you even looked at him for too long, you might end up with a dagger in your gut or poison in your morning tea. Not that either of those things would actually hurt, but it was still an inconvenience.

All Blackwood students held the ability to heal themselves magically, but a fatal injury could take weeks to heal. Sometimes even months. Nobody wanted to be the unlucky bastard who spent nearly half the year in the infirmary in a comatose state rather than focusing on grades and solidifying their chances at the Decennial.

Emilio had been so transfixed by the sight of the pair crossing through the dense fog that he hadn’t noticed Olivier sauntering toward the door.

“Where are you going?” he called after Olivier in a frantic whisper.

“Where do you think? If those two are getting into trouble, then I want to be a part of it.”

“Why?” Emilio groaned.

Olivier paused by the doorway, swiveling on his heels to face Emilio. He smirked at him with that infamous crooked smile, dimples sprouting on his cheeks.

“Why not?”

Emilio would much rather have stayed in the comfort of the Library studying for tomorrow morning’s exam, but he knew Olivier had no intention of staying behind, and despite himself, Emilio had no intention of letting him go on his own. So, with one simultaneous nod, the pair turned toward the door, shoulder to shoulder, step by step, and walked into the night.

3

Irene

Irene Manette Bamford had no problem breaking the rules. In fact, she firmly believed rules weren’t meant to be followed. They were merely suggested guidelines that could be bent and manipulated at her will.

They were malleable.

Flexible.

Take a lock, for example. In a practical sense, a metal lock was installed with the intention of keeping people out. The unspoken rule, the one Irene had no intention of following, was that someone shouldn’t break into a lock that doesn’t belong to them. That, without a key and without holding ownership of the lock, someone shouldn’t manipulate the metal with nothing but a spark of magic and the brush of a finger.

Which was exactly what Irene was doing at the present moment.

Or, rather, what she was trying to do. It seemed Housemaster Calligan had reinforced the metal lock with some sort of protective ward that was stopping her from accessing the physical properties of the lock itself.

Irene furrowed her brow and clenched her teeth to relieve the pressure building at her temples.

When the protective ward wouldn’t budge, she dropped her hand in frustration.

Her plan, which was supposed to be straightforward and simple, was going to have to be a bit more complicated than she’d originally hoped. With the extra protective ward, Irene was now going to have to dismantle the barrier. It wasn’t that she couldn’t—quite frankly, there weren’t many things Irene couldn’t do. But she held no interest in spells that fell under the realm of defensive magic. Her interests lay elsewhere—in corporeal magic.

In the kind of magic that could rip apart limbs and tear open flesh.

However, this unfortunate turn of events was an irritable reminder that it was of paramount importance for Irene to diversify her interests. Because to be the best, and Irene had to be the best, she couldn’t just be good at corporeal magic. She would have to master all the varying forms of magic taught at Blackwood whether she deemed them important or not. If she wanted to ensure her nomination for the Decennial, she needed extra reinforcement.

And the details of tomorrow morning’s exam were precisely the kind of reinforcement Irene was after.

If only she could open the damn lock.

Irene was moments away from hurling a fireball at the door when the air shifted with another presence. The familiar pressure rumbled in her chest. The hairs on the back of her neck rose in warning.

She didn’t hesitate.

In one swift motion, Irene grabbed the knife strapped against her waist and plunged it into the stomach of the unsuspecting student standing behind her. A gurgled gasp of disbelief echoed in front of her as her gaze lifted to meet a pair of familiar golden eyes.

Masika’s eyes.

“Oh.” Irene giggled in delight. “Whoops.”

“Whoops?” Masika glared at her in annoyance. “You stabbed me.”

Irene sighed.

“Well, I obviously didn’t know it was you.”