City of Spells

by Alexandra Christo

  “Don’t be such an idiot, then,” Tavia countered. “None of us were born crooks. Ashwood made bastards out of us all.”

  “Yet you turned out okay,” Wesley said.

  Tavia nearly laughed.

  “I’m not okay.”

  She didn’t realize how true those words were until she said them.

  They’d come out like a reflex, something to say so Wesley didn’t get the last word or convince himself he was the only awful person in the realms. But by the Many Gods, Tavia felt those words crawl across her skin like insects, biting down hard.

  She wasn’t okay.

  She hadn’t been okay for a long time.

  Not since her mother died and not since Wesley had been taken from her.

  And now, with the knowledge that his little sister was going to kill her. It was just another thing piling up on the unsteady walls she had built around herself, and with each new brick an old one crumbled.

  Tavia had always said she didn’t believe in fate or destiny. They were just excuses for people who didn’t have the conviction to make their own choices. And yet here she was, with her life on the line, and she didn’t know what she could do to stop it. She couldn’t tell Wesley and take his focus from the war and to her own life, which she knew that he would in an instant.

  She could only wait to die.

  “I’m not okay,” Tavia said again, picking up her cards and trying to keep her focus intently on them. “And maybe I’m not turned out yet.”

  “I hope that isn’t true,” Wesley said. “I hope this is who you are forever.”

  Tavia glanced back at him, and she wanted so badly in that moment to tell him everything, but the way Wesley looked at her, like she was so shiny and new, like there was a light in her that never dimmed, trapped the words in her throat.

  He hadn’t looked at her like that since that time in the tree house. At least not without turning away or making some kind of quip.

  “I’m sorry that I couldn’t save you from Ashwood,” Tavia said. “I’m sorry you had to deal with all of that on your own.”

  Wesley painted an easy smile on his face. “Quit apologizing,” he said. “It was just another day at the office.”

  Tavia threw down her cards and stood up from the table with a disbelieving sigh.

  “Stop messing around,” she said. “Can’t you be serious for once? You could have died.”

  Wesley rolled his eyes, as though that was the most dramatic thing he had heard all day. “I don’t die,” he said.

  It only made her angrier.

  Wesley was stupid to believe that Ashwood’s twisted obsession with him made him indispensable. He was reckless and arrogant enough that someday someone was going to kill him and he wouldn’t even see it coming until the bullet landed between his eyes.

  Wesley Thornton Walcott was not invincible.

  He was just a boy.

  “You’re ruining this for me,” Tavia said to him. “This is the last night we have before we head into battle and all you can do is be a cocky little git.”

  Wesley stood up and buttoned his suit jacket. “Are you done being mad at me?” he asked. “Or should I go to bed and let you be dramatic on your own?”

  Many Gods, Tavia wanted to punch him in the face.

  “You think this is dramatic?” she said. “You’re the one who left me in the middle of a self-imploding island. One moment you were there and then suddenly you were just gone. You ran off with Zekia and I didn’t know if you were dead or alive, or if you were ever coming back. That was dramatic.”

  “It wasn’t my first choice of strategies,” Wesley said. “And like I told you before, I don’t die. Haven’t you heard that demons have nine lives? Or is that cats?”

  Tavia didn’t hesitate to lean over and push him.

  Hard.

  Harder, even, than she had meant to.

  Wesley stumbled back a few steps.

  “Hey,” he said, dusting off his suit jacket. “What’s wrong with you?”

  Tavia wasn’t sure how to answer that. There were so many things wrong with the world, but he was the only thing that made sense—the only part of her life that seemed right anymore—and she was about to lose all of that.

  Just as she was close to having everything she wanted—friends, a family, and Wesley—it was going to be stripped away from her.

  “Stop making jokes and pretending like this is all a game,” she said. “I’m scared. Don’t you get that? I’m scared and I need you to tell me things are going to be okay.”

  When Wesley frowned, a dimple appeared in the center of his brow that Tavia found so unreasonably distracting that she had to look away.

