Truth be told, Tavia was tired of justifying every action she took, or making excuses so it seemed like she wasn’t overstepping boundaries everyone else had created around her.
She was a busker.
She was the best busker that the capital city of Uskhanya had and maybe Saxony’s people were too scared or too unwilling to get their hands dirty, but Tavia wasn’t. Her people weren’t. They were going to do whatever it took to get the job done, even if it meant aligning with monsters.
5
WESLEY
Wesley Thornton Walcott didn’t cry.
In the list of terrible things he’d done in his life—and Wesley liked to keep track of things like that—he was sure crying had never been one. He knew that memories were fickle, of course, but he trusted his mind to keep hold of important stuff like that.
Those were the things that needed to be remembered if he was going to hold a grudge properly, and if there was one thing Wesley Thornton Walcott did well, it was hold a grudge.
Wesley didn’t cry in the face of death.
He didn’t cry because he had only half a family—the half that gave him a house but not a home, that protected him but did not love him, that stared at him like he was something so very other in a realm of strange magic and monsters.
He didn’t cry when he crossed lines and burned bridges.
He didn’t cry when he threw away friendship for leadership.
And he didn’t cry when Zekia clawed through his mind, or when her shadow demon clawed through his body. They could try to break Wesley into a thousand pieces, but he wouldn’t give them that. He’d fought his way up from the streets of Creije and there was no way he was going to go down without a fight.
“Fighting is hard,” Tavia said. “Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is just give in.”
She sat beside Wesley in the cell, her grin sly as ever, while the low glow of night filtered from the cracked window, reflecting the sky in the pool of Wesley’s blood.
“Don’t you ever just want to give up?” she asked.
She shuffled closer to Wesley and squeezed his hand.
“It’s okay if you do.”
Wesley held on to the sound of her voice, like a cliff’s edge, even though he knew it wasn’t really her voice at all.
He’d learned that by now.
He knew better.
He turned to Tavia and pushed a flick of black hair from her eyes in a way he had never dared to before. It was damp with sweat and clinging to her cheeks like seaweed, making her look young and restless.
“Get the hell out of my mind, kid,” he said.
And then he pushed Tavia’s head back so hard that it cracked against the surface of the cell wall. There wasn’t blood this time, but Wesley winced like there had been.
He heard a sigh and then Tavia’s newly limp body disappeared into smoke, and from across the room Zekia stepped out of the shadows.
“You’re getting quicker,” she said. “The first time it took you ages to figure it out.”
“Maybe you’re just getting sloppy.”
Though truth was, most of Zekia’s illusions had been perfect from the start, and if there was one thing she excelled at, it was making Wesley doubt every second of his life was real.
Still, she could never get Tavia right.
The first time she’d tried, Wesley was too out of it to see the small discrepancies, but it was the easiest thing to spot now. A conjured Tavia made Wesley feel cold and uncertain. She was always missing the bite to her words and the tilted smile that could never quite be replicated. She was missing the glint in her eye that told Wesley he was awful and she would forgive him for it anyway.
Zekia could try all she wanted, but she’d be hard-pressed to create an illusion as damn irritating and wonderful as the real thing.
“Want to give it another whirl?” Wesley asked. “I think I’ve still got some sanity left in me today.”
Zekia let out a great huff of breath, like she was frustrated that Wesley had stolen her favorite toy. Beside her, a shadow demon growled, its eyes like pure darkness. It looked at Wesley in a way that said, Yes. Again. Let me taste the blood this time.
“No,” Zekia said. “Enough for today.”
Thank the Many Gods, Wesley thought, and then hoped she hadn’t heard.
Though it was impossible to be sure, and being unsure was something Wesley hated. Even more than the fact that he knew he looked like utter trash and had to turn away from any reflection he caught sight of. His suit was always stellar—one thing Zekia was good at in between the torture was keeping Wesley dressed very much like himself—but the sharp edges in his eyes that he’d carefully cultivated over the years looked more rounded and dull.
Maybe it was the lack of food.
Maybe it was the lack of sun.
Or maybe he just didn’t adjust well to being tortured.
Either way, Wesley didn’t plan on sticking around to get used to it.
The shadow demon bared its teeth, talons rising, and Wesley couldn’t help but grimace. Not because he was scared—he’d never show that so easily—but because he could smell the demon’s breath from across the room.
There was torture and then there was just plain nasty.
“Down, boy,” Zekia said, clicking her fingers in the air.
The shadow demon howled, the sound like the whistle of a boiling teapot, or an old steam train that couldn’t slow down. It cozied up to her side and Zekia smiled. She didn’t need to kneel down to stroke it, because Zekia was only fourteen and the shadow demon was nearly the size of a grown man. Perhaps twice that when it was on its hind legs.
It was weird to watch it obey her, like she was a leader and not just a kid who didn’t know she needed help.
“Do you know why a shadow demon can’t be killed?” Zekia asked.
Wesley was not in the mood for a quiz.
“It’s because they’re not born of blood and bone like us.”
The demon cawed by her side, like it approved of this lesson about its history.
