Into The Crooked Place

by Alexandra Christo

  They were racing through the waters, but when Tavia pulled down the window and took in a long breath of salted air, she felt peace and calm, and she could almost imagine that they were meandering along with nothing to do and nowhere yet to go. Just a couple of almost weary travelers seeking to find where the world ended.

  Tavia didn’t know how much time faded after that. The bottle passed between them, Wesley savoring each sip and she wincing as it burned at her throat, and soon the realms grew hazy and Tavia felt her bones relax. All the tension seeped from her and into the air, carrying away with the wind that bellowed outside the train.

  Somewhere along the way, Tavia moved to sit beside Wesley, kicking her feet up on the chair opposite, and he had done the same, and now they were slouched parallel with their heads tilted back and the song of war too far in the distance to hear.

  “One more?” Wesley asked.

  He brought the bottle to Tavia’s glass, but the train hitched over a wave and the Cloverye splashed onto his shoes.

  “I forgot you could be a clumsy drunk,” Tavia said.

  Wesley scowled. “You forget that I’m your—”

  “Underboss,” Tavia said. “Yes, but you’re also an idiot. Congratulations on multitasking so brilliantly.”

  The fact that Wesley seemed to take this as a compliment made Tavia shake her head.

  “Give me that.” She snatched the bottle back from him. “You’re going to spill it again.”

  Wesley’s frown was like a scar across his brows. “You’re always saying something awful to me,” he said. He tilted his chin up. “I’m awful to everyone except you. In case you hadn’t noticed.”

  Tavia blinked.

  The completely indignant look on his face caught her halfway between a laugh and the need to smack him.

  “You don’t get a gold star for treating people with basic respect, Wesley. That’s how you’re supposed to act.”

  Wesley gave her a childish sneer. “Because you’re so pleasant to everyone.”

  Tavia snorted. “Should we delay the war so you can mourn properly for your ego?”

  He straightened. “I can assure you, my ego is perfectly intact.”

  “Infallible,” Tavia said with grunt. “Ever since we were kids. Do you remember that time when you first got to head the magic markets? You were the youngest busker ever to get a spot and that kid, Many Gods, what was his name?” She shook her head, like it didn’t matter. “He was one of the older buskers and he came to your show and tried to pick holes at your performance in front of the crowd. You just shook it off like rainwater and carried on. Like he wasn’t even there. Like he wasn’t worth considering.”

  “I thought we were in Ejm Voten, not memory lane,” Wesley said.

  Tavia rolled her eyes and chose to ignore him. “You poisoned the kid’s rations so he was sick for two weeks.”

  “Actually,” Wesley said, “you poisoned his rations.”

  “He called you and all of your friends phonies with trash magic,” Tavia said. “I was your friend. That bastard brought me into it for no good reason. The least he deserved was a stomach bug.”

  Wesley touched a hand to his chest. “That’s so sweet,” he said.

  Tavia took another sip of Cloverye.

  “Do you think the Kingpin saw this coming?” she asked, looking out the train window with a sigh. “You of all people turning against him.”

  Wesley shook his head, which would have looked fiercely adamant if it hadn’t thrown him a little off balance. Instead, he just looked endearing. Delicate, even, which was not a Wesley thing to be, and very much his age, which was also not a Wesley thing to be.

  “It’s awful, isn’t it?” Wesley said. “He trusts me. The worst man in the realms, not even a man at all, really, and he’s the closest thing I’ve ever had to family.”

  Sometimes you get to choose, Tavia thought.

  “Will it be hard?” she asked. “When the time comes.”

  “To officially betray the man who gave me everything?”

  Wesley made a sound that was not quite a laugh and not quite a sigh.

  “No,” he said.

  He took another drink and Tavia didn’t know whether this was to hide the lie, or drown in the bitter truth of it.

  “The funny thing is that he won’t see it as a betrayal. He’ll be proud of me,” Wesley said. “For coming so far.”

  “What about the girl?”

  The Crafter child from his regret.

