Into The Crooked Place

by Alexandra Christo

  Asees lay unconscious on the ground, the only Crafter left alive. She had Arjun and Karam to thank for that.

  The tips of Saxony’s fingernails were singed and jagged. Across the throne room Wesley was panting and favoring his left leg, but he was still very much alive, to Saxony’s disdain.

  She looked to Zekia and the blood that waterfalled from her sister’s hand.

  She looked so much like their mother. So much like her. And though they had always been different, Saxony had never felt it so much as she did now. Her sister, once the calm to Saxony’s storm, was a monster.

  She had aligned herself with the very man who destroyed their family.

  Saxony was glad her father wasn’t here to see it. He had already lost his son and his wife, and seeing Zekia this way would be like losing a daughter too. And Amja, after all she had gone through during the War of Ages, perhaps she would see Zekia as an enemy now, the way she did anyone who stood with Ashwood. Perhaps she would have attacked, the way she did in Granka.

  Saxony clenched her fists.

  She was going to kill Wesley for his role in this. He had no idea what—

  Saxony stopped.

  Wesley and Zekia weren’t trying to kill each other anymore.

  Why weren’t they trying to kill each other?

  She followed their gazes across the room, to Tavia. Hands around her throat, crouched on the floor as she tried to catch her breath. And the Kingpin in front of her, a blur of twilight.

  There was a knife where his heart should have been.

  Tavia had killed the Kingpin.

  The war was over and Saxony could take Zekia home, even by force, and everything would be—

  Ashwood laughed.

  He pulled the knife from his chest and it crumbled to embers.

  “Little busker,” he said. “I see you’re still as stupid as the day you were plucked from the streets.”

  Tavia spat at his feet. “You didn’t pluck me,” she said. “You stole me, you stole my mother, and I’ll find a way to steal you right back.”

  “I have become magic,” the Kingpin said. “No weapon in the realms can kill me.”

  It sounded like an omen for their defeat, but Saxony had spent enough time spying on careful men to decipher truth from lies. Perhaps no weapon in the realms could kill him, as fraught with power as the Kingpin had become, but magic wasn’t from the realms.

  It was a gift from the Many Gods.

  And Saxony had plenty of it to go around.

  “Let’s see you pull this from your chest,” she said.

  She summoned her flame into a spear. She’d pierce the same spot Tavia had. Only this time, the Kingpin would be ash.

  The chandeliers shook. Saxony lost her footing. Her flame died.

  Around them, the air thickened and thinned and then seemed to disappear entirely.

  Time ruptured.

  “The charges!” Tavia called out.

  Zekia rushed to the Kingpin’s side as his shadows began to splinter and Saxony caught a blink of his face before they swarmed once more. The magic was breaking through the darkness and threatening to expose the humanity buried underneath.

  “Tavia, move!” Wesley yelled.

  He threw out his hand and a beam of magic shot toward the Kingpin. Tavia lurched out of the way just as the beam struck Ashwood in the chest.

  He careened across the room.

  His shadows screamed.

  Zekia screamed.

  Wesley ran forward, but Zekia was in his path, magic pooling black around her fingertips.

  Without thinking, Saxony pushed out with all her might, sending a wave of fire toward her sister. She prayed to the Many Gods that it would at least distract her.

  The flames singed by Zekia’s feet and she turned to Saxony with a spiteful gleam in her eyes.

  Barely quick enough, Saxony raised her hands in a shield as Zekia charged, her energy rippling like bullets against Saxony’s protection.

  Behind her, the Kingpin sagged to the floor. Something like blood dripped from him. A black, viscous liquid that hissed like acid.

  His shadows flashed and ruptured. He let out a guttural moan.

  Time was unfolding inside of him.

  “Zekia,” he croaked.

  Zekia turned just as Wesley grabbed one of his knives and hurled it into the air. Straight for Ashwood’s weakened heart.

  Time slowed.

  The Kingpin reached out a bone-white hand and pulled at an invisible thread.