  He stepped closer to her, his breath heavy, like he could read every thought going through her mind. When he swallowed, Tavia felt the sound in her bones, and when he lifted his hand to her chin, so her eyes met his again, she felt like every part of her was suddenly primed to fracture.

  You’re going to die, she thought. You’re going to die without ever telling him how you feel.

  “What’s wrong?” Wesley asked.

  “You’re an idiot,” she said. “That’s always what’s wrong. You’re an idiot and I need you to … I just need you.”

  Tavia tried to steady her shaking hands. Her shaking everything.

  “I need you,” she said again.

  It only took a breath, a tiny space within the seconds, for Wesley to grab her with enough force to send them both hurtling back into a nearby tree trunk. Tavia took in a quick breath and then Wesley’s lips were on hers, hands knotted in her hair, pulling her closer to him so that every inch of their bodies was touching.

  Suddenly Tavia couldn’t think about anything else. Not the war or Ashwood or the realms hanging on the line. Not the fact that she was going to die and this would be the first and last time she ever kissed Wesley.

  Tavia couldn’t focus on anything past the burning inside of her. Kissing Wesley helped put the fire out and then ignite it all over.

  She ripped off his suit jacket and slid her hands across his chest, under the thin layer of his shirt. He was skinnier than she remembered and it broke something inside of her to think about why. The months of torture he’d endured alone and in the dark.

  Wesley broke away for a moment to push her hair from her eyes, revealing the high arc of her cheekbones. “Tavia, I—”

  But she didn’t listen. Couldn’t listen.

  She needed him. More than words. More than anything.

  How had she gone her entire life without kissing him?

  Tavia pulled Wesley’s head back to hers, sucking on his bottom lip, and Wesley pressed harder against her. Tavia traced the lines of his stomach and Wesley made a beautiful, wretched sound in the back of his throat that reverberated through her.

  He moved his hands lower, sliding her up against the bark of the tree. Tavia hitched her legs around his waist so their bodies curved into each other.

  She pulled away, breathless, panting as Wesley trailed kisses along her collarbone. Tavia cupped one arm around the back of his neck, pulling the small locks of hair and twisting them between her fingers.

  His teeth skimmed Tavia’s neck and she knotted the collar of his shirt in her fist, before crashing her mouth back onto his.

  She was hungry for him.

  She felt like she had been hungry for years without ever admitting to it. But months apart, and then seeing him again, bruised and beaten but alive, had changed everything.

  Tavia ran her teeth across Wesley’s lip. He tasted like oranges and bonfire smoke. Bitter and sweet as his tongue glided over hers.

  Every inch of her was exploding.

  “Wait,” Wesley said. “I have to tell you something first.”

  He was shaking.

  Tavia opened her eyes to his, glassy and near black, fluttering in a blink with every breath. He looked at her like he was trying to hold something back and it was so, so close to being let out.

  Tavia touc
hed her lips to his again, delicate, trying to swallow the yearning that seeped into her veins.

  She didn’t know she could want someone so much, but if this was it—if this was her last chance to be with him—then Tavia was done holding back. She was done pretending.

  Her legs were still wrapped around Wesley and she could feel every twitch of his bones and the thump of his heart against hers.

  She pressed her hand to the back of his neck and Wesley’s breath turned ragged.

  “Gods.” Wesley swallowed. “Tavia, just stop for one second.”

  It was like a plea.

  Tavia broke away, detangling herself from him just as suddenly as they had collided, a weight of disappointment inside her heart.

  It wasn’t enough.

  There just wasn’t enough time in the world anymore.

  Her legs slid slowly down Wesley’s body and when her feet met the ground, the world felt tilted and shaken.

  She didn’t think she could keep standing if Wesley’s hands weren’t pressed firmly against her shoulders, like he was trying so desperately to keep himself from her.

  Tavia wished he wouldn’t try so hard.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  Wesley pressed his forehead to hers, breath as uneven as the world felt. He kissed her again, but it was short and quick and it left Tavia’s lips dry and aching.

