A wonderful new book is coming from Random House Children''s Books.

Autorentext

I.V. Marie was born to a Peruvian mother and Chilean father in Miami, where she acquired a penchant for afternoon cafecitos and an all-consuming obsession with books. Her writing ambitions began behind her grandparents’ computer, where she spent her childhood crafting spooky and fantastical short stories. She is the New York Times bestselling author of the Souls of Blackwood Academy series: Immortal Consequences; its sequel, Ruinous Ends; and the novella Twisted Vows.

Klappentext

**#1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • A Good Morning America YA Book Club Pick!

The future of Blackwood Academy—and the entire afterlife—is at stake in the must-read sequel to the viral dark fantasy sensation Immortal Consequences.

This stunning hardcover edition features gorgeous, flower-patterned sprayed edges, colored endpapers, and an exclusive foil-stamped case!**

The Decennial is over, but for the students of Blackwood Academy, the fight for the afterlife has just begun.

The infamous school was hiding more secrets—and lies—than any of the Decennial’s participants could have imagined. And there’s still so much that remains buried beneath its ancient foundations. Now the future of the academy, and all the souls within it, rests in the hands of six former pupils:

The charmer and the golden boy . . .
The traitor and the girl desperate to save her . . .
The Chosen One and the one who would choose her over and over again . . .

Any of them could be the hero the afterlife needs . . . or the villain who will destroy it for good. Because the truth is, Blackwood’s biggest secret has yet to come to light—and when it does, it will shake the institution to its core.

Leseprobe
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.

He was mad, 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, twisting together 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.”

“But . . . what if something happens?” he asked, voice shaking. “What about your soul?”

“My soul?” Edith chuckled, though her smile dropped when she saw the sincerity in her brother’s eyes. “Oh, Augustine. Do not fear for my soul. It is in nobody’s hands but mine.” When August didn’t budge, Edith let out a long and weighted sigh. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t say these things out loud. I just need some rest.”

August stepped closer, carefully inspecting his sister. “Are you certain?”

“Yes, little brother.” Clearly sensing August’s apprehension, Edith reached out and wrapped him in an embrace, whispering the next words into his ear. “I promise.”

But when she hugged August, he felt her heart hammering in her chest, her pulse beating like the frenetic wings of a hummingbird. And though he could not see his sister’s face . . . he knew exactly what she was staring at.

He knew her eyes were locked on that study window.

August tried desperately to cling to the memory, but it faded before he could watch what happened next, drifting within the invisible current. A new one took its place from one breath to the next.

The one he had tried so desperately to forget.

The door to the kitchen was ajar. August took a step inside, peering around the corner. His sister didn’t notice him at first, her lips lifted into a serene and placid smile as she poured a cup of tea. When he stepped forward, the old wood creaked beneath his weight and his sister’s head snapped up in surprise.

“Augustine. I thought you were asleep.”

“I was.” He approached the counter, rubbing the exhaustion from his eyes. “But I heard you down here.”

“Go back to bed.” Edith set the teacup on a tray, stirring the liquid inside with a silver spoon. “Father is in one of his moods. It is best you stay in your room and out of his way.”

“Is that for him?”

“Chamomile tea with a splash of rye and valerian.” She winked, stepping around the counter. “I am hopeful it will be enough to calm his nerves and send him to sleep.”

“Let me come with you—­”

“No,” Edith interjected, pausing beneath the doorway. “If he lashes out, I’d rather it be me than you.” She offered him an apologetic smile. “Please, Augustine. Just go to bed.”

August conceded with a nod and watched as Edith made her way upstairs, her footsteps receding. He was moments away from walking back to his bedroom when he noticed the empty glass vial on the counter.

He picked it up, lifting it toward one of the iron sconces lining the walls. The label had been partially scratched off, but he could j…