I nod. “Okay, there’s actually a second gang involved. A rival gang of Saint Willow’s. Earl Kingston’s gang.”
Cormac just narrows his eyes. “You’re kidding me.”
“I’m not. It looks like Saint Willow was contracting out some of his dirty work to the other gangs. That way it becomes nearly untraceable. And Milo Kingston is my access guy to Earl Kingston, who I need to bring down Saint Willow.”
He sighs. “So the name is Milo Kingston?”
“Yes.”
“And all of this will help me get my casters?”
“Yes.”
“I just—this is sudden, Aza.”
“You just saw Milo Kingston yourself, didn’t you?”
If he keeps doubting me, I’ll have to figure out some way to cast some belief on him. Except the pain of using a spell like that would be immense. The healing meds work, but only sometimes. And with my new punishment in the tournament, I really can’t afford to go in already weakened.
Cormac stares at me for a good long minute. My new lie feels too clumsy, the lie that’s now threatening to make all the others spill over. What if he’s heard the rumor about Earl Kingston killing his cousin and matches it up with the name Milo Kingston?
Believe me. Just believe this one last lie.
“I’ll let you know what comes next,” Cormac finally says before walking away.
I grab a train to get to the Spice Sector, but it breaks down halfway there. I don’t mind getting out to walk the rest of the way, though, even with the rain—I still need to think of how I might figure out Finch’s secret.
Twenty minutes later, the area greets me with its pungent air, thick with the scent of peppers and herbs and salts that sting my nose through my mask. The first place I go is the office to pick up the Wu Teas statements.
“Here you go.” One of the security guards at the front desk hands over an envelope. “The company apologizes for the inconvenience .”
“It’s okay.” I take the envelope and place it in my starter bag. Another security guard at the desk has his cell switched to the local news, and even though I can’t hear it, I can see the screen well enough. Across the street from the café where my parents and I ate lunch, a large crevasse opened up on the sidewalk. No one was seriously hurt, though a biker fell in and had to be rescued.
Sorry, random biker.
I speak to the first security guard. “I forgot my cell so I’m wondering—would you be able to look up an address for me?”
The Salt Lick is in the north end of the sector. I make my way over, the High Shore Mountains peeking through buildings and smog like faint smears of gray-green. The Upper Inlet that lines the sector’s northern shore isn’t visible from here, but it’s not hard to picture its dark brown waters where mostly strange things live now. Earl Kingston drowned his mutinous cousin in the Sturgeon River that cuts through the city itself, but Milo Kingston could have easily met his end in the Upper Inlet.
Milo Kingston.
I go from thinking it was a stroke of genius to add him to my story to believing I’m going to pay for being so stupid. I was so lost for what to tell Cormac that when he mentioned seeing Jihen, my mind leapt to it.
But my reasoning is this—things really can’t get much worse. Cormac can only buy me so much more time. I’m fighting in a tournament I now have almost no chance of winning. Even winning won’t solve everything, now that Jihen knows I can cast full magic. What’s one more lie about a dead gangster?
Despite all this, I still have to do everything I can to win those two hundred thousand marks for my parents. If I can just do that, I’ll be saving the teahouse. I might still be in Jihen’s clutches afterward, but Saint Willow would be off my parents’ backs, our family legacy still intact.
Shire must have felt this same way. Must have felt such desperation to save us that it drove her toward the risk of the tournament.
We have more in common than full magic, Shire, I’d say to her now. We would have understood this part of each other, too.
We even have Finch in common. He stood in the way of her winning and now he stands in mine. Not just as my biggest obstacle to winning the tournament, but to my getting the truth, and payback. And if he killed Shire to beat her, then who’s to say he won’t kill again?
I stand on the corner of the block the Salt Lick’s on, debating about going inside or not. I almost want to convince myself there’s a rule about fighters talking to each other outside the ring. But as Kylin pointed out, if there was, Embry would have said something that first night.
I walk over, my pulse skipping, and peer into the front window of the shop.