  Tavia still couldn’t fathom how so much time had passed without her knowing. Not that Wesley had befriended a Crafter, not that she could get inside his mind, and definitely not that her ghost still lingered there.

  Tavia had been thinking about it nonstop and a thousand different questions whirled through her, but she was barely sure Wesley would answer one, and so she chose the most important, just in case.

  “Do you hear her now?”

  Wesley touched a hand to his wrist and, at first, Tavia thought he was going for his scars, absentmindedly pressing a hand to old injuries, hidden beyond the lines of his tattoos. Or searching, perhaps, for a piece of his skin not overtaken by Creije and the city lines. A small part of himself, untouched, unwritten.

  Then she saw the crease in his eyebrows that followed as soon as his fingers touched skin and Tavia quickly realized that he’d actually been going for his cuff links, seeking to adjust the small pieces of metal, make them perfect, smudge-free and straight. Give himself some comfort in the chaos.

  As it was, there was no comfort to find. Wesley’s blazer was folded neatly onto the back of a nearby chair and his shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbows, leaving his wrists bare and exposed. This was the haphazard Wesley, hair no longer clean-cut and his jawline rough with shadow, tattoos acting as a map of the city he had made whole, covering the length of his arms and back, reaching even for his throat until they nicked his jaw like a razor. His eyes were wild and deep brown, tie pulled gruffly loose. There was no order or comfort to find in this chaos.

  Wesley bit the edge of his lip as his frown deepened and Tavia nearly came undone right there, watching as he untethered from the underboss and became the boy she knew.

  “The dead can’t talk,” Wesley said. “She’s nothing but an echo making sure I remember my place.”

  “Your place?”

  “As the worst bastard in Creije.”

  His smirk was so hollow that Tavia took another gulp of Cloverye.

  “Not that I’m one to turn down a drink,” Wesley said, regaining himself somewhat. “But don’t you think a reverie charm would be better in this situation?” His voice was raw, smile lazy and off-kilter. “We could fall into the stars and escape the world for a night.”

  Tavia bit the corner of her lip.

  The last time they’d taken a charm together the curtain of friendship between them was featherlight, barely even there at all, ready to slip away and be replaced by something else if they dared. These days that curtain barely existed and so what was to stop them, with the feeling of infinity in their veins and the hopeless prospect of war on the horizon?

  I could kiss you instead, Wesley had said, regret still fresh in his eyes. Close enough that Tavia could smell the salt and peppermint on his skin.

  Wesley shuffled beside her now. His eyes were dewy with alcohol.

  Dangerous. It felt so dangerous.

  He moved closer and placed his hand on top of hers and Tavia’s heart stuttered.

  No matter how awful Wesley was, even when he was being the coldest bastard in Creije, he always felt warm.

  He always felt a little like home.

  After Wesley became underboss and left the busker dormitories, Tavia moved out as soon as she could, because all the fun and the memories they made seemed like cruel jokes after he’d left her behind. She wasn’t part of his plans for realm domination and though she didn’t want to be a career criminal like Wesley did, she hated that her friend didn’t want her by his side.
r />   The dormitories never felt like home after that.

  It was strange then, that here, on this train, with magic on her belt loop and Wesley smiling like time was just an illusion they had created, endless oceans between them and the rest of the realms, Tavia felt at peace.

  She felt at home.

  And she knew why. She knew then that home could be anywhere, because it wasn’t a place, but a feeling. It was made up of people, not bricks, and it was something you could create for yourself, just like family.

  Sometimes you get to choose, Wesley had said.

  He squeezed her hand.

  “Tavia.”

  Her name, but not her name. More like a plea than anything else.

  Tavia stood so abruptly that she nearly lost her balance.

  She ripped her hand from Wesley’s and the warmth evaporated from her fingers the moment their touch broke apart.

  Tavia tried not to be nostalgic for it.

  “I’m going to find Saxony,” she said.

  But she didn’t move and her voice was too delicate and why was she not moving?

