She may have spent the last week in a forest, but she wasn’t rusty enough to let her guard down.
“A Plan B,” Nolan repeated. “To shooting me?”
“A girl has to have her options,” she said.
She squeezed the charm in her fingers, letting the magic wash over her with a familiar warmth. At first, it felt like it was pulling at her insides, tugging the skin from her bones and the nails from her fingertips. Her hands shook, her joints locked, and Tavia’s eyes flickered until all she could see was pure, blinding white.
When the realms finally shifted back into color, Tavia was not alone.
In fact, she was surrounded by six more versions of herself.
All the Tavias stood with their black hair carving across their chins, gray eyes daring as they pulled knives from their pockets and guns from their belts and ran fingers over brightly polished knuckle dusters.
They circled Nolan with that same slow smile.
Tavia could feel them each at the corners of her mind, taking a small piece of her for themselves. She didn’t need to think about what she wanted them to do because they were already inside her mind, predicting her actions and readying to do what she needed.
Duplicate charms were a real party and just the latest in a line of new magic the Crafters in their camp had created.
Tavia could get used to the power amp.
“Guess you’re outnumbered now,” Tavia said. “And maybe I couldn’t take you alone in a fight, but I bet the seven of us could kick the crap out of you no problem.”
Nolan’s eyes were wide, his voice breathy with disbelief. “What in the name of the Many Gods is this?”
“Magic,” Tavia said.
And with enough force to make even Karam crack a smile, she hit Nolan square across the jaw.
He went down in an instant, his backpack dropping onto the ground beside him.
“You’re going to pay for that,” he said, clutching his jaw. “My underboss taught me how to—”
“Let me tell you about my underboss,” Tavia said.
She knelt down beside him and her many selves smiled onward in encouragement.
“His name was Wesley Thornton Walcott, and do you want to know what he taught me?”
Nolan flinched.
It was enough of an answer. Wesley’s name was legend in the realm and synonymous with awful things Tavia preferred not to think about.
She snatched Nolan’s backpack from the ground and stood.
“This is the part where I thank you for your donation to our war effort,” Tavia said, tapping the backpack just like Nolan had. “All the tricks and charms of Rishiya. All the magic I could ever hope for. What a steal.”
“Laugh all you want for now,” Nolan said. “But when the Kingpin tears apart your city and burns everyone in it, I’ll be there. I’ll be by his side with the loyal buskers, and not even your big bad underboss will be able to stop the fire-gates from raining down on you and everyone you love.”
Tavia swallowed.
She didn’t want his words to hit close to home, but they did.
Dante Ashwood was already attacking districts within Creije and ripping apart everything about the city that Tavia had fallen in love with.
It was her home.
Wesley’s home.
And right now she was powerless to save it.
Without her ruthless underboss to lead the buskers, Tavia was the only one left to fill the shoes of leadership among the crooks they had gathered, and yet she couldn’t even put a bullet in a guy like Nolan.
Wesley wouldn’t have hesitated. He wouldn’t have stopped to chat and trade blows.
“Save your breath,” Tavia said, trying to paint on her old smile. “You’re going to need it for the long walk back to your underboss. I doubt he’ll be happy that you got boosted on your own territory. Looks like you’re in for a heap of trouble from dear old Casim.”
She hitched the backpack onto her shoulder and turned from Nolan, her many selves following the action in a perfect reflection.
Only, there were now a dozen Rishiyat buskers standing in front of her, armed to the teeth with magic and guns. And not a one of them looked happy to see her.
“You need a hand, Nolan?” one of them asked.
From behind Tavia, the busker’s laugh echoed.
“Now who’s outnumbered?” Nolan said.
And then his friends charged at her.
For a moment Tavia had almost forgotten that she wasn’t alone, before the six other versions of herself jumped in the way. They met Nolan’s friends with fists and knives, taking on two or three each and creating a blockade between the buskers and Tavia.
Her many selves may not have had magic of their own, but they could pull a better punch than she could.
Tavia smiled onward at them, feeling an odd sense of pride, but she had only a few seconds to live in that moment before she felt herself being pulled violently back.
Nolan was yanking at her hair, keeping Tavia pressed against him. She wriggled against his grip, but the bastard was strong and the more she struggled, the more he pulled. The more his chest seemed to bounce with laughter.
“You’re not so cocky now, are you?” he whispered in her ear.
His breath was warm and damp, and Tavia flinched away.
Nolan pushed his knife to her throat, pressing it with enough force that Tavia felt the blade draw a small line of blood across her neck. It dripped down to her chest.
At that, her duplicate selves paused slightly, twitched, as though the blade had touched them, too.
Tavia cursed.
She needed focus for them to work properly. She needed to not be distracted by a blade at her damn throat.
“Any last words?” Nolan asked.
“Yeah,” Tavia said. The blade nicked her again as she spoke. “Never get this close to an enemy.”
She threw her head back, skull cracking into Nolan’s lip. His teeth dug into her and she felt the moment his blood sprayed outward onto the back of her neck.