  From across the room, Tavia soared toward him, like that very string was wrapped tight around her waist. Pulling her like a rag doll straight into the Kingpin’s arms.

  Into the path of the knife.

  “Wesley!”

  The blade stopped inches from Tavia’s face.

  Wesley’s hands clenched to fists and the weapon stopped midair. He shook with anger and the very world began to quake alongside him.

  In all her years at the Crook, Saxony had never seen Wesley look like that. Irritated and perhaps a little psychotic, but never with such cold fury in his eyes.

  “Get your hands off her,” he said.

  The Kingpin’s grip on Tavia tightened. “Wesley,” he said, hands primed around Tavia’s throat like he might just snap her neck. “I am warning you.”

  “I think I’m warning you.”

  Ashwood growled. “I will not have this!”

  Wesley smirked. His shirt was torn across the chest and he was bleeding and bruised, but still he smirked.

  Above them, the sky grew to shadow.

  Saxony looked up—they all looked up—and watched as the moon dragged across the stars and took the sun from the realms.

  The shadow moon was like a light going out, only that light was what kept the monsters captive and now they were free.

  Saxony’s power swelled inside her and when she took in a breath, it was as though the air itself were made from fire and darkness.

  She felt wonderful.

  She felt awful.

  She felt like she could do anything she wanted and nobody could think to stop her.

  The moon slipped into place, and when a ring of fire from the sun surrounded it in a glowing halo, Saxony remembered that this was supposed to be a holy day of the Many Gods. But that light soon disappeared and then there was just dark.

  Just shadow.

  Just the underboss, with his eyes of night.

  Wesley looked back to the Kingpin and his smile glowed in the gray of the world.

  “You’re going to regret touching her,” he said.

  Wesley rallied his magic, conjuring reality into his hands, letting it build and break between his fingertips.

  Zekia let out a quiet laugh.

  “There you are,” she whispered.

  Wesley’s magic grew.

  In his hands, images of the past and the future and the now merged together. Realities that were and could have been. Lives not yet lived and worlds not yet made.

  They spread from Wesley’s fingertips and swarmed around him in a squall.

  When Saxony caught sight of his eyes, they were such a pure, unyielding black.

  “Tavia,” he said, his voice not entirely his own. “This is just another dead end.”

  Saxony didn’t know what that was supposed to mean, but Tavia’s eyes shone in recognition and her hand slipped into the charm pouch at her hip, so quick that Saxony nearly missed it.

  Tavia squeezed a charm in her fist, closed her eyes, and then fell straight through the Kingpin.

  Saxony blinked.

  Tavia was nothingness, just for a moment. Passing through Ashwood with the shine of a wind charm on her newly translucent skin.

  And then she ran.

  As soon as Tavia was clear, Wesley’s hands shot out.

  The fragments of reality charged toward the Kingpin.

  Ashwood thrust a hand out to create a barricade.

  Wesley’s visions crashed against it and the Kingpin slid across the f
loor, arms shaking as he struggled to hold the shield.

  “No!” Zekia yelled.

  She threw her magic toward Wesley in a powerful blast of energy, but it dissolved against his skin like water.

  Wesley didn’t even seem to notice.

  Her magic was like nothing to him.

  He snarled at the Kingpin and with each flinch of Wesley’s jaw the visions struck harder. They whispered and screamed and pounded to be let in. To shred through the Kingpin and his barrier.

  And then from Wesley’s skin, staves appeared.

  Saxony’s legs nearly gave way.

  The magical runes slid across Wesley’s tattoos in thick lines. Up his arms and along his chest, finding respite against his heart. Saxony could see the lines of silver through the tears in his shirt. There were so, so many, but just two that made her heart stop.

  One to see the possibilities of the world.

  One to see into the minds of its people.

  Intuitcrafter.

  But it couldn’t be.

  Saxony thought back to the spell Asees had performed on Wesley.

  Black. His blood was such a thick black.

  She had known something wasn’t right, but like an ignorant child she waved it off, thinking it was only a discrepancy between her Kin’s magic and theirs. But, Many Gods, even Asees looked confused.