“They’re made from the darkness left behind by the cursed spells. Spells that steal a mind, spells that steal a soul, and spells that steal a heart.”
When Zekia stroked the shadow demon, half of her hand grazed its spine and the other half fell into the abyss of its ghostly body.
“You can’t kill shadow demons because they’re made from magic and magic can never die,” she said. “In the end, magic always wins. It’s forever. It’s a gift from the Many Gods and we have to protect it.”
Wesley kept his breath steady.
“Is this part of the torture?” he said. “You didn’t break me with your mind magic or your shadow demon, so you want to bore me with a history lesson?”
Zekia laughed.
She laughed a lot when Wesley spoke, even though half of what he said really wasn’t that funny. Torture had dampened his sense of humor.
Still, she always laughed, like she thought that if Wesley knew she liked him, he might just forgive her for everything. And the thing was, he did. Wesley missed the little kid he’d befriended, who, despite everything, he couldn’t bring himself to hate.
“You’re too stubborn and Ashwood will get mad soon,” Zekia said. “You’re ruining everything, Wesley. The future is so dark and I can’t make it light without you, don’t you see?”
She pushed her long black braids from her face, her bracelets clinking together.
“If you’re looking for light, I’m the wrong person,” Wesley said. “Just because Asees and Arjun gave me a magical loan, it doesn’t mean I know anything about your Crafter dreams. I’m not like you, kid. I never was.”
Zekia played with the hem of her dress.
“You know that’s not true,” she said quietly. “You know that you’re not a vessel for someone else’s power.”
Wesley sat up against the wall in a way that made his ribs hurt a little less.
“Wesley,” she said, her voice a mi
x of nerves and joy. “Don’t you feel it? Your magic isn’t borrowed or stolen. It’s awakened.”
“I’m not falling for any more of your mind games.”
Zekia shook her head and took three quick steps toward him, almost excited. She bent down, her dress pooling into his blood.
“You’re a true Crafter, Wesley,” she said. “You’re one of us. I knew it the second I got into your mind. I’ve been wanting to tell you for days, but you’ve been pretty mad and I didn’t know how to say it.”
Wesley shook his head. “Bullshit.”
“It’s not,” Zekia promised. “I swear it on the Many Gods and on my life and on everything else in the realms. You’re not like the other buskers and crooks. You’re like us, Wesley. You’re just like me.”
An Intuitcrafter.
Wesley wanted to tell her she was even more crazy than he’d thought, but the more he looked at the earnestness in her face and the more he tried to rack his mind, the more nothing else made sense.
A true Crafter.
As the thought raced through his mind, the magic inside of him sparked.
Yes, it whispered, after so long silent. Yes.
Was that why magic had always felt like home to him?
Not just a skill Wesley needed to learn and master, but a part of his soul that had always been missing. When Ashwood first took him from the streets and taught him to be a busker, it was like a fire inside of Wesley started to burn too hot and fierce to ever dissipate.
He touched the silver staves running up his arm, so similar to the ones Zekia had.
They had appeared during the shadow moon, when his power felt infinite and wondrous. He’d been so worried they would disappear one day and that he’d become that empty shell again, but they hadn’t. They’d stayed and the power inside of him hadn’t left either.
You’re like us.
You’re one of us.
Wesley had never belonged to anything or anyone.
He’d never had anything he hadn’t stolen or taken with blood. Except for magic.
Magic had always felt so very much his, even when it was just a trick bag or a charm he kept in his back pocket. Each and every one felt like air in his lungs.
Now he finally knew why.
“I know you think we’re wrong,” Zekia said. “But we just want the Crafters to be okay again. Like before the war. Like better than before. You have to want that too, now you know you’re like us. Don’t you?”
Wesley wasn’t sure what he wanted right now, except to get out of this place and take her with him. He needed to see the sun and feel the air on his face and have Tavia glare at him like he was a huge bastard.
It was the only way to get any kind of damn clarity.
“Kid,” he said. “Let me get you out of here. I can take you back to your family and we can fix all of this. We can go to the forest and—”
“Be quiet!” Zekia snapped. “You can’t talk about that place here.”
“Then let’s go and talk about it somewhere far away from here,” he said.
Zekia’s smile faded and she stood up slowly from the floor, the damp dripping from her dress.
“You’re not going anywhere,” she said.
“Kid—”
“No!” she yelled, shaking her head wildly. “You can’t go. I won’t let you leave.”
Wesley sighed.
Thing was, he already knew how to escape. He’d been planning it since the moment they took him, going over every possible scenario. The problem had never been that he couldn’t go, but that he didn’t want to go without Zekia.
The chains weren’t keeping Wesley prisoner; she was.
Even now, she was still the ghost inside his mind, making him second-guess every decision.
She was like this because of him.
She was with Ashwood because of him.
Wesley couldn’t leave her behind again, like he had done all those years ago, when he’d thought being an underboss was worth any sacrifice.
He couldn’t go back to Tavia and Saxony and Karam without her.
Zekia deserved a chance.
At the very least, Wesley owed her that.
At the very least, he had to try.