There’s pale wood shelving everywhere, silver canisters and tins and jars. Barrels sit on bleached wood flooring, little taps jutting out of their sides.
Oliver’s helping a customer weigh out something from one of those barrels.
There’s no sign of Finch.
I can’t deny I’m more relieved than disappointed. It’s one thing to face him in the fighting ring, with both of us surrounded by other fighters and the crowd and Embry’s watchful gaze. But this is Finch’s territory, his place in the city, and to confront him here is like walking into a minefield. That I even thought about trying to break into his mind to search out what he wants to hide now seems beyond foolish.
But Oliver—he’s no fighter. Finch’s secrets are also his. And nothing’s shown me he can cast full magic. Which is what he needs if he wants to fight off a reveal spell.
I fold my mask away, yank the door open, and go inside.
Oliver looks up at the sound and goes absolutely still when he sees me. His hazel eyes go from friendly to wary, even chilly. It takes the customer asking him something to break him from that stillness, but even after he returns to what he was doing, there’s a stiffness to him that is clearly from my being here.
I made him laugh when we first met, and he helped me as much as he could being another fighter’s backer. But the last time we saw each other, I was glaring at him from the fighting ring. And I broke the rules during last night’s fight. He doesn’t know if I’ve been kicked out of the tournament or not. As far as he knows, I’m still his brother’s competition.
The last customer leaves, and it’s just him and me.
Oliver’s expression says I’m wholly unwelcome. He goes over and locks the door by hand. He pulls the shade down over the front window, also by hand.
So far, still no sign of full magic. But nothing that says he’s not a caster of it, either.
Should I cast now? Just catch him off guard enough to give me time to find some answers in his mind?
He comes back. “You shouldn’t be here.”
The skin at my neck warms. The leap—from fighting his brother to fighting him—feels too big to make. “I, um, want to buy some salt.”
He blinks. “You want to buy salt.”
“You sell salt, don’t you?” My face is warm now, too—I’m buying salt instead of casting a skin spell. “This place is called the Salt Lick.”
“Um, okay.” He glances around. “Take your pick.”
I point to one of the other barrels, hoping the place isn’t just full of overpriced gourmet salt. I only have the marks for the train ride back to the Tea Sector. “Would you recommend that one?”
We both move over. The sign says it’s a lemon salt inside the barrel. “Here, hold out your hand,” Oliver says. “Right here beneath the tap.”
I should just cast. While he’s not in protective-older-brother mode but helpful-shop-owner mode, wanting to help me. It would be so easy. Just cast and look into his eyes and dive in.
I hold out my open hand, he gives the tap a quarter turn, and a bunch of crystals fall out onto my palm. I try one. “It tastes like salty lemon candy,” I say, unable to keep from smiling.
“Sounds about right.” He fills a tiny paper sack with it. “On the house.”
“Oh. Thanks.” I tuck it into my starter bag. My heart’s going too fast, a
nd the nerves in my system are all standing at attention. What is supposed to come next when you’re about to use magic to invade someone’s brain? Make more small talk to throw him off?
If he’s stiff with me now when I’m just any other fighter, I can’t imagine how he might be if he ever finds out how we’re connected through Shire and Finch. He might just snap in half with the awkwardness.
“So are you still in the tournament?”
My skin gets hot again. “Yes. Sorry, I guess? If it means anything, Embry says the vote was close.”
Oliver shrugs. “It’s the Guild’s decision. You don’t have to say sorry.”
“The other fighters won’t be happy about it.” Well, Kylin won’t mind. And Wilson and Pav won’t mind, either. But all the ones I eliminated will, once they find out. “And I’m sure your brother, Finch, would’ve been happier to have one less person to battle.”
He sweeps salt from his hands. His eyes are still wary. “How do you know Finch is my brother?”
“He’s the current champion and you’re his backer. Some things just become common tournament knowledge. Even beginners hear most of it after a while.”