  Fools. They were fools. Saxony remembered Amja’s stories and in each of them the blood of their allies turned a bright, vibrant green, like the color of the land the Many Gods had birthed.

  Green meant growth and harmony, the vibrancy of a potential destiny.

  But black blood …

  Wesley had uttered a spell at the consort’s headquarters, when the walls were threatening to close in and kill them all. That was why the magic had felt so powerful.

  Her breath caught in a shudder.

  The shadow moon stole the light from the realms, but not from Wesley. To him, it gave a gift: his magic was loose, finally. Awakened in its entirety.

  Wesley was a true Crafter and he didn’t even know it.

  Asees’s spell hadn’t given him a thing. It only brought what was already there to the surface, and now the shadow moon was feeding it. Feeding Wesley’s magic like the monster it was.

  Wesley clenched his fists tighter and his power grew.

  The Kingpin’s barrier punctured.

  “Stop!” Zekia yelled.

  She threw herself forward and Wesley’s assault of realities ceased.

  “Move, kid.”

  His voice was throaty.

  Zekia snarled. “I’m not a kid anymore.”

  She thrust out her arm and Wesley merely shifted to avoid her magic, barely a twitch.

  “Go,” Zekia urged the Kingpin.

  She turned to his throne, whispering a guttural slew of spells.

  Three more Crafters poured from it, summoned from smoke. One for each of them.

  The throne was a damn portal. A rip in reality to ferry the Kingpin from danger.

  Ashwood darted for the throne and Saxony screamed out in anger.

  She threw her magic toward him like flaming bullets, but the Crafters formed a blockade and her sister was at the forefront and Saxony’s fire died at their feet.

  The Kingpin jumped into the smoke.

  Tavia ran to Wesley and Saxony wondered if she had noticed how his eyes were still so void of color.

  They backed away from the Crafters and Wesley held out a hand for Tavia, creating a blockade of their own.

  Three against four, but Saxony’s sister was one of the four and the Kingpin was gone and everything they’d done meant nothing if Ashwood lived.

  Saxony found her sister only to lose her again and it was all Wesley’s fault. She looked at him, clutching onto Tavia’s hand like he knew what it meant to care about anyone other than himself.

  Bastard.

  He was just as bad as the Kingpins who traded in Crafters. He was the reason her sister had given herself to Ashwood. They knew each other. Wesley had snaked into Zekia’s mind and thrown her to his Kingpin like prized stock.

  Ashwood might have escaped, but the underboss wouldn’t.

  Saxony would make sure of it.

  There wasn’t a chance in the fire-gates that she would let two snakes slither from her reach tonight.

  Saxony would get her revenge—Zekia’s revenge—one way or another. And if she couldn’t have the Kingpin, then she’d settle for his lapdog.

  “I’m going to kill you,” she seethed.

  “That’s the spirit,” Wesley said.

  He stared at the Crafters, eyes narrowed like he was trying to think of a plan.

  “Not them,” Saxony said. “You.”

  Wesley dropped Tavia’s hand. He looked over his shoulder.

  Fire engulfed Saxony.

  Charcoal flame, as dark and vengeful as she had ever felt. It was too strong. Too hot. Too much power from the shadow moon and she couldn’t stop it even if she wanted to. She could smell it, her anger blackening the flames and scorching her skin, threatening to turn her into ash like the dead Crafters at her feet.

  Wesley’s face showed nothing. No emotion. No fear.

  Saxony wondered if he was even human, or if magic had taken over his soul like it had the Kingpin’s.

  Wesley Thornton Walcott was a monster.

  He had to be, because only death magic, the darkest of blood spells, could hide a Crafter’s powers, and to use that would curse a Kin for eternity. It was why nobody had tried after the War of Ages. Why they went into hiding and spent their lives as shadows, rather than kill to hide their power.

  But someone had killed to hide Wesley’s power.

  Killed to quell whatever evil lived inside him.

  And now it was awakened.

