His magic had been trying to tell him for months, back when it burst from the fortune orb he had helped Tavia build, when it finally reunited with him in Granka, and now, as he stood before his father.
Wesley wasn’t going to end the world.
He was going to save it.
The syringe of time swelled in bright blue waves.
Ashwood swallowed.
“You can’t kill me,” he said. “You’re my boy. My flesh. It’s why I’ve never taken your life, even after you’ve constantly disappointed me. Don’t you see, Wesley?”
Ashwood’s voice was quick and pleading.
He was desperate, trying for any way to survive.
“Family does not give up on each other,” Ashwood said. “And I’ve always wanted my son to be great.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Saxony said. “He’s just trying to get inside of your head. Malik … Wesley. Please just—”
Wesley held up his hand to stop her. “Enough,” he said.
It was the awful truth he never wanted to face.
Wesley thought that hearing those words spoken out loud would send him off-kilter somehow, making him doubt all that he was and imbuing him with some kind of misplaced loyalty to the Kingpin.
But it didn’t.
It didn’t matter whether it was a lie or if he and Ashwood were blood. Either way, the Kingpin had always been his father. He had raised Wesley and taught him everything he knew and a few things he wished he’d someday forget. He was kinder to him than Wesley’s other father had been and he had shaped Wesley into the man he was today.
Blood or not. Dante Ashwood was always going to be a part of him.
And Wesley surprised himself with how much he just didn’t care.
“You don’t get to claim him,” Tavia said. “Wesley is his own person and he gets to choose his family.”
Wesley looked up at her, no longer blood-soaked, the illusion faded to give way to the wonderful cherry bark of her eyes.
She gave him a hard smile and Wesley’s heart jarred.
She was right: Wesley had chosen his family long before he found them.
“I’m pretty much related to everyone nowadays,” Wesley said to Ashwood. “You’re really not that special.”
He stabbed the syringe directly into the heart of the doll.
Ashwood screamed.
The doll screamed.
The world screamed.
His body shook and convulsed, head twisting from side to side. His broken arm snapped back into place and the shadows around him blinked and staggered, like they were struggling to keep ahold of him.
Wesley’s eyes widened as he watched his once-Kingpin writhe and blur, the different sides to his face screaming away from each other and then catapulting back together.
Time was not just catching up with him, but erasing him altogether. Pulling the magic from Ashwood’s bones, reversing all that he had gleaned from years of enslavement and murder.
The years rewound inside of him.
It was undoing him.
It was sucking the power from him.
Ashwood fell onto his knees, his shadows gone, his cane broken by his feet.
And his face.
Human.
Plain for all to see.
Dante Ashwood’s face was not haggard, but rewound to give him a youthful and unaffected glow, marked only by a few pinked scars. He didn’t look much older than Wesley, with long dark hair that brushed past his chin. His skin was pulled tight across his face, pale as the ocean’s crust, with eyes the color of a serpent’s skin and a look of hate spread to the very corners of his curled lips.
Dante Ashwood, Kingpin of Uskhanya, destroyer of cities, was human.
He was just a man.
And Wesley had a lot of practice killing men.
Wesley’s gun was on the floor, where Zekia had dropped it after her illusion, and though Wesley couldn’t get to it with his leg still so jacked up, he knew he didn’t need to move to reach for it.
His magic surged, eager.
Yes, it said. That, we can do.
Wesley looked at the bone gun, licked his lips, and then watched it disappear from the ground and reappear in his own hand.
The familiar hilt, the slick way it fit to his palm, like it had been made for Wesley and nobody else.
Tavia locked her fingers between Wesley’s, and the warmth of her, the familiar scratch of her scars and calluses, steadied his heart.
He gripped the gun in his free hand.
“Wesley,” Ashwood said.
Fatherly. Perhaps pleading.
“You’re my son.”
The wind whistled in Wesley’s ears as he aimed the gun.