Nolan screamed and fell to the ground, and Tavia didn’t hesitate before she grabbed the backpack from where it had fallen beside him.
“You stupid little b—”
Tavia didn’t wait to hear the end of that sentence.
She ran, faster than she’d ever run before.
She could still hear her six duplicate selves struggling to fight off the attackers, their grunts growing fainter with each step she took.
Djnfj.
It was not the best situation she had ever put herself in.
Especially since duplicate charms didn’t last long and once the Rishiyat buskers had destroyed her magic selves, they were going to haul ass to catch up with her and tear her a new one.
Tavia almost regretted going at this alone. Karam had warned her that leaving camp unsupervised would be dangerous. Bringing a busker or two along for the ride would’ve been the smart play, but Tavia had to show them that she could get things sorted alone. That they could rely on her to do whatever needed to be done. She couldn’t lead people if she was always relying on them to help her.
Anyway, there were worse things than being killed, and one of them was knowing that Karam was right.
Tavia rounded a corner, breathless.
She wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep running, and she really didn’t want to resort to using her newly stolen magic to escape.
She needed it.
Their army needed it.
Not just the time charms, but the rest, too. Every new busker they recruited needed new magic to protect themselves against Ashwood’s army of Crafters and Loj-infected civilians, and there was only so much magic that their own Crafters could generate. Apparently, spinning new spells into charms took more time than she had originally thought.
What Tavia needed now was a hiding place.
She turned another corner and the sound of music echoed over.
In the curve of the street, caught between an a
lley and a tree that reached for the night sky, was just the thing she needed.
The Last Hope.
When she’d scouted the bar as a place to lie low in case anything went wrong, she hadn’t actually expected—or wanted—to use it. Rishiya didn’t have much in terms of a nightlife, especially to someone who’d grown up on the streets of Creije, and this place was famous for boring booze and big bouncers.
It also, apparently, didn’t take kindly to buskers. Which made it pretty perfect for wanting to escape Nolan and his band of bastards.
Tavia ran past the small queue and straight to the man guarding the door, who she’d already slipped a whole load of coin earlier that day. She flashed him her best smile and with a quick nod, he moved to push her through, something Karam—who took her job as a guard pretty seriously—would have frowned upon.
With one last cursory look to check she wasn’t being followed, Tavia headed quickly inside.
She slowly edged past the flurry of people discussing politics with their liquor glasses poised by their lips, and found a quiet booth in the corner where she could keep her eyes on the doors in case Nolan and his friends made an appearance.
“Can I get you something?” a waiter asked, offering Tavia a menu.
She shook her head.
“We have the best drinks in town,” he said. “Anything you want.”
Cloverye, Tavia thought. Just leave the bottle.
But “I’m fine” was what she actually said. “Really. Tek.”
The waiter nodded and walked away, though he left the menu, and if Tavia hadn’t been waiting out a horde of buskers, she would have called him back for that bottle of Cloverye and a straw.
As she looked around at the bar, she thought about how the Last Hope really was aptly named, because Tavia couldn’t imagine anyone who enjoyed fun making it a frequent choice. The music was low and far too smooth, forgetting to toe that gentle line between being quiet enough for people to order drinks but upbeat enough to let any worries fade away. It didn’t have the same violent charm as the Crook.
“Fancy meeting you here.”
Tavia closed her eyes in a sigh.
“Small world,” she said, turning on the stool. “One might say it was suffocating.”
Nolan did not look impressed, and Tavia suspected that it wasn’t just because of his new black eye, or the blood on his mouth, or the various scrapes her duplicate selves had been good enough to give him.
Behind him, ten of his busker friends glared in perfect unison.
At the very least, she was happy that the other Tavias had managed to take down two of his crew, but eleven against one was still crappy odds, and she kicked herself for spending so long watching the front entrance to the Last Hope and turning her attention from the back.
Rookie mistake.
Something Wesley would have never let happen.
Except, try as hard as she could, Tavia wasn’t Wesley. She was fast, but not fast enough. She could scout an escape and throw magic at her enemies, but she couldn’t have eyes in the back of her head like he always seemed to.
She was good, but still not good enough.
“Just tell me that you weren’t able to follow me,” Tavia said. “I might be having some bad luck, but I swear you weren’t on my tail. Save me some pride here.”
“There’s a tracking charm in the backpack,” Nolan said. “Might have been good for you to check your stolen merchandise.”
Tavia cursed, loud enough for him to raise an eyebrow. She’d have to remember to take that out after she kicked his ass. Tavia couldn’t risk Nolan following her back to the forest.
“You have something of mine,” Nolan said.
“And you have something of mine.” Tavia gestured to his black eye. “Though you can keep that. How about I keep the backpack too and we’ll call it even?”
“You’re hilarious,” Nolan deadpanned.
“Thanks,” she said. “Most people don’t appreciate how hard humor can be in the face of death.”
“At least you know that you’re going to die.” Nolan took a menacing step toward her. “I hope you’re prepared for how slow I’m going to make it. Maybe I’ll even bring your head to my underboss. I’m sure Casim would appreciate one of Wesley’s little goons as a trophy.”
