Part I
It is Written
Between Worlds
In the shadows of night, slithering between the folds of time, he waited. Starved for retribution. A hollow ache blossoming in the empty cavern where his soul had once resided. He had waited centuries for her. For the one who could unlock the usurper’s heart. The one branded by his hatred, marked by the hands of the reaper.
His sweet catalyst. His fated destroyer.
And he would have waited an eternity for her. He would have slumbered in the shadows, patient and willing.
But Wren Loughty had arrived.
And now…now the time for waiting was over.
1
AUGUST
Augustine Hughes was losing his mind.
Time had become a fickle and unstable thing; it drifted through his fingers like the remnants of a bad dream. There were moments of clarity—breaths of hope among the rot filling his lungs—but it was never enough to drag him back to reality. The darkness was too hungry. The poison too thick.
It was almost comical, the absurdity of it all. Losing his mind in the afterlife. He would have thought the worst of his troubles were behind him once he had died. Yet there he was, wandering the outskirts of purgatory, mind fragmented, whispering to the darkness like a madman.
Hewasmad, wasn’t he?
August laughed and the sound grated against his skin. He was fairly certain he was lying on the dirt floor, though it was impossible to tell. The only thing he was truly certain of was the agony. It filled every crevice of his soul. Every ligament and bone. Every atom of his being.
How long had he been like this?
The last thing he could remember was Wren’s voice dripping into his mind, warm and inviting, and then…fury. An anger he had never known possible. Everything blurred after that, twistingtogether until all semblance of reality had lost its meaning. And now all he knew was this torture…this suffering.
Old memories flickered through his vision like a sun-damaged film reel, vignettes of a life that was no longer his.
August watched as a group of strangers slowly lowered his mother’s body into the ground. Next to him, his sister sobbed. She gripped August’s wrist as though she might float away if she let go. As if he were the only thing tethering her to the earth. Behind them, their father remained silent. He had not wept for his wife, and August was certain he never would.
Why would he?
He was the one who’d killed her, after all.
The memory fluttered away, drifting like morning fog, replaced by another.
“We must do something,” Edith pleaded, red-rimmed eyes brimming with desperation. They were standing in the garden, hidden beneath the shadows of night. Above them, their father’s study window glowed amber.
“What are you suggesting?” August asked, fearing her answer.
Edith’s gaze drifted to the window, her face torn between sorrow and rage.
“We can make it look like an accident.”
“Edith,” August whispered. “You mustn’t say things like that—” But his sister interjected, cutting him off.
“Her death was no accident, Augustine. We both know this.” Edith stepped closer, her dark eyes blazing beneath the light of her lantern. “Do you truly believe she simply fell down the stairs? After everything we’ve seen? Everything we’ve heard?”
“How will we be any different if we do to him what he did to her?” August challenged.
“What he did was murder.” The word spoken out loud, with such candor, sent a chill down August’s spine. “This…this is vengeance.”
