Now both were gone.
Now everything seemed wrong.
“Keep acting like this and you will push everyone away,” Karam continued.
“There are more important things than Saxony’s feelings or my popularity,” Tavia said. “If we don’t stop Ashwood from destroying Creije, he’ll trample the other eight cities too, and then spread the Loj elixir across Uskhanya. And after our realm is gone, he won’t stop there. Maybe he’ll go for your realm next.”
“So you team up with any crook you can?”
“Casim isn’t just a crook, Karam, he’s an underboss. Buskers across the city will listen to him and he could even convince the other underbosses to give us buskers from their cities. Then we’ll have the numbers to really give Ashwood a run for his money.”
“And you can save Wesley,” Karam said.
Tavia didn’t deny it.
What was so wrong with wanting to save her oldest friend and the only home either of them had ever known? It didn’t make her a bad person, just because every motive she had wasn’t selfless.
“I understand that you want him back,” Karam said. “But the way that you are doing things is—”
“Saving Wesley saves the city. It’s as simple as that. And if you and Saxony have a problem, then maybe you’re the ones doing things wrong.”
Truth be told, Tavia was tired of justifying every action she took, or making excuses so it seemed like she wasn’t overstepping boundaries everyone else had created around her.
She was a busker.
She was the best busker that the capital city of Uskhanya had and maybe Saxony’s people were too scared or too unwilling to get their hands dirty, but Tavia wasn’t. Her people weren’t. They were going to do whatever it took to get the job done, even if it meant aligning with monsters.
5
Wesley
WESLEY THORNTON WALCOTT DIDN’T CRY.
In the list of terrible things he’d done in his life—and Wesley liked to keep track of things like that—he was sure crying had never been one. He knew that memories were fickle, of course, but he trusted his mind to keep hold of important stuff like that.
Those were the things that needed to be remembered if he was going to hold a grudge properly, and if there was one thing Wesley Thornton Walcott did well, it was hold a grudge.
Wesley didn’t cry in the face of death.
He didn’t cry because he had only half a family—the half that gave him a house but not a home, that protected him but did not love him, that stared at him like he was something so very other in a realm of strange magic and monsters.
He didn’t cry when he crossed lines and burned bridges.
He didn’t cry when he threw away friendship for leadership.
And he didn’t cry when Zekia clawed through his mind, or when her shadow demon clawed through his body. They could try to break Wesley into a thousand pieces, but he wouldn’t give them that. He’d fought his way up from the streets of Creije and there was no way he was going to go down without a fight.
“Fighting is hard,” Tavia said. “Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is just give in.”
She sat beside Wesley in the cell, her grin sly as ever, while the low glow of night filtered from the cracked window, reflecting the sky in the pool of Wesley’s blood.
“Don’t you ever just want to give up?” she asked.
She shuffled closer to Wesley and squeezed his hand.
“It’s okay if you do.”
Wesley held on to the sound of her voice, like a cliff’s edge, even though he knew it wasn’t really her voice at all.
He’d learned that by now.
He knew better.
He turned to Tavia and pushed a flick of black hair from her eyes in a way he had never dared to before. It was damp with sweat and clinging to her cheeks like seaweed, making her look young and restless.
“Get the hell out of my mind, kid,” he said.
And then he pushed Tavia’s head back so hard that it cracked against the surface of the cell wall. There wasn’t blood this time, but Wesley winced like there had been.
He heard a sigh and then Tavia’s newly limp body disappeared into smoke, and from across the room Zekia stepped out of the shadows.
“You’re getting quicker,” she said.”The first time it took you ages to figure it out.”
“Maybe you’re just getting sloppy.”
Though truth was, most of Zekia’s illusions had been perfect from the start, and if there was one thing she excelled at, it was making Wesley doubt every second of his life was real.
Still, she could never get Tavia right.
The first time she’d tried, Wesley was too out of it to see the small discrepancies, but it was the easiest thing to spot now. A conjured Tavia made Wesley feel cold and uncertain. She was always missing the bite to her words and the tilted smile that could never quite be replicated. She was missing the glint in her eye that told Wesley he was awful and she would forgive him for it anyway.
Zekia could try all she wanted, but she’d be hard-pressed to create an illusion as damn irritating and wonderful as the real thing.
“Want to give it another whirl?” Wesley asked. “I think I’ve still got some sanity left in me today.”
Zekia let out a great huff of breath, like she was frustrated that Wesley had stolen her favorite toy. Beside her, a shadow demon growled, its eyes like pure darkness. It looked at Wesley in a way that said, Yes. Again. Let me taste the blood this time.
“No,” Zekia said. “Enough for today.”
Thank the Many Gods, Wesley thought, and then hoped she hadn’t heard.
Though it was impossible to be sure, and being unsure was something Wesley hated. Even more than the fact that he knew he looked like utter trash and had to turn away from any reflection he caught sight of. His suit was always stellar—one thing Zekia was good at in between the torture was keeping Wesley dressed very much like himself—but the sharp edges in his eyes that he’d carefully cultivated over the years looked more rounded and dull.
Maybe it was the lack of food.
Maybe it was the lack of sun.
Or maybe he just didn’t adjust well to being tortured.
Either way, Wesley didn’t plan on sticking around to get used to it.
The shadow demon bared its teeth, talons rising, and Wesley couldn’t help but grimace. Not because he was scared—he’d never show that so easily—but because he could smell the demon’s breath from across the room.
There was torture and then there was just plain nasty.
“Down, boy,” Zekia said, clicking her fingers in the air.
The shadow demon howled, the sound like the whistle of a boiling teapot, or an old steam train that couldn’t slow down. It cozied up to her side and Zekia smiled. She didn’t need to kneel down to stroke it, because Zekia was only fourteen and the shadow demon was nearly the size of a grown man. Perhaps twice that when it was on its hind legs.
It was weird to watch it obey her, like she was a leader and not just a kid who didn’t know she needed help.
“Do you know why a shadow demon can’t be killed?” Zekia asked.
Wesley was not in the mood for a quiz.
“It’s because they’re not born of blood and bone like us.”