The clock tower that headed the Crook chimed.
Midnight.
“Yeah,” Wesley said. “I know.”
He fired the shot, straight through Ashwood’s newly human heart.
His father fell to the ground.
Ashwood’s eyes were wide, his hands still, his lips bloody and quivering.
His darkness, finally, fading from the world.
42
TAVIA
He was gone.
Dante Ashwood slumped on the ground, bullet through the heart Tavia was sure he didn’t have. He didn’t move or get back up in some death-defying display of magic. He just lay there, with his eyes as wide as could be, staring straight at Wesley.
Finally, it was over.
“Holy shit,” Tavia said.
Wesley put his gun back in the holster. “Eloquent as ever.”
“I know you guys had a complicated relationship and I should probably say something comforting or poignant,” Tavia said. “But holy shit.”
She couldn’t help but smile, which was probably inappropriate with someone who may have been Wesley’s father lying dead by their feet. Still, she smiled, because they had just saved the world and she was owed the feeling of happiness that rose in her chest.
They had avenged her mother and everyone else who had died from the magic sickness and who had lost themselves and their loved ones because of the Loj. They had stopped a war. They had kept their city from ruin.
You see, ciolo. I told you that it would all be okay.
Her mother’s voice blew through her mind like the wind and for once Tavia didn’t want to cry or shut it out. She wanted to savor it and she wanted to laugh.
I know, she told her mother. And I wish you were here to see it.
Tavia squeezed Wesley’s hand.
He turned to look at her, deep brown eyes and a half smile that she felt in her bones. He was still wearing those damn cuff links and though the bow tie was gone—strange, considering this was definitely an odd day—his shirt was buttoned to the collar in true Wesley style. Almost pristine, if not for the blood splatters, which she kindly chose to ignore.
Wesley reached out and placed his hand on Tavia’s cheek, like he still couldn’t quite believe she was standing in front of him, rather than bleeding out on the floor.
“Don’t ever scare me like that again,” he said.
“I was just keeping you on your toes,” Tavia teased. “And in my defense, it wasn’t my plan. You have your sister to thank for—”
“Never again,” he said.
When he kissed her, it was soft and delicate, like he was afraid she might break, or that this living Tavia was the illusion and if he kissed her too hard then she’d fade away. So Tavia brought her hands around his neck and pressed him harder against her, letting him know that he didn’t need to be careful with her.
She was real.
She was here.
And she wasn’t going anywhere.
She felt Wesley smile under her lips and the world went newly quiet. He had the power to make her heart slow, like he was pulling all the bad from the world and all the worry from her body.
And then somebody cleared their throat and they quickly broke apart.
Tavia turned to face her friends, her cheeks warm.
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She’d almost forgotten they were there and that she and Wesley weren’t the only two people in the world.
Saxony was tending to Zekia, pulling her sister to her feet and trying to avoid eye contact with Tavia, but Karam didn’t have that problem as she collected her fallen knives from the ground and stared at Tavia with her patented glare.
They all looked like they’d rather not have seen Tavia and Wesley kissing.
“So we’re alive,” Tavia said to them, in case they didn’t already know.
“Yeah,” Saxony said. “And some of us are enjoying it a little too much.”
Though she was smiling, and Tavia hadn’t thought about how much she missed Saxony smiling at her until then.
“Want to celebrate with me?” she asked.
“I’ve seen the way you celebrate,” Saxony said. “I’ll pass.”
But Tavia was already running toward her and she practically tackled Saxony into a hug. Her old friend arched her neck to raise her eyebrows at how Tavia was clinging to her like some kind of weird animal.
“Many Gods,” Saxony said. “Let me breathe, will you?”
Tavia loosened her grip, just enough for Saxony to take a breath, and then she squeezed her back into a tight hug once more.
“Okay, you win,” Saxony said, laughing. “I surrender.”
