He brought his arm down and the water lowered like an obedient servant, but when the train seesawed furiously again, Arjun grabbed at the holder to keep his footing.
And the wave exploded against the train.
Tavia heard the sounds of someone screaming as they fell into the raging waters.
Her legs buckled and Wesley’s arm shot to her waist, stopping her from tumbling along with them. She grabbed onto his shoulder for balance and he squeezed tightly, pressing her against him so close that Tavia could smell the magic on Wesley’s skin.
Her heartbeat quickened, faster than in any battle. Tavia could see the rain on his eyelashes and the way his graveyard eyes sparkled with the storm.
“Some girls are so easily swept off their feet,” Wesley said.
Well, that was one way to knock her back to sanity.
Tavia punched him in the arm, hard enough that Wesley’s hand shot from her waist.
“Next time, let me fall,” she said.
Rain painted the smile on Wesley’s lips and Tavia took in a breath that was far too deep. In this night light, in this endless storm with magic set to save them at his fingertips, Wesley looked so wild with possibility. He looked like he could make the realms a little better instead of a lot worse.
“Sir, over there!” Falk yelled, bursting through the carriage.
Tavia and Wesley broke their gaze, following the weasel’s pointed finger. In the near distance, a waterspout fell from the clouds and twisted into the ocean. It spun madly, sucking clouds into its wake, dragging their train toward it, readying to swallow them whole.
The sea began to rumble.
And then, from the growing storm, the monsters came.
Ghostly beings drenched in moonlight slipped from the vortex of water, hands straight to their sides, lower bodies dispersing to wind. They were made from a dull blue-green light, like murky seawater, and their faces melted into skinless bodies.
They had the look of humans and the look of demons.
Rising from the sea in dozens, the creatures shuddered through the train, in and out of the carriage windows and through the walls, howling down at them. Their cries turned the air to fog.
Tavia stumbled back in sync with Wesley.
“Djnfj,” he swore, and then reached for the radio at the front of the train. “Calling all Crafters and killers to center supply carriage now!”
He grabbed Tavia’s hand and ran, dragging her through four carriages before they practically fell into the correct one.
Some of their army had filtered there too, with Saxony, Karam, and Arjun at the forefront, staring through the open door as the dead weaved in and out. They moved in screams.
Wesley darted for the other side of the carriage and heaved open the opposite access point.
The light spilled in.
The ghosts spilled in.
“Keep together,” he said, backing away.
Tavia followed his lead, until half of them had formed a makeshift circle, backs to each other, watching the realms lose their minds.
The train steadied, stopping moments from the waterspout, and every one of them whipped out their weapons: magic and knives and guns. They scouted their new enemies, and not a one of them dared blink.
Wesley’s hand dangled beside Tavia’s, close enough that her focus drifted.
“When the time comes,” he said, “put every last one of those stolen charms to use.”
Tavia could only nod and then watch as the dead crept aboard their train.
“Lie and tell me those aren’t ghosts,” she said.
She was shoulder to shoulder with Karam, both of them with knives at the ready. Neither of them sure what use such weapons would be.
“They’re not ghosts,” Saxony said.
The rain slowed to spittle, but the wind still howled loud enough that she had to yell.
“I’m no expert,” Wesley said, “but they sure look dead to me.”
“They’re phantoms,” Saxony corrected. “Memories of the dead conjured into form.”
Tavia winced. “That doesn’t make me feel any better.”
Saxony shuffled, like she was steadying herself for bravery. “They’re harmless.” Though she didn’t even sound like she was convincing herself. “They’re simply controlled by the spell that cast them.”
Tavia nodded, and then—
“Wait. Like if the spell told them to kill us?”
Saxony didn’t have an answer and Tavia suddenly wished that she hadn’t asked.
“This might be a good time to use that spirit magic,” Wesley said to Arjun. “Connecting with the dead sounds like a great idea right about now.”
“That’s not what it means,” Arjun practically growled over the wind. “I can only conjure spirits into willing vessels and deliver messages to and from the other side.”
Wesley clutched his gun. “Then deliver them a message to get off my train.”
“It doesn’t work that way,” Arjun said. “And they’re not ghosts.”
The phantoms drifted closer.
“The rest of us will be if you don’t do something,” Tavia said.
But there was nothing to be done.
Just as Arjun’s powers hadn’t been a match for the storm, there was no way they would be a match for whatever these creatures were.
The Kingpin charmed this sea and all that wreaked havoc on it. They had to go through things his way, or not at all. Tavia only hoped that the Kingpin’s way didn’t involve them dying.
One of the phantoms drifted closer, its bottomless shape oozing onto the floor. It dragged itself toward them with white eyes, and it was only when it inclined its head that Tavia knew it was looking at each of them in turn.
Its mouth stretched open. “Your worth is a trial,” it croaked. “Through regrets wicked and vile.”
Its lips didn’t move, its mouth a still picture pulled down the length of its neck, as though it were only a vessel for the words. Like a delg bat straight from the fire-gates.
“Oh great,” Tavia said with a shiver. “It rhymes. That’s not creepy at all.”