  Saxony had to stop Wesley before it was too late.

  WESLEY WASN’T WEAK.

  He didn’t feel drained or weary from using that much magic. He felt strong, revitalized. Like it had been building inside him for years and releasing it just barely quelled the thirst.

  It made him crave more.

  The shadow moon was like a giant power source and with every second it held the sun at bay, he was charged, endlessly, by darkness.

  Lava flowed from Saxony’s hands and pooled around her feet, making the floor bubble beneath her, and all the while, Wesley’s magic swarmed inside him, unafraid, begging to be let loose.

  “Are you crazy?” Tavia screamed.

  She made to step forward and talk some sense into Saxony, though Wesley could see they were beyond that.

  He grabbed Tavia’s arm, pulling her behind him.

  Farther from Saxony, but closer to the other Crafters in the room currently set on killing them.

  Wesley knew he had enemies left, right, and center, but this was bordering on ridiculous.

  His magic swelled, dark and so, so thirsty.

  It was like a switch had flipped inside him and he didn’t know how to turn it off.

  Not her, the magic said. Everyone but her.

  Wesley was used to having voices in his head, Zekia made sure of that, but hearing his own power was different. He felt it in his bones.

  Saxony practically growled. “There’ll be nothing left for them to take when I’m through.”

  “Don’t count your luck,” Wesley said.

  “Count your lives,” she countered. Even her voice was fire now, croaking and spitting. “I reckon you’re just about out.”

  She crouched low, ready to pounce, and Wesley squeezed his fists.

  He had killed enough people in front of Tavia, and he vowed for each one to be the last, but when would people stop trying to kill him?

  He could attempt decency, but it was never enough. The past wasn’t the past. It defined him and screwed him over every time.

  Tavia’s back pressed against Wesley’s as she faced off what remained of Ashwood’s Crafters. He thought about that moment back on the train when he’d almost kissed her.
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  He wished now he would have just done it.

  Saxony rose into the air like a phoenix, arms ablaze and ready to skewer through him. Wesley braced himself. Felt his magic brim beneath his skin and inside his heart, ready to explode the minute he took a breath. Ready to tear the world to pieces if he let it.

  Don’t let us, it said.

  And then Saxony flew in the other direction.

  Lurching across the room and cracking into the wall loud enough that Wesley nearly ran to her side, in what would have been piss-poor judgment.

  Saxony’s flames hissed, as though cold water had been thrown on them. Her skin reappeared and the only burning that remained was the floor she had melted to pools.

  Zekia strode forward, glaring down at her sister.

  She held a hand behind her, signaling to the other Crafters to stay back. Hold their ground, but not attack.

  “That was very, very stupid,” Zekia said. “You can’t hurt him.”

  She waved a finger and Saxony was dragged to her feet.

  “The plans you think you have for me, we have tenfold for him. You’d understand, if you knew.”

  Zekia gestured to Wesley and his jaw hardened.

  He had just about enough of other people’s plans for him. There were plenty of his own that he was far more set on, like taking Dante Ashwood’s throne and shoving it where the sun didn’t shine.

  And with this new power inside of him, Wesley didn’t think he’d ever be able to play lapdog again.

  “Let’s see if I can teach you a lesson about getting in my way,” Zekia said.

  She pressed a hand to her temple and the air rippled to Saxony in a tunnel, filled with images too quick for Wesley to make out. Memories or visions or hallucinations. Maybe a combination of the three. Magic so similar to the one he’d tried to use on the Kingpin.

  The visions collided into Saxony.

  Her nose ran with blood and it only took seconds for her screams to become whimpers.

  Whatever Zekia was doing, it was going to kill her sister.

  Don’t let her do it.

  Wesley knew it was stupid before he did it, and he knew for damn sure he’d think it was even more stupid afterward. But he wasn’t one for vendettas and he wasn’t one for losing, and whether he liked it or not, whether she liked it or not, Saxony was on Wesley’s side.

  Something in him couldn’t let her die.

  Something in him couldn’t let Zekia become a murderer.