6
KARAM
Karam wiped the blood from her knife.
“Again,” she said.
Tavia opened her mouth in outrage, nursing the minor flesh wound on her shoulder. She really was very dramatic at times.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” Tavia said.
Karam pocketed her knife as a show of peace. “Believe me, I take little pleasure in trying to school someone with no athletic skill.”
Tavia’s eyes narrowed in the beginnings of a glare, though there wasn’t much heart behind it. “I think I’m offended,” she said. “I’ll have you know that I once scaled a building.”
“Which you got pushed out of.”
“I stole a backpack full of magic from Rishiya’s best busker.”
“And then got chased by his friends so I had to rescue you.”
“I faced Dante Ashwood and survived,” Tavia said, grinning proudly, her chin aloft.
Karam raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “We all did that.”
Tavia’s glare reappeared and Karam couldn’t help but laugh at her outrage.
“You’ve got something on your face,” Tavia said, her voice a stale monotone.
Karam stopped smiling.
“There.” Tavia crossed her arms over her chest in satisfaction. “All gone.”
“Guard up,” Karam said. “Or I may stab you for real this time.”
“No, you’re way too fond of me now. We’re practically best—”
“We are not friends,” Karam interrupted.
Though mostly she said it out of habit rather than truth. Like a game between the two of them, insults a common currency of affection. Tavia had a knack for being simultaneously very unlikable and very, very endearing.
If only she had the same knack for being good with her fists.
As it was, when it came to teaching Tavia how to fight, Karam had her work cut out for her. It wasn’t that the busker had no skills whatsoever, just that none of her skills were the right ones, and so Karam spent half her time sighing in despair and the other half trying not to punch Tavia in the face.
“After this, we’re moving on to magic lessons,” Tavia said. “That Nolan bastard had some damn good charms that I’ve been waiting to try out. I’ll be teaching you how to turn your enemies into literal dust in no time.”
Karam grimaced.
Not because of the violence, but because using magic still made her skin itch. She preferred her fists and being able to feel her enemies’ bones rattle. There was a strange comfort that came with a good old-fashioned brawl. It was simple and certain.
Magic was like a question with no answer, or an answer with no question. It was there one moment and gone the next, in all things and part of nothing, existing entirely outside of the world and yet responsible for each and every particle of it.
Karam’s most dreaded days were when her lessons with Tavia finished and Tavia’s lessons with her began.
“Don’t give me that look,” Tavia said. “This was the trade-off. You teach me how to be a stealth assassin and I teach you how to be a damn fine trickster. If we’re going to survive this war, we need magic and fists to work together.”
“A very inspiring speech,” Karam said.
“Not as good as the one you gave about how to poke someone’s eyes out. I still have nightmares about that.”
Karam merely shrugged. “I am a firm believer that every woman should know how to blind her enemies.”
Tavia laughed, loud and unabashed one moment, only for it to be cut short with jarring finality the next.
She stared ahead, to a space beyond Karam, all the joy gone from her face.
Across the way, Saxony was talking to a group of Crafters in her Kin, and Tavia watched her with all the curiosi
ty of a hunter watching prey.
“Do you think she’s trying to rally them to her side?”
“They follow her amja,” Karam said simply.
“A woman too scared to lead properly.” Tavia pocketed her knife, a sign she was done with the lesson. “Saxony should just take the reins from her and become Liege already.”
Saxony gestured with her arms wide and one of the Crafters, a man a little shorter than she was, shook his head.
“I do not think it is that simple,” Karam said, watching their interaction. “They will not follow Saxony because she asks them to. I believe she has to show them that she is the right choice. She has to earn it.”
“And the way to do that is by standing around with her thumb up her ass?”
Karam didn’t bother turning to glare at Tavia.
She kept her eyes on Saxony, who looked up to the sky with a defeated exhale. Karam almost felt like she could hear the sigh from where she stood across the camp. And then, as though she could sense Karam’s focus, Saxony turned to look at her.
She gave her a small, secret smile and Karam’s heart pounded furiously.
Even now. Even still.
Everything Saxony did made her pulse quicken.
Probably because the moments they spent together were so fleeting and nearly constantly interrupted, leaving Karam to grasp at the smallest things for satisfaction and building a thirst for Saxony that could never quite be quenched.
When Saxony began to walk over to them, Tavia cleared her throat like she was preparing for an onslaught.
“Good conversation?” Tavia asked. “You looked like you were really getting through to them.”
“They’re just as scared as my amja is,” Saxony said. “And they won’t go against an acting Liege.”
“I guess that means I’m the only one pulling my weight in this war, then,” Tavia said.
This time, Karam did glare at her. Not because she disagreed that the steps the busker had taken were necessary, but because she was getting a little tired of having to play peacemaker and diplomat in this newly fractured group.
Karam was a warrior. A guard. A soldier. She was not a mediator and it seemed she spent too much time these days ignoring her strengths in favor of fixing other people’s weaknesses. Sometimes, she couldn’t help but feel that she’d be better used somewhere else in this war, doing something that really mattered.
City of Spells Page 5