Wesley turned to Saxony. “Are these the trials Eirini was talking about?”
“She never mentioned ghosts.”
“I thought they were phantoms,” Tavia said.
Saxony shot her a look.
Tavia racked her mind trying to think which part of her past she regretted most. There were too many things to count. When she was younger, the buskers had sung about the dangers of living in the past and how deadly it could be—they had a song for just about everything, especially remembering—but Tavia couldn’t recall a word of it now.
“The leaders among you must relieve your pasts, looking to where you rest your hearts.” The phantom cracked its head to face Wesley. “But though regrets are prone to repeat, if you wish, then the world shifts under your feet.”
“We can change the past?” Wesley asked.
“No.” Arjun turned to him. “You cannot alter your lives like that. Time windows are dark magic that prey on desire for change, but it is all an illusion. If you try, it will leave you in an endless loop. An alternate life you would never realize is a dream. It is why the magic is forbidden.”
“He’s right,” Saxony said. “Changing the past is impossible. I’ve told you how dangerous magic is when it invades people’s minds. It’s a one-way trip to insanity.”
“Right,” Tavia said. “No changing the past. Check. How do we pick our leaders?”
The moment she said it, five phantoms shot their arms out, fingers pointed straight at them.
Tavia. Wesley. Saxony. Karam. Arjun.
“You are the leaders,” they said in unison. And then, again, “You are the leaders.”
“Okay,” Tavia said. “It’s getting creepier.”
And suddenly she remembered the busker’s song.
In the face of regret, get down on your knees;
death may be swayed by your final pleas.
&nbs
p; Just thinking about it made her skin itch.
“Any idea on what your regret is?” Saxony asked her.
“Being perpetually annoying,” Karam replied in Tavia’s place.
Tavia felt inclined to poke out her tongue, but she was too busy fearing for her life. She was also not happy about the prospect of dying while being judged by the Kingpin.
“Are you ready to face what must be faced, your every regret and wicked disgrace?” the phantom asked.
Wesley folded his collar and gave a curt nod.
The phantom raised a fragmented hand in the air and Tavia’s breath fogged. A beam of light pulled itself from its fingers, stretching and shaping into a doorway.
It turned black as soon as it took form, veins rippling down and spreading until it became an endless vortex of darkness.
“Whatever you see in there, don’t let it get the better of you,” Wesley said. “Don’t try to change a thing.”
He turned to Tavia and she held a hand up to stop him.
“I don’t need a lecture,” she said, but his gaze held such fierceness that she suddenly felt at a loss for words.
Her stupid heart banged madly in her chest.
“What happens if we fail?” she asked.
Karam sheathed her knife. “We die, probably.”
Tavia took that in with a nod. “Good to know.”
The doorway was like a slit in the fabric of the realms. Tavia turned her focus to Wesley, needing to see the look of fearlessness on his face before she could school one onto her own. But Wesley didn’t look fearless. He looked like he was about to throw up.
“What’s with your face?” Tavia asked.
He raised an eyebrow. “This is how my face looks. I’ve never had any complaints before.”
But the easy smirk on his lips did nothing to fool her. Tavia could see the uncertainty. She knew his many faces well enough to tell them apart.
“What is it?” she asked.
She didn’t think he would answer: Wesley never liked answering questions if he didn’t have a knife to his throat, or an agenda up his sleeve.
“I know what my regret will be,” he said.
Tavia opened her mouth to ask what it was, but Wesley was already stepping into the darkness. Tavia reached out a hand for him, but he was gone in a blink and all she could do was watch.
Karam, Saxony, and Arjun stood close enough that their shoulders brushed. Warriors prepared to take on whatever the Kingpin threw at them, in order to avenge their people.
Tavia didn’t know what regret Wesley thought he was going to come across and she certainly didn’t know what her own would be, but she decided that it didn’t matter. Whatever was waiting on the other side wasn’t important, because Wesley would be waiting too.
They would face it together, all of them, enemies and allies.
And they would make damn sure to win.
WESLEY REMEMBERED THE DAY he truly became a bastard.
He was sixteen and had just met with the Kingpin. He did it often, so the meeting itself was not the special thing. After all, Ashwood enjoyed talking with Wesley, guiding him through the perils of Creije like he was a worthy apprentice.
The special thing was that this time the Kingpin had given Wesley a direct order.
It was not words whispered through the old underboss, or the usual sage advice Ashwood often gave him, and only him, because Wesley had somehow become his favorite among a swell of orphans.
It was a true order, from Ashwood’s shadow lips to Wesley’s ears. It felt a bit like a promotion, if promotions involved killing people. Which they often did in Creije.
Wesley crawled into bed that night, trying very hard to think about what it meant for his career and not what it meant for the man he was supposed to kill.
Hello.
It came as a whisper, like the wind was talking to him. Wesley knew enough to figure that was possible, but he’d had a long enough day that he was willing to shake it off.
He settled back into bed, but when it came again, the voice was a sudden girlish yelp.
Please don’t sleep with me in here!
