Chapter 2 Irene #2
None of them had been found.
Wren. August. Emilio. Olivier. Masika. All of them—gone.
As though their souls had been obliterated, sucked out of existence.
They should have been marked as sacrifices for the Ether’s insatiable hunger, just like the other six eliminated nominees, but they had disappeared at the end of the final trial.
Grief prickled at Irene’s chest as she thought back on the other unlucky nominees.
Nick. Liza. Georgia. Carter. Jocelyn. Tristan.
All of them devoured by the Ether. But even with their sacrifice, it wasn’t enough.
There should have been eleven souls sacrificed.
Irene could feel the Ether’s discontent with every breath, the gaping hole demanding to be filled, scraping at her insides like a petulant child.
“What happened?”
Irene hadn’t heard Mateo walk over. He was standing beside her, blue eyes blazing with concern. He often moved like a shadow, silent and undetectable. A ribbon of silver light shone across his tanned skin, illuminating the webbed black veins on his neck.
She curled her trembling hands into fists, flexing her fingers back and forth.
“The tapping ceremony,” she whispered. “I think it’s happening tonight. There’s some stupid party to celebrate it…I have a feeling they’ll choose the initiates there.”
“Good.” Mateo nodded, eyes still anchored on Irene. He cocked his head, as if assessing her. “What is it? Are you nervous you won’t be selected?”
Irene shrugged. Even if she was—she’d never admit it out loud.
Her eyes traveled to the journal in his hands. “What were you doing?” she asked, quick to change the subject.
“I’ve been considering the possibility of a third coalition forming on the outskirts.
A new faction, separate from both Blackwood and the Demien Order.
I’m afraid my suspicions might be right,” Mateo muttered, tapping the journal against his arm.
He wandered back over to the bed and sat down.
“I thought it might just be rumors at first…fearmongering from Silas to keep us distracted. But a recent string of disappearances within the Order had me questioning the validity of these claims.”
Irene arched a brow in surprise. This was the first she’d heard of this. “What disappearances?”
“They’ve happened for a while now…sporadic. Not frequent enough to pose an actual threat, but consistent enough that we’ve noticed a pattern.”
“And what does this third coalition want?” Irene asked.
“To stop us.”
“From doing what, exactly?” As Irene asked the question, she made note of the tension in Mateo’s shoulders. The slight crack in his stoic expression. “I know we want to take down Blackwood and stop Silas, but you still haven’t told me how.”
But Mateo didn’t answer her. He simply began flipping through the notebook, gnawing on the inside of his cheek. Of course. More unanswered questions. More secrecy. Irene should have been used to it by now, but she still found herself bristling at his silence.
“Oh, come on.” She let out a groan. “Seriously? I’m tired of being kept in the dark. I deserve to know!”
Mateo sighed and glanced up at Irene as though she were a child throwing a tantrum.
“You know I can’t tell you.” His voice was hoarse, clipped with impatience. “Not yet. You should be concentrating on the party tonight, anyway.”
Irene scoffed. “I think I’m capable of deciding what I should and shouldn’t be concentrating on.”
She hadn’t meant to snap back, but his reluctance had set something off inside her. She had done everything to earn his favor—sacrificed more than she was willing to admit—and yet she was still being kept at arm’s length. Secrets piling up between them.
At the sound of her outburst, Mateo’s expression shifted.
Irene often found herself forgetting the power lurking under Mateo’s seemingly benign mask.
It was in these moments, silence reverberating between them, tension twisting the air, that she was unwillingly reminded of the danger lurking beneath the surface.
But instead of backing away, of cowering under that realization, Irene simply straightened her shoulders, looked him squarely in the eyes and asked, “Do you want me to trust you?”
Mateo flinched, taken aback. When he looked at her, it was almost as if he were seeing through her, examining every inch of her soul with nothing but his gaze. And then he inhaled a quivering breath and lowered his eyes in surrender.
“There’s a prophecy…” he began, his voice barely a whisper.
“The Soulless One spoke it with his first breath. He carved it into his soul, branding it within the heart of the Demien Order. From my blood she will drink, a debt for a price. A promise of darkness, a last sacrifice. Rotten and broken, his lie comes undone; when the two meet their maker…the two become one.”
“I don’t understand.” Irene shook her head, desperate to make sense of his words. “What does that mean?”
“She…is the catalyst,” Mateo explained. Something unsettling blazed behind his eyes, an intensity Irene had never seen before.
“The harbinger of destruction. The one who will lead the Order in battle and destroy Blackwood, once and for all. That’s our how.
We find the catalyst…and she ushers in the clean slate. ”
“And how are we supposed to figure out who she is?” Irene asked.
Mateo dropped Irene’s hand, opening the notebook once again.
“We don’t need to. We already know”—Mateo turned to the final page and angled it toward Irene—“and so do you.”
At first, the page appeared entirely blank, whatever was written upon it concealed by a privacy enchantment.
But as the seconds passed, something began to form upon the surface.
Bloodred ink swirling into shapes…a pair of eyes…
a nose…a mouth…until a perfectly drawn figure emerged, sketched in red ink and shimmering speckles of magic.
Irene couldn’t contain the gasp that sprang out of her.
She took a step backward, hoping and praying that what she had seen, what she was looking at, wasn’t real. That this was all some sadistic, twisted joke. Because the face sketched in red ink, the face staring back at her…was none other than Wren Loughty.