  “I’ve loved you since we were kids,” he said.

  When Tavia looked into his eyes this time, she saw color. Rimming the pools of black that had engulfed his irises was a small circle of brown. It was thin, and against the moonlight she had to squint to discern the colors, but it was there. The same brown as the tree bark.

  “I love you,” Wesley said again.

  Tavia thought hearing those words would make her happy, but she only wanted to cry. She’d been waiting so long for him to say them and now that he had, it was too late.

  She couldn’t be with him anymore, no matter how desperately she wanted it.

  “I love you too,” she said.

  Wesley smiled and bit by bit, piece by piece, she was coming undone.

  “I just wanted us to say it,” he said. “Just once, just in case.”

  “We’re not going to die,” Tavia told him. “Everything will be okay.”

  It was the worst lie she had ever told.

  “Is that a promise?” Wesley asked, that old smile tugging at his lips.

  Tavia tried not to break promises often. It seemed like a bad habit most buskers picked up and she prided herself on not being like most buskers. But promising Wesley they’d both make it out of this war in one piece, when she knew that her future was already sealed, felt like the only way to make sure he went ahead with his plans. To make sure he focused on Ashwood, instead of her. To make sure he didn’t turn his back on his family.

  He can’t know, she thought.

  Tavia held on to Wesley’s hand. This was the boy who she’d survived the streets of Creije with. Who’d become her friend, when she had none, and her family, when she had none. Who meant so much more to her than anyone could.

  Tavia looked into Wesley’s eyes.

  “I promise,” she said. “It’s all going to be okay.”

  Tavia kissed him again, slow and endless, a kiss wild with possibility. Like if she wished hard enough, the night would never end and the sun might never rise and they could just stay locked in that moment, and that promise, forever.

  31

  WESLEY

  Tavia’s hair spread across the pillow as she played with the mirror doll.

  Wesley watched her.

  He’d been unable to take his eyes off of her for the past few hours, but now that she had the mirror doll he definitely couldn’t stop staring. They were his least favorite kind of magic and though Wesley dealt in many things that were deadly and devious, he found nothing quite as eerie as a puppet for somebody’s life.

  They varied from maker to maker, but the dolls were consistently dreadful. Made from buttons and badly stitched thread, or tree bark and twine, they began as a jigsaw person, barely formed and off-kilter, their black-spot eyes ready to change with the flick of a charm.

  Only then did they become person-like, their form dislocating from the makeshift to the harrowing reality, tree bark turning to rotten skin and patches of hair growing from the twine, their button eyes hollowed out to mummified pits and jagged nails sprung from their new fingertips. Once blooded, they transformed into corpse-like versions of their victim.

  For now, Tavia held a puppet.

  Soon, she would hold a body.

  Tavia stroked her hand over the doll’s head tenderly, like it was some kind of a pet.

  “You know, that’s really creepy,” Wesley said. “Why do you keep that thing by your bed?”

  “Oh, relax.” Tavia waved him off. “It’s not like it’s linked to anyone yet.”

  “I think that makes it worse.”

  An absent vessel, a body without a soul, a puppet without a master, waiting for Tavia to shape it into whoever she wanted.

  Wesley didn’t know what Crafter had thought up such a thing, but he was glad that whoever they were was long gone.

  “Seriously, put that thing away,” he said.

  He reached over the covers to grab it from her, but Tavia jerked it away.

  “Worried I’ll slip some of your blood over its smile?” she asked.

  Wesley scoffed, but the way she looked over at him, amused, unsteadied his heart.

  Tavia nudged him with her elbow, grin dangerous, and Many Gods, it made Wesley want to kiss her again. Truthfully, he never wanted to stop kissing her now, or to get out of this bed, but that didn’t seem like the best plan with death on their doorstep.

  Or perhaps it was.

  Perhaps, Wesley should test the theory, just in case.

  “I wanted to talk to you about something,” he said.

