Chapter four
What strikes me first when looking him over are his clothes. This is the only time I’ve seen Simon out of his Institute uniform. He always put care into a proper appearance, so much so that I teased him when he mentioned shining his shoes. Now, his shirt is wrinkled, brown hair mussed, there’s no tie to be seen, and he’s wearing sweats instead of khakis. Even the laces of his sneakers aren’t tied.
Simon’s ordered two beers for us, and he’s in the process of chugging his while I nurse my own. I’m not judging how quickly he drinks. From the look on his face, he needs it.
There are bags under his eyes, deep and purple, like bruises, and I have the sense that something happened at the Institute that has imprinted itself beneath his eyelids. I’ve noticed him looking at the corner of the bar, brow wrinkled, face drawn, as if he sees something and is trying to remind himself that it isn’t real, it isn’t there.
He doesn’t appear suited for conversation, and yet, I have questions. So many questions. I have to bite my tongue before they slip out: How many mages are left? Where is Henry? The questions eat at me, but I don’t want to be insensitive. I don’t want to push him when he’s struggling.
Finally, after he’s ordered his refill and hasn’t looked at the corner of the bar for some time, I clear my throat and scoot forward in my seat. Hopefully, the alcohol has softened him a bit.
“What happened?” I ask. There is no tactful way to put it, and Simon appreciates bluntness.
He glances at me, throat bobbing. “The Institute is gone.”
I lean back, as if struck. That can’t be right.
“What do you mean?” I ask weakly, hoping that my interpretation is wrong.
“How else should I put it? The place is gone. Destroyed. Erased. Gone.”
My eyes shut.
Gone. The castle-like structure with its highbrow air. The displayed wands of alumnus. The duck pond. The library with what could be no less than a million books. Days ago, I was living there, and now it’s… gone. I knew there was a chance, but to hear it confirmed sends a pang through me.
It was a place where a self-assured misogynistic society flourished. Undoubtedly, the Institute and its mages insulted me time after time, especially when they had me locked in their damn basement, but it was an objectively beautiful place.
During my stunned silence, the bartender delivers Simon’s next drink. Simon spares a quick, “Cheers,” and starts glugging this beer as quickly as he did the first.
“What about the students?” I ask.
He pauses to swallow and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Dead,” he says, eyes flitting to the shadowed corner of the bar before turning to me, “or scattered.”
From his face, the people he knew are decidedly in the former group. The realization is heartbreaking. His friends were hardly my own, but I remember sitting in his room and drinking with them—how they laughed, what they looked forward to, classes they hated, exams dreaded—now, tests they will never take.
At this moment, I would give anything to have them around us. Chatting, filling this weighted silence. Our eyes meet over the table, and I understand that he’s also waiting for one of his friends to chime in.
I cover my face with my hands, hit with a fresh rush of loss. Simon undoubtedly feels worse, and he’s entitled to that pain. I was there for a minute, while Simon’s entire life was based around the Institute. I’m almost ashamed of my sadness, but I feel it all the same.
Since I left the Institute, I haven’t spared it much thought in the midst of gods and bargains, but I’m forced to deal with it now. Not every mage was bad. Some took no part in trapping me and Aris. And now, everything that they were, everything they ever could have been, is gone. Gone, gone, gone.
The seconds tick past, quiet and heavy. Bar patrons boast about this or that around us. I find the courage to look back at him, finding Simon staring miserably at his drink .
I want to tell that I’m sorry. It’s all horrible, and it feels like it’s my fault. I went to the Institute; I brought Aris with me. I am just so sorry.
I haven’t known Simon that long, but he’s my friend. My only friend, really. He helped me when I needed it, when it counted. He doesn’t deserve this pain. I want to take it away, put it into myself.
Simon clears his throat. “Last I heard, Henry is trying to gather anyone remaining—the ones who managed to get out in time. He’s become the new Grand Mage.”
“Wait, the new Grand Mage? What happened to—”
“Gone.”
We sit in silence.
I figured, but, still.
I hold my necklace, tracing the sharp edges of the charm. He must have died after making the portal for me, his last message a plea for me to end my life. Is it disrespectful to his memory that I am still breathing?
My hands go to my drink, perspiration dripping over my fingers. I can’t imagine the Grand Mage dead. Such a true enemy he was, and also a protector, and perhaps a benefactor and friend? I’m not sure how to feel about this news.
“I’m going to kill Aris,” I say, thinking this might offer something.