“Wow.” Tavia grimaced. “That’s really graphic. I think you offended my friend’s delicate sensibilities.”
She gestured with a nod behind him and when Nolan finally turned, he came face-to-face with Karam: Creije’s most deadly fighter and the woman who was currently teaching Tavia how to kill someone in a dozen different ways.
Karam stepped forward, her skillfully embroidered clothes cascading down to her ankles in a way that was almost delicate, and so very much the opposite of Karam. Even from where Tavia stood, she could smell the peppermint salve on her friend’s sliced knuckles, something the fighters in Creije loved to use to soothe their injuries and that Karam wore every day, just in case.
“I thought we agreed that you were going to stop being stupid,” Karam said, Wrenyi accent thick on her tongue.
“I didn’t agree to anything,” Tavia said. “Did you follow me here?”
Karam crossed her arms over her chest. “Are you complaining about me saving you?”
“I don’t need saving.” Tavia leaned back in the booth. “I’m a busker, not a damsel.”
Nolan looked between them with a disbelieving scoff. “Are you two finished?” he asked. “Because we were about to kill her.”
For the first time, Karam looked at him, as if she had only just realized—or cared—that he was there.
“We have not been introduced,” she said.
“No,” Nolan said. “We haven’t.”
Karam held out a hand. “Hello,” she said.
And then she used that hand to grab ahold of Nolan’s shoulder and pull him toward her.
Without warning, Karam cracked her head against his.
The buskers broke into a frenzy as Nolan stumbled back, clutching his bloody nose. Quickly, Karam landed a kick to one of the others.
Tavia jumped up from the booth just as Nolan regained his footing, smashing a glass from a nearby table over his head. She shifted the backpack on her shoulder and landed a kick to another busker’s knee.
He went down with a yelp.
“This is why I had to follow you,” Karam said.
She kicked a busker in the chest and as he bent over to catch his breath, she rolled across his back and punched another clean in the face.
“You are so reckless.”
Tavia sighed at the lecture, which was becoming Karam’s specialty these days.
“If you were so worried about my safety, then you could have helped me take Nolan down back in the streets before his buddies showed up,” Tavia said.
She swung her fist into the air, catching the cheek of a nearby busker, just the way Karam had taught her.
Karam took out her knife and threw it into the shoulder of another. “I thought you did not need saving,” she said.
Tavia rolled her eyes and kneed one of Nolan’s friends in the groin.
“Forget making it slow!” Nolan yelled, pulling out a knife. “I’m going to gut you where you stand.”
Tavia shook her head. “He really does like being graphic,” she said to Karam.
She reached into her pocket for a pair of mirrored glasses and slipped them onto her nose, like she had seen Wesley do a dozen times.
“Here,” she said to Karam. “Put these on.”
Karam wrinkled her face and looked at Tavia like she was starting to lose her mind, but when she saw Tavia’s hands go to her pocket for a second time, it seemed Karam knew better than to argue.
“What in the Many Gods are those for?” Nolan asked, wiping the blood from his nose.
Tavia clutched the charm in her hand, its jagged edge spiking into her palm like tiny needles.
“A way to show that if there’s one thing I have,” she said, “
it’s style.”
She threw the charm down onto the floor and it exploded into a blinding light. Nolan and the others clutched at their eyes, screaming loud enough to drown out the bar’s music altogether.
“Come on!” Tavia yelled. “We need to go!”
She pulled Karam toward the door, where the customers were now blindly running and screaming as their vision temporarily disappeared.
They spilled back out onto the streets of Rishiya and Karam ripped the glasses from her face.
“Have you considered trying not to get yourself killed every now and again?” she asked as they darted through the city.
“Not really,” Tavia said, struggling to keep up with her pace. “I think I’d find it boring.”
She didn’t need to look at Karam to know that she was rolling her eyes, but Tavia felt invigorated. She had the magic she’d come for, so all in all the trip to the city had been a roaring success. And with the warm breeze on her neck and fire of victory in her belly, Tavia felt like maybe all hope wasn’t quite lost.
Karam could call her reckless and the Crafters in the camp could call her a danger, but Tavia had a job to do. She had buskers to lead, and she was going to win this war and save Wesley, whether people approved of her methods or not.
2
ZEKIA
Zekia had a gun.
She’d never had one before and she wasn’t even sure if she’d use it. She didn’t like how large it looked in her small hands, or how heavy it felt for something that held only six bullets. Six lives that could be ruined. Zekia’s hands were far smaller and could ruin far more than that.
Still, she had a gun.
It was best to have a gun when Wesley Thornton Walcott was conscious. Zekia had learned that the hard way.
The former underboss of Creije was handcuffed beside her, at the head of their army, eyes like charcoal as he stared into the bloody wreck of the district. The handcuffs were as unnecessary as Zekia’s gun, because everyone—even the people they were about to kill, who should have been too busy to notice—knew that Wesley could slip them in a moment.
City of Spells Page 2