Tavia broke away, grinning, and Saxony ruffled her hair. Tavia turned to Karam and her warrior friend took two steps back.
“If you hug me, I will stab you,” she said.
Tavia weighed this up in her mind for a moment, but decided it was worth it. She swung her arms around Karam and though she heard her friend let out a long groan, her hands still wrapped around Tavia’s back and squeezed. Just once, brief and strong.
“You’re the world’s worst hugger,” Tavia whispered in her ear.
Karam pushed her away with a frown. “Now I stab you. That was the deal.”
“We should check on the army,” Wesley said. “See if Arjun and Schulze are still alive.”
“You care about Arjun?” Karam asked.
“No,” Wesley said, all too quickly. “I just want to make sure he protected the Doyen. I need Schulze alive for our deal on new magic rules going forward.”
“Can we also get me a healer?” Zekia asked. Then, her voice a little smaller as they all turned to look at her: “If anyone still wants me healed. My magic did most of it, but I feel a little odd. I could try myself if nobody wants to.”
Tavia felt a pang of sympathy for her would-be murderer.
Zekia was the youngest of them and she had sacrificed the most in a lot of ways, and now she looked as though she didn’t know if she had anything left.
With Ashwood gone, she seemed unsure whether the family she still had would take her back.
Wesley sighed and limped over to Zekia so that he could place a hand on her head. The trick dust Tavia had sprinkled on his leg was good at easing the pain temporarily and even stopping the bleeding, but it hadn’t healed him.
Just like his sister, Wesley would need true magic for that.
“You’re kind of an idiot, kid,” Wesley said to Zekia.
Tavia knew that was Wesley’s way of saying that he cared and there was no way he was going to accept anyone not jumping at the chance to help his sister.
Saxony took Zekia’s hand in hers. “Come on, little sister,” she said. “Let’s go home.”
Heading down from the bridge and onto the shores that separated Creije from the rest of the Uskhanyan cities, Tavia wasn’t sure what to expect.
But it sure wasn’t Arjun and Doyen Fenna Schulz, followed by dozens of their soldiers, climbing out of a small train, similar to the one the Kingpin had slithered out of.
“Aren’t you all supposed to be in Yejlath?” Wesley asked.
The Doyen’s back straightened. “Yes, well. We defeated Ashwood’s people there. With the help of your Crafters and buskers we … Well, it was a fair fight,” she said, as though she hated to admit it. “We came back with a few of our people to see what had become of Ashwood and if you had been able to uphold your end of the bargain.”
“Consider it upheld,” Wesley said.
“Great, now you will brag about it until the end of days,” Arjun said.
Tavia couldn’t hold back her smile at the sound of his stubborn voice.
“It’s good that you’re not dead,” she told him.
Arjun scoffed, in that haughty and unsmiling way that only he could make endearing. “Grankans do not give up easily,” he said. “We are warriors. We are champions and we—”
“You bored them all to death, didn’t you?” Wesley asked. “Be straight with us. That’s how you won, isn’t it?”
“Don’t be so mean,” Tavia said. “I’m sure that he bored some of them into surrender. Give the guy credit where credit’s due.”
Arjun’s eyes narrowed. “I cannot wait to go back to Wrenyal and never have to deal with you two again.”
Tavia touched a hand to her chest. “You’re saying you won’t miss us? After all the training sessions and late-night bonding?”
“Late night,” Wesley repeated, his eyebrows raised. “How late exactly?”
Tavia wrinkled her nose, just as Karam stepped forward and held out her hand for her childhood friend.
Arjun sheathed his sword and threaded his fingers through hers.
“Are you okay?” he asked her.
She nodded. “Asees is avenged,” she said. “We have gotten justice for them all.”
Everyone in Arjun’s Kin who had been killed or manipulated by the Kingpin.
Everyone in the realms who had died so Ashwood could have more power.
They couldn’t undo it, but maybe they could make the pain a little easier to swallow.