  Wesley swallowed, and though he said nothing more, his eyes burned into her, screaming a thousand things.

  Stay, they said. Please stay.

  And that was the problem: Tavia wanted to.

  Not just here, in this moment, but in Creije. So much of her wanted to run and be free, but an equal part of her, or perhaps even a larger part, wanted to stay. With Wesley and Saxony and the magic they could make together.

  With every stilted breath Wesley took, Tavia’s resolve wavered until she could almost feel herself inching closer to him, picture his hands tangled in her and every horrible, awful thing turning beautiful.

  Tavia snatched the bottle from the space between them and damn near bolted for the door, ignoring the thump of her heart. She didn’t look back to see if Wesley had moved. Didn’t listen in case he tried to call for her.

  She couldn’t be the person he wanted her to be.

  Wesley would pull her close and keep her there if she let him, in Creije and the clutches of the Crook. In a world that reminded her so much of the awful truth of her muma’s death and of all the things she had done since.

  Wesley would give her the world, even though Tavia hadn’t earned it, and he’d give her power, even though she didn’t want it. And among it all was the scariest thought: the fear that she might like it, might just grow to ignore all the bad things and the good people they happened to.

  And so Tavia left Wesley and the wonderful, awful part of her that wanted so desperately to stay.

  IT WAS MIDNIGHT WHEN Saxony brought a bottle of Cloverye, three glasses, and Tavia to the front carriage where Karam was trying to sleep. Karam eyed the bottle warily, because it was most definitely Wesley’s, and Tavia even more so, because she took a glass and poured the first drink with far too much angst.

  A full hour soon passed and the seasickness Karam had still not gotten used to was replaced with another kind of nausea.

  Karam knocked her glass against Saxony’s and tipped her head back.

  The wind had quieted, and though Arjun was on hand every now and again to keep the seas in check, they were passing across the final stretch of Ejm Voten with little hassle. The phantoms had faded into the wind they were born from, and in a matter of days this whole thing would be over. One way or another.

  Karam wasn’t quite sure how she felt about dying.

  She faced the possibility each day she stepped into the Crook’s fighting ring, but this was different. Whatever happened, things were going to change, and either way they might not change in anyone’s favor. Karam at least hoped to get a few good punches in before that.

  “No more for you,” Saxony said, pulling the bottle out of Tavia’s hand.

  The busker made a grab for it, but Saxony looked down at her admonishingly.

  Tavia slumped against the headrest. “I don’t get it,” she said.

  “You’re about ready to keel over,” Saxony said. “You’re cut off.”

  “Not that,” Tavia said. “Your regrets.” Her head shot up and she pointed accusing fingers at Karam and Saxony. “You both got to see your families, but my muma was nowhere. All I got was that old bastard underboss.”

  Saxony brought her lips to the bottle. “I always thought the old underboss was a looker,” she said. Tavia gave her a blank stare and so Saxony poured a drop of Cloverye into her glass, like a reward. “Sorry. Shitty joke.”

  The two of them clinked their glasses together and Tavia had to tip her head so far back to get the tiny amount of liquid inside that she damn near toppled over.

  “Count yourself lucky,” Karam said, placing a steadying arm on the busker’s shoulder. “It was almost worse that I was able to see my pehta. It brought back every awful feeling.”

  She clutched her father’s pendant, grateful that he was with her on this journey, even just in spirit. Karam would show him a legacy to be proud of, where their people helped protect Crafters and bring true peace to the realms.

  “I’m sorry about your father,” Tavia said.

  “Do not be sorry. Be ready. When we get to the island, we will kill the Kingpin together.”

  Tavia held up her barren shot glass. “I’ll drink to that.” She knocked the empty glass against the bottle in Karam’s hand and turned to Saxony. “Tell me killing him in the consort’s mind was satisfying.”

  Saxony laughed. “Second time better be a charm.”

  Karam hoped so too.

  The Kingpin drawing a breath beyond this battle was not an option, not after what he had done in Granka. He wouldn’t be content to take revenge out on them if he survived. He’d go after their families, their cities, and their entire realm. There was no stopping a madman with an army and a cause.

