ItCP07

## Chapter 7

**Chapter 7** of **Into the Crooked Place** is another one following **Tavia**.

## **Full Version**

TAVIA WIPED THE LIPSTICK onto her sleeve and stepped over Karam’s body, throwing open the curtain that hid the door to Wesley’s office. She pressed her palm to it and though the black glass hesitated a little, perhaps sensing her anger, eventually it slid slowly back.

The first thing Tavia saw was Wesley perched on the edge of his desk with a collection of papers scrunched in his palm and a frown deep in his brow.

And then blood.

There was a knife on Wesley’s desk and Tavia knew without a doubt that he had done something awful with it. He had that all-too-familiar look on his face, like it had been really inconvenient for him to have to stand up in order to stab someone. Or maybe it was going to be inconvenient for him to have to clean the blood off his carpet later.

Wesley adjusted the bow tie clutching his throat. He frowned at the new bruises that snaked down Tavia’s body, but when his eyes met hers, for the briefest of seconds, it was enough to let her know that he didn’t appreciate how she hadn’t knocked.

“I need your help,” Tavia said.

Wesley sighed, but it wasn’t at her. He was ignoring her completely now, and it was only when his focus shifted that Tavia noticed a second man in the room.

Falk.

Creije’s resident expert on magical weaponry and a thorn in every busker’s side. It was hard to know who to trust in Creije, but easier to know who not to, and Falk was a damn dirty snitch. The eyes and ears for the underboss and anyone else who would slip him a coin.

Wesley’s little weasel.

Well past the point of aging out from his debt, Falk was on the right track to living his whole life in the arms of the Crook, graduating from tipster to whatever was next in a line of jobs that served as a middle ground before becoming an underboss.

Wesley’s shoe shiner, perhaps.

“I need those barrels to be ready now,” Wesley said.

Falk nodded. “I know what you asked, but—”

“Oh,” Wesley said. Then, again, as if something had just dawned on him, “*Oh*. Well, there’s our problem. You thought I was asking.”

Wesley picked up a letter opener from his desk. It gleamed in his hand. “If you can’t follow a simple order, Falk, then I’ll find someone who can.”

Tavia didn’t need to see Falk’s face to know that his lips were trembling.

Her hands slid to fists.

She didn’t have time for this.

She pictured the mark on that man’s neck again. The mark on *Saxony’s* neck. The one she’d seen so often in her mind, in the dreams of her muma. Seeing it in the flesh twice in one day almost felt like a dream too, but Tavia knew better than to hope for that.

She knew Saxony was in danger and she’d be damned if she was just going to stand around and do nothing.

“*Wesley*.” Tavia basically spat his name.

He turned to her as if he had forgotten she was still there at all, and Tavia spotted something cold in his eyes, right in the corner, a thing she couldn’t place. But then he blinked it away and gave her his usual catlike smile.

“You look like you’re having a good day,” he said. “You didn’t kill Karam to get in here, did you? I don’t have time to find a new guard.”

Tavia glared.

She was losing patience by the second.

She knew the despair was written on her face and Wesley could see it.

There was no way he couldn’t see it.

“Falk,” Wesley said, as if sensing her ebbing patience. “Would you excuse us?”

His weasel didn’t need to be asked twice.

Falk practically jumped from the chair, nodding as he backed out of the room, keeping his eyes on Wesley and the letter opener that swirled between his fingers.

When he reached the door, he shot Tavia a look that was far too smug for someone who had nearly pissed their pants at the sight of stationery just moments before.

The door clicked shut behind him, the handle grazing Tavia’s back.

She kept her eyes on Wesley.

“I need your help,” she said again, stepping toward him.

“Yes,” Wesley said. “I heard you.”

The fire charm she’d won from Saxony burned against her ribs, and though Tavia kept it hidden in her jacket lining, Wesley’s gaze flicked toward it, like he could sense the magic somehow.

“Saxony’s in trouble,” Tavia said. “The amityguards came for us and after the way she was acting, I don’t even know if she’s alive.”

“Is that all?” Wesley shoved his hands into his pockets with a small sigh. “I thought something serious had happened.”

Without hesitating, Tavia threw the fire charm.

Quickly, Wesley twisted and it glided past him, hitting the painting behind his desk.

He watched the embers crackle with a frown. “I liked that picture,” he said.

*Such a bastard.*

Tavia pulled a knife from each of her boots, but Wesley only leaned back onto his desk. The painting blazed behind him.

“I’m going to go out on a limb and say you’re not in the mood to talk,” he said.

“Everything you say is a lie anyway.”

“And I thought you wanted my help. Odd way to ask for it.”