“She would be proud,” Arjun said.
He gripped his hands tighter around Karam’s and then pulled her into a hug. Tavia couldn’t help but notice that Karam was hugging Arjun far more nicely than she’d hugged her. She saw Karam’s back lift in a sigh of relief as she clung to her friend and let go of all the worry about possibly having lost anyone else.
They were all safe.
“So now what?” Tavia asked.
“We discuss what happens next,” Wesley said, looking at the Doyen.
He was already adjusting his suit sleeves and was attempting to make himself look more imposing than his disheveled presence allowed. He took in a breath, like he was preparing himself to either throw a punch or take one.
“Our deal is still on, I assume?”
“There is a lot to discuss,” Schulze said.
Tavia shoved her hands into her pockets.
She knew that meant they would have to go to Yejlath, and she hated Yejlath. It was so uppity and the last thing she wanted after fighting a war was to go to the Halls of Government and talk politics with a Doyen. She wanted a damn bath and a good meal and an undisturbed night’s sleep.
It was the least they were all owed.
But she knew that Ashwood still had Crafters and buskers spread across the realms and it was their job to come to an agreement on next steps. Those who were enthralled by the Loj would now be free to get their minds back, and those who followed him willingly would now be aimless without a true leader.
They would surrender to the army Tavia and the others had built.
They would surrender to the armies that the other Realm Doyens would undoubtedly bring into Uskhanya to help ferry peace.
And if they didn’t, Tavia and her friends would be right there, waiting.
43
SAXONY
The city of Yejlath felt like a ghost city, despite the fact that it was crawling with soldiers. Ashwood had only taken a small part of his army to Creije and the rest had been here, in the government city, where Schulze’s people had bested them.
The people not dead were already imprisoned and Schulze’s soldiers patrolled the cobbled streets for any enemies they had missed, but even with the spar
se groups of everyday people meandering across the roads, Saxony couldn’t help but think Yejlath looked rather sad.
The Halls of Government were well guarded, and earlier, when Saxony, Tavia, and Karam had walked toward the collection of grandiose buildings, Saxony noticed how pristine they still looked, even after the bloody battle that had taken place on their steps just days before.
They were painted an even cream, arching in high bulbous statues, with grand gold doors and cobblestoned pathways. But with no people and no echo of the music that usually flowed from the windows—remnants of the enchanted government orchestra instruments that played endless symphonies from dusk until dawn—they had a dead quality to them that made Saxony’s jaw go tight.
Ashwood had sucked the spirit from this realm and it would take time to call it back.
Saxony shuffled among the crowd.
Karam, Tavia, and Zekia were lined up alongside her, as rows of the realm communicators—who usually spread gossip faster than news—waited among the public in anticipation for the talk to begin.
It would be the first time the Doyen had made an official appearance and an official announcement since the war had ended, and Saxony was eager to hear exactly what it was she had to say after days spent in discussion with Wesley.
Schulze hadn’t let the rest of them be a part of the talks. It was a sacred and serious discussion, she’d said, between her and the underboss, who could represent the buskers and the Crafters.
After all, Wesley belonged to both.
“I wish they’d hurry up,” Tavia said. “I need to pee.”
“Then pee here,” Karam said. “It is not like anyone expects buskers to have manners.”
“Is that why you brought knives?” Tavia asked. “Because you’re so well mannered?”
“They argue a lot, huh?” Zekia asked.
She was standing on her tiptoes so that she could whisper in Saxony’s ear.
“You don’t know the half of it,” Saxony said.
She smiled at her sister, and when Zekia laughed, a peace fell into Saxony’s heart.
She couldn’t believe her little sister was laughing at her side again.
The crowd rumbled, murmurs growing as Fenna Schulze finally walked out onto the stage, followed by over a dozen armed guards and Wesley Thornton Walcott. He stood next to the podium as Schulze cleared her throat and readied to address the realm.
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