  No, not talk.

  Kiss.

  Kiss first, and then ask if she still planned to run to Volo when the battle was over, like she’d always dreamed of. They hadn’t had the chance to talk about it yet and Wesley didn’t want to push his luck.

  He hoped Tavia would help him rebuild Creije. He wanted them to stay in the city they had grown up in so they could continue growing there together. But just because things had changed between them, it didn’t mean Tavia had changed her mind about what she wanted for her future.

  “It’s about what we’re going to do after we kill Ashwood,” Wesley said.

  Tavia put down the mirror doll and turned to him. “Let’s not talk about after,” she said. “Let’s just focus on now.”

  She reached over and curled her hand around the back of Wesley’s neck, pulling him to her. His lips locked onto hers and with Tavia’s free hand she squeezed his, like she was pressing some of her strength into him.

  Wesley pulled the bedsheets backs over their heads and Tavia laughed loudly. Gods, he couldn’t get enough of that laugh.

  And then there was a knock and Wesley paused.

  He pulled the sheets back down and looked to the door.

  “Are you expecting company?” he asked.

  Tavia shook her head. “You get it,” she said, stretching. “I’m comfortable.”

  Wesley rolled his eyes and reluctantly pushed himself up from the bed, throwing on the suit trousers that were slung over the chair.

  “Whoever it is, just kill them and come back to bed,” Tavia called over to him.

  Wesley smirked and opened the door, ready to do just that. Until he saw Saxony’s amja standing on the other side.

  Wesley cursed to himself.

  That family had woeful timing.

  “I’m not interrupting, am I?” she asked.

  Yes, Wesley thought.

  Out loud, he said, “No, it’s fine.”

  “Can we talk? It’s important.”

  Wesley cleared his throat, suddenly aware he wasn’t wearing a shirt. “Sure.” He crossed his arms over his ch
est. “Just give me a second.”

  He quickly closed the door and shot Tavia an apologetic look, but she was grinning.

  “Did your amja just interrupt us for a quiet little talk with her grandson?” she asked. “Because that’s hilarious. All we need now is for your sister to come in wanting to borrow a cup of sugar.”

  “I’m failing to see the humor in all of this,” Wesley said, grabbing his shirt from the floor. “I won’t be long, I promise.”

  “It’s fine, go.” Tavia stretched out farther amongst the covers, burying her face in the pillow. “I’ll be glad for the space, if I’m being honest.”

  “Funny,” Wesley said. “But don’t get too used to it.”

  Tavia wiggled her eyebrows and Wesley wanted nothing more than to jump back into bed with her. Unfortunately, family came with responsibilities.

  He just wished those responsibilities ended after sundown.

  Wesley turned back to open the door.

  “Is everything okay?” he asked Saxony’s amja.

  His amja.

  She was Wesley’s too now, and he needed to at least try to get used to it.

  Wesley shuffled out into the hallway and closed the door softly behind him.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you,” Amja said softly. “I’m sure you want to spend this night doing something other than speaking to me. It’s just that we haven’t had the chance to talk about everything that has happened.”

  “You didn’t need to come and speak to me,” Wesley said, clearing his throat to counteract the tense atmosphere. It was odd how unsettled he felt, being alone with this strange woman who shouldn’t have been strange to him at all. “I’m not sure there’s much for us to say.”

  “I disagree,” Amja said. “I want you to know that I’m sorry for all I’ve done to wrong you, but I’m here for you now, Malik. As I always should have been.”

  Wesley couldn’t help but wince at the use of his old name. It didn’t feel like his—the life that Malik had before Creije didn’t feel like his—and though the Uncharted Forest had carried a sense of home while Wesley was there, it still wasn’t quite Creije enough for him.

  Wesley knew who he was and who he wasn’t.

  And he wasn’t Malik Akintola.

  He had been once, a lifetime ago, but not now. Despite the fact that he could see that Saxony and Amja so desperately wanted him to return to that boy, Wesley knew it wasn’t possible.