I pull out the napkin where my father wrote the address for the office and finish wiping salt from my palm. I keep the napkin in my hand.
“I wouldn’t have guessed the families of fighters would be very interesting to hear about,” Oliver says.
I nearly ask him about his parents, but I stop. So much of Oliver is closed off, and I’m already going to be prying too much. I scan his face, taking in the angles and hollows.
“You and Finch look alike, if no one’s ever told you that. The bones beneath. That’s another reason why I know you’re brothers.”
Oliver doesn’t move, just lets me keep looking at him. His hazel eyes go to roam my face in turn. Something curls in my stomach, this flicker of heat.
I turn away and slowly glance around the shop, forcing my thoughts back toward the reveal spell. The two of us are still alone—if I’m going to do this, it’d be better to do it before Finch comes back.
“Where is Finch, by the way?” I ask, hoping my voice sounds normal. I drag my gaze from shelf to shelf, thinking fast. My heart’s thudding hard, and there’s a low rush deep in my ears.
“Out.”
I nod, though the answer tells me little about how much time I might have. From Oliver’s tone, I’m not going to find out much else, either, no matter how I might prod for details.
I circle closer to where he’s still standing, blood racing in my veins. I already feel warm, like my magic is breaking through all on its own. I keep my hands low and draw a spell star.
If he’s only got leftover magic, this will be simple.
But if he’s got full, then this might get messy.
First, magic to hold him still. Catching him by surprise and hoping for a delayed reaction will only go so far, so I’ll have to cast a lot of magic to make that hold last. By the time he can break free, I’ll already be deep into my reveal spell and uncovering the answers I need. I’ll be in pain, but so will Oliver, and that should let me get away.
What did your brother do to my sister?
“Your face—”
I swivel at Oliver’s voice, the star already drawn on my palm.
He’s pale, shocked, staring at me with eyes gone dark.
“Last year, the fighter Finch beat”—his hand goes up to his own cheek—“you look just like her.” The bones beneath.
I rip in two the napkin still in my hand. I drop one half and cast around the other. Heat climbs and there’s fire behind my eyes, in my palm.
Oliver goes so still, it’s like I’ve taken his breath as well as his muscles. But there is fear in his eyes as he stares at me, a sharp anger at what I’m doing.
I toss the spent napkin half across the room and bend down, scrambling for the half I haven’t used. My breath coming fast, I grab it and cast.
Seventeen points.
Tonight, in the ring, I’m sure I’ll regret this.
In my mind, the red nebulous cloud of my magic dances, waves. I taste salt and smoke and heat; my eyes feel hot. Pain from casting the skin spell comes then, an ache in the form of a wave that rolls throughout me. Heat becomes an inferno. It wraps around my heart and fills it. The world shimmers at its edges, everything I see set to a boil. My pulse is a drum beating wildly in my throat.
I meet Oliver’s eyes and will my magic into his brain. Through his skull and then along the coils of his mind, the turns and twists there full of the trees that stand for time, memories, emotions. All of which make Oliver who he is.
And am stunned by what I see. There are memories that stick out from the landscape of Oliver’s mind like stars against the night, like scars dug into skin. Not because he’s making me see them but because they are still so much of everything he can see. I push the red haze of my magic closer to them, dimly aware of how outside my mind—outside Oliver’s—we’re still in the middle of the shop, unmoving. Out there, time passes in seconds, but in his mind, my magic stretches it long and thin.
Three memories. Each of them is a huge tree, and each has been charred by fire. The landscape around each is blasted fine and bare, like fallout from explosions, from events that still sound. Each tree is still smoking because in Oliver’s life, each memory lives on, continuing to haunt. He has nothing but guilt, these memories that have taken over the landscape of who he is. In here, in this world of his mind, guilt is an endless smog.
I will my magic closer, toward the first tree. As I near it, faces form in the smoke it sends out. The magic of my reveal spell knows these are his parents, and so I know. I know his parents died in a car accident when he was a kid, that Oliver was angry and used magic to call them back and it went all wrong, that Finch has never forgiven him for it.