Tavia narrowed her eyes.

She twirled the knives in her hands and, angry as she was, felt a spark of relief when she didn’t drop them.

She couldn’t believe he was acting so indifferent when she’d just told him Saxony’s life was on the line. She couldn’t believe how much he’d changed from the friend she knew. It didn’t seem possible for someone to turn themselves so inside out like that.

It was as though Wesley had killed the old underboss then, boom, *like magic*, the boy she knew disappeared and something else was born.

Or maybe Tavia had it wrong.

Maybe the boy was the illusion all along.

“Just so we’re clear,” Wesley said. “I’m not your little gofer. I’m your underboss and I have a city to run. Playing hero to your friends isn’t my priority right now.”

“You’re right,” Tavia said, knives primed. “I’m not in the mood to talk.”

She surged forward, ready to take Wesley to the amity precinct by force if she had to, because there was no way she was leaving Saxony to suffer in a cell like Deniel Emilsson.

But when Wesley met her it was not with any weapons of his own.

It only took him a second to fling an arm through the air and send a wave of magic toward her.

In one fluid motion, Tavia’s knifed hands were knocked back.

She stumbled, seethed, and then lurched toward him again.

Wesley snapped out his hands and Tavia couldn’t move fast enough. A burst of energy grabbed hold of her, an invisible force wrapped around her arms like a clamp, squeezing down with enough force to make her want to scream.

Tavia twirled out, pulling free of the magic and throwing both of her knives before she’d completed the turn. They landed with a clatter by Wesley’s feet and in the second he frowned down at them, Tavia pounced.

She threw a punch, but Wesley moved easily out of the way, grabbing her wrist and twisting until it felt like her knees might buckle.

“Stop,” he said.

Tavia struggled against him. “Let go of me and I will.”

“For some reason, I’m having a hard time trusting you.”

Tavia sneered and threw her head back.

She felt the crack when it connected with Wesley’s nose. Felt his blood spurt onto the back of her neck.

Wesley dropped her arm, pressing a hand to his face.

Tavia punched through the air, but Wesley was still too damn quick, even with blood dripping onto his lips and his eyes in a half squint as he tried to blink away the shock.

He shoved her back, hard, then advanced. Reaching out, he grabbed Tavia by the collar, and when she made to kick free, her legs froze underneath her. There was that magic again. Squeezing and crushing and pinning her in place.

It was just like when they sparred as kids, trying out new charms and new techniques.

Wesley always bested her, ready for any attack she might try, no matter how underhand. Tavia didn’t know why she was surprised that things hadn’t changed.

After all, Wesley taught her everything she knew.

She was only the best in the game because he stopped playing.

For what felt like minutes, Wesley’s hands stayed wrapped around her collar, his face inches from hers. Until finally he let out a breath, swore, and shoved her back.

Wesley walked slowly to his desk and pulled a handkerchief out from the pocket of his suit, pressing it to his nose. The flames still crackled behind him.

He closed his eyes, breathed out a terse sigh, and then slammed his palms against the desk.

The fire spluttered and died.

“I want you to be honest with me for once,” Tavia said, catching her breath.

Her voice was as low as his had been and she tried not to look at the blood on his face.

“No more lies. Just tell me straight.”

Wesley slammed his hands on the desk again. When he looked up at her, his eyes were almost black. “Tell you what?”

For the first time in years, his accent lost the careful decorum he always tried so hard to maintain and a small slip of the old street kid reared its head.

Tavia ignored it. No good ever came from being sentimental.

“Saxony took that elixir you gave me,” she said. “Did you know how dangerous it was?”

Wesley paused, just for a moment, before running the handkerchief under his nose.

The blood had already started to dry.

“I can’t believe you came in here ready to start a war because your punk friend took something that didn’t belong to her.”

“You told me I was selling happiness! You lied to me.”

Wesley straightened. “I’ve never lied to you.”

When he said it, it was like he almost believed it was true. As though he thought that by ignoring the obvious, it made him less culpable. Maybe the Kingpin fed him a story, but Wesley, knowing full well that it was just that, had eaten it up. And then he’d fed the same poison to Tavia.

Telling her it wasn’t a lie was a technicality at best.

“You’re the Kingpin’s golden boy, Wesley.”

His eyes twitched to a narrow.

“He’s up to something,” Tavia said. “Are you really going to tell me that he didn’t let you in on it?”

Wesley’s lips curled. “I never told you to give that magic to your pals,” he said. He folded the bloodied handkerchief back into a neat triangle and pocketed it. “You should have listened to me.”

Tavia resisted the urge to throw another fire charm at his face.