Wesley reached for the gun under his pillow. His eyes searched the room, but there was nobody.
He reached for the light.
Nothing.
Wesley checked under the bed, feeling like a child.
I really am sorry, the voice said.
It was a girl, he knew that much. Young and with an accent that was mostly definitely not Creijen.
“Where are you?” Wesley asked.
In your head.
Wesley nearly dropped the candle. “That’s a brave place to be.”
There was a pause, and then—It is pretty dark in here.
Wesley laughed.
It was absurd. A girl inside his mind? He walked over to the mirror and looked very hard at his reflection, but there was just him, standing with a candle, sneering at himself like an utter moron.
He shook his head and made to check under the bed again.
I don’t think you can see me, the girl said.
Wesley jumped at the sudden closeness of her voice. He looked at himself in the mirror and said, “Get out.”
I don’t know how I got in. I’m lost.
Wesley was losing patience. Whatever trick this was, he didn’t find it funny anymore.
“Are you using some kind of charm?” he asked. “Did Tavia put you up to this? Because if she’s still bitter that I wouldn’t put her boring little proverbs inside that fortune orb, then—”
I don’t know who Tavia is, the girl said. I was just practicing my specialty and the next thing I knew I was here.
Wesley turned from the mirror in case the girl saw his surprise. A specialty. He’d studied enough history books to know what that meant. Had he really just found what the Kingpin was looking for, in his head?
And so it began. A real live Crafter. A girl who refused to tell him her name.
A girl who, every now and again, lived inside Wesley’s mind.
He wanted so badly to tell Tavia, but she would just think he was losing it or get that odd look on her face she tended to have whenever Wesley did something she didn’t like. Which seemed to be most of the time. And so instead, Wesley’s memories and thoughts became stories to this strange girl. She remembered them and thought them too. Everything that made Wesley feel like he was nobody and everything he believed he needed in order to become somebody.
You need to find someone like me, the girl said one day, months later.
Wesley nodded. “If I hand the Kingpin a Crafter, I’ll become underboss in a second.” He sighed, almost wistfully. “But I buy and sell magic, not people.”
The girl went quiet, considering her next words carefully. Wesley could sense her hesitance. He was getting good at knowing her emotions as if they were his own.
If I go to him, such big things will happen.
“Are you predicting the future?”
Predictions are unreliable. There are far too many futures to know which will happen. I see them all and that’s not much use. Time is as indecisive as those who live in it.
Wesley chuckled. “Lighten up, kid.”
He felt the girl frown. You should stop calling me a kid. I’m destined to do great things.
“You’re also eleven,” he said. “Enjoy the compliment. The last thing anyone wants is to be a grown-up.”
I don’t think either of us will get that chance, she said. There are so many awful futures of you and me and even Tavia.
At that, Wesley stilled.
“Tavia will be golden,” he said, because the thought of anything else was not something he would consider. “She’ll travel the realms and be whatever she wants to be. There’s nothing awful in her future.”
In some of them there is, the girl said. In some she betrays you. In some you kill her to save the lives of so many Crafters.
Wesley sat up, rigid, anger crawling on his skin and biting down like an insect. “I�
�d sooner kill you and every Crafter alive than turn my back on Tavia,” he said.
And he meant it too. Maybe Wesley wasn’t a saint, but he wasn’t a disloyal prick. There were many lines he would never cross and all of them were to do with Tavia.
“You don’t know what it’s like to create a family from nothing,” Wesley said. “Not out of blood, but sweat and graft. To earn those closest to you.”
Is that not what we are? the girl asked. Are we not family too?
“You’re a Crafter.”
Wesley said it as though it were the worst kind of accusation. Worse than her accusing him of betraying his best friend.
“You and I are not family,” Wesley said. “You should be grateful I haven’t handed you over to the Kingpin.”
They were awful, untrue words, and the moment Wesley spoke them they tasted like poison—like a reverie charm gone bad—and though he wanted to take them back, he couldn’t.
He was too angry to be kind.
You wouldn’t betray me, the girl said. I know you.
And that, right there, was the problem.
Wesley letting people know him was his greatest weakness and one he wanted desperately to keep to himself.
“No,” Wesley said. “You don’t know what I’d do to win.”
It was just three days later when Wesley saw the girl at the consort’s headquarters, standing beside the Kingpin.
She was bound and bleeding.
Wesley knew her without hearing her speak.
He recognized her face, even if he had only ever seen it in his mind.
“She came to find you,” the Kingpin said. “Crossed the realm and went straight to the underboss to see where you might be.”
She thought Wesley would save her, proving that he was better than the Kingpin, that he was good and she was his friend as much as Tavia. Or that he’d spare his underboss when the bone gun was in his hands. Or that if Wesley came to power, he’d do something good.
Perhaps she thought a lot of things, as children often did, but Wesley only proved her wrong. He hadn’t saved her, or spared his old underboss.
He hadn’t done anything close to good.
“This is the start of a new era,” the Kingpin had said. “Once I absorb her powers, I can begin to create a better realm, with you by my side.”
Into The Crooked Place Page 25