My magic drifts away, moves close to the second memory. As I get closer, my reveal spell makes its tree shape change. It becomes an arm reaching for the sky. The branches are its fingers.
The meaning slams into me like a fist.
Shock tears me away and I fall from his mind. In the shop I crash to the floor, gasping as fresh agony from casting comes. Instead of heat, a cold steely pain fills my chest, the silver lake of it as still as death. Pain takes the form of spears and they jab at my skull from all directions. I lean to the side and retch, but nothing comes up.
“A spell star with seventeen points,” Oliver says softly. “All for a reveal spell. I hope it was worth it.”
Ever so slowly I turn my head. He’s sitting on the floor, his expression more exhausted than anything. There’s no pain there because he didn’t cast anything to counter my spell. Not because he chose not to but because he couldn’t.
He has no magic. I wondered if he had real magic like his brother, but Oliver hasn’t any magic at all. Not even leftover.
He’s lost it.
No. Not lost.
He gave it away.
I yank open my starter bag and fumble for the jar of healing meds. I swallow two pills and stagger to my feet. I hope I’m wrong about them being less effective for me, but what can I do about that now?
You gave up magic. You gave up you.
“Why?” I ask Oliver.
“You’re going to need another reveal spell for that,” he says, getting up, too. “And casting again right now will kill you. I don’t have to still be a caster of full magic to see that.”
That third memory, the one I missed—that’s the answer.
But my chance is gone now. Oliver won’t let me catch him off guard again.
I felt it, while in his mind—the guilt that drove a decision. Guilt that blends into but isn’t the same as the guilt he feels over his parents.
The room spins.
“You gave it up for your brother,” I whisper. Piper was absolutely right when she said family can complicate things. Why do you blame yourself for your parents’ car accident, Oliver? “For him to win a tournament.”
He
goes even paler than before. His eyes are hollow. He looks like he’s been gut-punched. “You should go now.”
I need to remember that it was Finch who killed Shire, how hundreds of casters saw it happen. How it wasn’t Oliver. But being here with him right now, having been in his mind and breathing in that smog of his guilt, the fact feels slippery, thin.
“How did Finch beat Shire last year?” My voice is ragged. “How did you help?”
“You shouldn’t be here.”
He said those same words to me when I came in. Like he knew I was here to take something, and he had so little left to give.
Oliver walks over and slowly unlocks the door. And he does it by hand, just like before. I know now it’s because he has to. Just like he had to before, too.
I leave.
After I dragged myself home from the Salt Lick—I don’t really remember much of the trip; a walk to a Spice Sector train station through a white haze of pain, falling into dreamless bits of sleep on the train, then a few more blocks of walking where each step felt like another bone breaking—I crawled into bed and fell asleep.
By the time I wake up, it’s nine in the evening. And though my head still hurts, and there’s an ache in my bones I don’t like, I know I’m not going to die. I’ll be able to fight. I eat my warmed-up dinner at the island in our kitchen. My mother sits beside me and watches one of her dramas, while my father and Yun have their meeting out in the dining room of the teahouse.
I know my parents know. How I must have cast full magic to need to heal that way. But my mother only tsked that I’d slept through dinner, and my father cast leftover magic to heat up my tea. So that feels like something. It feels like a lot, actually. It feels like so much that sometimes it even blots out what I wasn’t able to sleep away.
* * *
Helvetica Street is in the Paper Sector, east of Tea, and at eleven I head out of the teahouse.
I watch for signs of Jihen and Cormac to see if they’re following me, but there’s nothing. Still, I’m careful to keep checking, and only after I leave the Tea Sector and am well within Textile do I let myself stop taking roundabouts. As I walk, every once in a while I’ll shake my starter bag just to hear the rattling of the healing meds inside their glass jar. I’ll need them tonight if I have any chance of making it home after getting through this next battle. My magic can once again hurt me for real.
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