Simon takes another long drink, finishing his beer. He motions something to the bartender, who nods, before Simon looks back at me with drawn brows. “Kill Aris?” he says, and I find myself embarrassed by his skepticism.
“I will,” I say firmly. “Well, not alone but—”
“But?” he asks as another beer is brought. I’m asked if I want more, but I haven’t even taken my first sip.
“I’ve got a plan,” is all I say. I’m not sure if I should get into it. “But, look, what are you doing in London?”
“Searching for you.” He pauses for a moment and stares into the pool of his new drink, as if he can see a message in the amber liquid. He hesitates for so long that I’m beginning to think he actually can see something there, until Simon continues, “I didn’t know what happened to you. Where’d you go? ”
I tell him about the past couple of days: how Aris let me leave, wandering through the portal, Jaegen finding me, our bargain, and how he’s left me for now.
“Wow,” he says when I finish. “You’ve got two ancient beings fighting over you like you’re the last snack in the cupboard.”
“You think this is a good thing?” I say. His dark humor rubs me the wrong way, but I’m trying not to take offense. I think he’s drunk.
He shrugs and drinks again, the corner of his lips rising and straightening, unable to decide if the situation is funny or not. “You’ve got insurance. The rest of us don’t.” His tone is not friendly.
My irritation evaporates.
“I’m sorry.” I’ve finally said it, and now, the words come in a rush. “It’s my fault. I know that you know that, and if I could take it back, then I would. I’d do everything differently, if I knew what he was planning, if I knew—”
I stop at the thought of pulling my younger self aside, bright-eyed and happy at the Institute. “You have to run. Get out, get out! Don’t trust anyone!” I’d yell, shaking myself, appearing appropriately deranged in the expected manner of all time travelers.
Would I have believed myself? Would knowing the future have changed anything?
Tears come to my eyes, threatening to spill. “I’ll find a way to make it right,” I tell him. “I swear .”
“How?” asks Simon, not sardonically or meanly, practically.
“I just will.”
He hums. He does not believe me.
I absently drink from my cup and try not to wince at the taste. This is my first beer, and I try not to let it show, but Simon laughs at the look on my face. It’s such a real laugh that I feel the urge to drink again, this time making my disgust more dramatized. He needs to smile; I can’t be the reason he stops smiling.
“It’s an acquired taste,” he tells me.
“Is it?” I say with a hesitant grin .
We fall into a brief but amicable silence, the darkness briefly lifted. It is a moment of peace, and yet…
“The reason that you were looking for me…” I say without thinking. I’ve no idea how to ask without completely offending him, but it’s almost unimaginable for someone to care enough about me to search for me.
I want to ask: Is Aris involved? Has he influenced you in some way? Did he tell you to keep tabs on me?
But Simon is already so beaten down. Asking might send him over the edge. It’s an insult to our friendship. Imagine if he came because he was concerned— what then? I’ll have ruined everything.
“What?” he says.
I take a drink. “Nothing.”
But it eats at me.
Is this real?
Simon walks me back to the hotel, and we come to a stop by two doormen. I don’t have it in me to explain that I’m unsure whether I have a room here anymore—he has enough to worry about.
“When will I see you again?” I ask.
“There are funeral arrangements… a few things to take care of,” he says.
I wait; he didn’t answer the question.
“Soon,” Simon tells me. This was what Jaegen told me, as well.
We hug, and I watch him walk away. It’s only as his form is swallowed by the crowd that I realize I never asked where he was going. The Institute doesn’t exist anymore. Is he seeking out Henry, who was attempting to rally the mages?
The thought makes me feel betrayed, but it’s my own fault. I didn’t tell Simon about what Henry did to me; the words wouldn’t come. I was scared, not knowing whose side he would take.
Once Simon is gone, I walk inside and am shaken by the line of staff who greet me. There are about nine of them in tight, trim uniforms with proper stances and a distant look in their eyes; they are in front of me, but not looking at me.
“Mary,” the closest one says. Her tag indicates that her name is Meredith and that she is the manager. “We have been waiting for you.”
Her glazed eyes are fixed over my head like there’s something behind me. I glance back, but it’s just me and the line of employees in the room, as if every guest suddenly got a memo to steer clear of the lobby.
I shift, uncomfortable.
“Jaegen requests that you return to your room,” Meredith continues, then smiles with too much teeth.
“Jaegen,” I say slowly. He must have set this up in case I did decide to leave. Is he controlling their minds? “All right…”
“Let us escort you to your room,” continues the manager.