  “Do you want to know a secret?” Saxony asked.

  “Only if it’s dirty,” Tavia said.

  Karam clipped her on the back of the head.

  “When this is all over and I get my sister back, I still won’t be happy.”

  “There’s just no pleasing some people,” Tavia said.

  Saxony nodded, like that was probably true. “I’ll have to leave Creije to help my sister ascend to Liege, and for everything I hate about that place, I cherish something too.”

  She looked at Karam and Tavia in turn.

  “Is this your way of saying you love us?” Tavia asked. “Because that’s really corny.”

  Saxony scrunched up her nose. “Shut up,” she said.

  They laughed as the wind howled a little stronger outside, and Saxony conjured a flame in the palm of her hand to keep them warm. They gathered around her like a campfire, the Cloverye burning their lips as they forgot their glasses and passed the bottle between them.

  Karam looked to Saxony, who she’d loved and lost and then loved again. She looked to Tavia, who she liked at least one out of every four times she saw her.

  She hoped neither of them died.

  Even if Karam had to do so in their place, she hoped they would make it out of this battle. For Saxony to return to Rishiya, and for Tavia to go wherever her heart took her, and for them both to be safe and free.

  If nothing else was changed by this war, Karam at least wanted that.

  “To killing our enemies first,” she said, in a toast.

  Tavia raised the bottle. “To the realms not ending.”

  Saxony grinned, wide and beautiful. She grinned in a way that made Karam feel weak in her knees and so strong in her heart.

  “To family,” Saxony said. “New and old. Blood and bond.”

  She took the bottle from Tavia and raised it above them all.

  And then the train lurched violently left and the bottle of Cloverye flew from Saxony’s hand and smashed on the floor.

  The sky darkened and drummed.

  The heavens opened in a downpour.

  Tavia looked to Saxony with panic in her eyes, just as Wesley and Arjun’s voices rushed into the carriage.
Wesley grabbed the radio and they began screaming at buskers and Crafters alike. Barking orders at their army. Telling them to turn and hold it off.

  The rain from an open window coated Karam’s eyelashes.

  Saxony’s hand threaded into hers. She heard Tavia take in a breath as loud as the wind, her eyes glued on something in the distance.

  “Many Gods,” Tavia said.

  A maelstrom opened like the mouth of the sea, spreading and spreading with no end. It turned the inky-green waters of Ejm Voten a dark, lifeless gray.

  The sea parted and Karam felt like she was seeing a path straight into the spiritlands.

  Lightning shot from the sky like arms. Nine bolts of it held in a perpetual strike, feeding the growing chasm that pulled their train inward like it was nothing more than a toy tied to string.

  “Reverse the train!” Arjun yelled.

  Karam heard the rush of the crew running and rallying. She heard the Crafters scream spells into the air. Saw Arjun lift his hands to halt the weather and then—

  “Stop,” Wesley said.

  His voice was level as he stared into the depths of the ocean.

  “We are going to die,” Arjun urged.

  “No,” Wesley said. “We’re not.”

  “Your ego can’t avert a natural disaster,” Tavia said. “We need to haul ass back the way we came.”

  “This isn’t natural. It’s part of the plan.”

  “The plan is for the Kingpin to die!” Arjun yelled above the downpour. “Not us.”

  “I just said we weren’t going to die.”

  “Pelg.” Arjun shook his head, disbelieving.

  Karam couldn’t help but agree. Wesley was acting like a madman.

  Arjun snatched the radio from him. “I want every Crafter to throw all the magic they have at that thing and for every busker to do whatever it takes to turn this train around.”

  Wesley looked like he was trying hard to restrain himself. “Any busker who so much as moves is going to be thrown overboard,” he said. “As for the Crafters, go ahead and try your magic. I guarantee it won’t do a thing.”

  “Wesley.” The rain soaked Tavia’s clothes, rolling down her cheeks like tears. “Tell me you have a plan.”