“This isn’t a game, Wesley. My mother—”

Tavia paused and Wesley frowned.

She hadn’t spoken about her muma in years, and even then it had barely been a few words, a few tears, a few awful, gulping memories. It felt odd to talk about it now.

“Your mother what?” Wesley asked.

Tavia swallowed down the shakiness that threatened to take hold of her voice.

“It’s the magic sickness,” she said. “It’s back.”

There hadn’t been a case for so long, Tavia had almost managed to forget about it.

The magic sickness had been ripe when she was a kid, with outbreaks spread across Uskhanya, back when it was practice to use magic to purify the water supply in neglected outskirts of the realm. It was a type of poisoning that tended to happen when you had too much magic in your system and the people on the wrong side of the bridge had bathed in it and used it to wash their food.

Some cases weren’t so bad, a few headaches and nosebleeds if they were lucky, but once the mark appeared there was no going back. You couldn’t stop a magical overdose with more magic.

There was no cure.

No way to be saved.

It shut you down, piece by piece.

That man in the cells was going to die because of something Tavia had given him and if Saxony died too, Tavia wasn’t sure what she’d do.

Wesley blinked, but that was all.

Nothing flickered on his face, let alone surprise.

“What happened when Saxony took the elixir?” he asked.

“She went berserk,” Tavia said. “Throwing magic like she wanted to kill me and talking about voices in her head. And there was a man I gave it to earlier, saying the same thing. He’s in the cells right now with that damn mark on his neck. The elixir got in their heads and you can take a lot of things, Wesley, but not someone’s mind. You can’t steal that. You can’t sell that.”

Wesley’s jaw ticked. “I told you I didn’t,” he said. “Are you sure that you saw the mark?”

“I’d recognize it anywhere,” Tavia said. “And it only took one vial for them to be afflicted. That’s how potent it is, so for all I know, Saxony is dying in a cell somewhere.”

Wesley’s lips parted, ever so slightly, and Tavia caught the dimple in his brow before he righted himself, smoothing his features into complacency. Then he took in a breath and made to move forward, a fraction of an inch, before he stopped that, too.

Wesley did nothing. He said nothing.

Tavia wasn’t sure why she ever expected any different.

“Saxony isn’t a crook,” she said. “She doesn’t deserve this.”

Wesley’s face remained blank and he stayed very, very still.

“Of course she doesn’t,” he said. “Bad things only happen to good people.”

Tavia could almost swear she heard a sigh lingering on the words, and it made her want to hate him. Truthfully, she always wanted to hate him, but in that moment the urge felt stronger than usual. Wesley didn’t have friends or family, and how stupid she was to believe that she could have been either to him.

“I have to know if Saxony is okay,” Tavia said. “I need to know what happened to her and if you won’t help me then I’ll just do it myself. I’ll burn the amity precinct to the ground to get her out.”

Tavia turned, her coat swooping like wind on her back, but there was barely time to take a step forward before Wesley was pulling her back toward him, quicker than any sleight of hand.

Tavia looked down at her wrist, which was caught precariously in his fingers.

Wesley stared at her with cool, assessing eyes, and she watched him for any kind of a sign. A twitch in his jaw or the slow bob of his throat as he swallowed down the dryness she could feel tacking her own mouth.

Guilt or a sense of responsibility for what he had just learned.

As usual, there was nothing.

Wesley was the kind of book that never opened.

Once, he was just a kid, just a busker like her. They grew up on the same tricks and crafted cons together, and even when Wesley caught the eye of the old underboss and it became clear he was on the path to being a career criminal, Tavia entertained the notion that they would always be friends. Family. That there would always be some deeply hidden morality behind the coconut shell of his eyes. But then Wesley left her on his way to the top and Tavia quickly realized that his eyes weren’t flecked with coconut shells at all.

It was only dirt, splattered back from the graves he dug in the Kingpin’s name.

Slowly, Tavia removed Wesley’s hand from her wrist.

He stared at her for a moment and then slid his hand indifferently into his pocket.

“Threats are like promises,” Wesley said. “Don’t make the ones you can’t keep.”

“I’m not going to leave Saxony to die.”

Wesley sighed and his tattoo bobbed alongside his throat.

Tavia pictured the thick lines slotting down to his fingertips, leaking onto his chest and around the scars on his shoulder. The buildings and streets of Creije, covering half of his dark skin in ink. She remembered being there when he got that tattoo, both of them just kids, watching the city being built onto his back.

“Fine. Have it your way,” Wesley said. “We’ll go save your little friend.”

Because apparently neither of them was quite ready to cut the last, fraying thread of friendship that still dangled between them.