Before I agree, the line breaks: two workers surround me from behind, the others boxing me in on the side, while Meredith remains in front. The synchronization fills me with an immediate sense of claustrophobia, and I feel like a traveling president as they usher me toward the elevators.
They remain with me until I’m in my room and, fortunately, don’t come inside.
The encounter is so uncanny that it takes a few minutes to recover. I wonder how long the workers were standing there, waiting for me. Are they aware of what happened, or will it be a blackout in their memory?
It feels wrong, and my unease exhausts me. I collapse on my bed, content to fall into a deep sleep. My body relaxes, succumbing, but I cannot escape my mind.
I am in a dentist’s chair with my hands and legs bound by wire. I struggle, even with the dream knowledge that it is futile, and the wire tightens. Starting to really panic, I look around for something to help myself, but I can hardly see; it’s pitch black wherever I am, save a single bulb hanging above me. It is brighter than one bulb should be, and it stings to look at.
Blinking away the rings in my vision, I try to fight my restraints again, but the wires constrict until I cry out in pain. Then, they halt, as if pleased by the noise .
My eyes shut. I try to reason, but I can’t form proper thoughts. I need to calm down, but the binds are biting into me and the pain is unreal.
Take a breath.
The air reeks of disinfectant, maybe formaldehyde. A memory resurfaces—visiting my uncle’s hunting cabin, staring at a mounted deer head on the wall. How its eyes seemed to look back at me.
Breathe.
There’s something else in the air. Spores? Soil? Am I underground? I have the brief, hysterical thought that someone has buried and left me to suffocate, but I can’t entertain that; I have to get out.
With a sniffle, I open my eyes to reassess the situation, only to find that a thousand needles have suddenly appeared. Thin, thick, long, short, there is every kind of them. Each hovers a centimeter over every corner of my skin, and I realize then that I’m naked.
I hardly care, even as wind rushes past, chilling me. I can only think of the needles.
I feel the need to thrash as hard as I can, certain that I could make some kind of dent in the wire, but there’s no space to move—not without piercing my eyes.
I begin to shake with the effort to keep myself still, tears leaking down my cheeks as I take in the sharp edges a blink away.
“Please,” I say, and then repeat it. Louder, then louder again, until I’m screaming.
But no one is there, and am I imagining it or are the needles drawing closer?
And closer?
And, as the thousand of them prick me simultaneously, spinning and digging deep, I jerk awake with a scream. Sweating, panting, half aware of where I am, my vision blurs. I feel the lick of something coming up my throat and run to the bathroom just in time.
My vomit is dark, brackish, and I almost puke again at the sight. I flush it down and force myself not to consider the color further. On the bathroom floor, I put my energy toward processing what just happened .
That was the worst nightmare I’ve ever had. I wonder: Was it something from my burdened psyche, or brought by an unkind wizard?
I get to my feet after some time, opening the bathroom door to find Jaegen blocking the way, as if summoned by thought alone.
I jump back—What can I say? A dream like that is bound to make anyone jittery, and he came out of nowhere.
“Mary,” says Jaegen in his deep, earth-shaking voice. He’s shirtless again, and I’m face-to-face with his twenty-pack.
He steps aside to let me pass, watching as I walk shakily to the settee. The bed is more comfortable, but I avoid it for now. Proximity feels like it might draw me back into that hellscape.
“Jaegen,” I greet wearily. I want to be brave and show the indignance I feel that he left me for days on end, but my anger is overshadowed by my nightmare and his unexpected appearance.
“You could’ve knocked,” I manage. It is rude walking in on someone at… I glance at the clock. Four in the morning.
“How mundane,” he scoffs.
“What are you doing here?” I say back.
“I am ready to proceed,” he replies, then perks a brow, looking me over. “You are unsettled.”
“Like I said, you could’ve knocked.”
Jaegen’s mouth forms a thin line, and some survival instinct kicks in. I sit up until I am as erect as the hotel workers who greeted me at the door.
“Sorry,” I murmur, bowing my head.
There is a weighted, expectant pause, and I jump at the suddenness of a heavy hand on my shoulder.
“Peace. All is well. I am here to ask: Are you ready?”
I take a breath, relieved, nervous, and afraid. The air still smells of disinfectant, and I see needles in the corners of my vision.
Ready.
To kill Aris.
To bind myself to Jaegen.
I remind myself of my earlier reservations. I think of standing in a gift shop, watching people look at souvenirs, and the surging determination I felt to live. But that fire was smothered by the weight of Simon’s grief.
His friends deserve justice; I need to do my part. I owe him that.
Am I ready?
“Yes,” I say. “Let’s kill him.”