ItCP44

## Chapter 44

**Chapter 44** of **Into the Crooked Place** follows **Wesley**.

## **Full Version**

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.

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.

Wesley jumped in front of the beam and his mind splintered.

He fell to his knees.

The realms weren’t solid anymore. They were made of nightmares that ran like water, and the air was screaming at him.

Wesley couldn’t move.

Tavia was somewhere, yelling. Wesley saw blasts of magic erupt around him. She was fighting off the Crafters, but he couldn’t focus on where, or move his head to search the room for her.

Zekia knelt in front of him and Wesley wanted to yell at her to get away. He wanted to move—to reach for his gun or his magic—but he was paralyzed.

The realms were disappearing and he was too.

Zekia’s magic was poison in his mind.

“I suppose Saxony was wrong,” Zekia said. “You still have some of those lives left.”

Wesley found his voice. Or a voice that might have been his. It tasted odd in his mouth.

“Get away,” he said. “You’re not you.”

*Neither are you.*

“Who would you like me to be, then?” Zekia asked.

Wesley wasn’t sure what that meant, but then Zekia’s fingers pressed to his temple and a shrill siren broke out in his mind.

Her face shifted.

Wesley recoiled.

The noise was too much and he could barely keep his eyes open, but he couldn’t let Zekia out of his sight. Wesley couldn’t take his eyes off her for a moment. He couldn’t even—

Wesley blinked.

When he opened his eyes, Zekia was gone and someone new crouched in front of him.

He squinted.

Everything was so bright.

He blinked again and the person came into focus, eyes like midnight and a crooked half smile.

Tavia.

Wesley’s busker. His friend, if she deigned to be that. His something else, if she lived long enough to kill him for thinking it.

Her smile was like sunlight.

She placed a hand on his cheek. “Wesley,” she said.

Her voice was too level and smooth. But it was her. It had to be her.

“I need you to do something for me.”

Wesley nodded. He’d do anything.

“I need you to run. Right now. *Run.*”

And so he did.

Suddenly Wesley could stand. The room was a blur, but Tavia’s face was clear, and though the air wailed in his ears, he could hear her voice through it all. Only her voice.

Whatever was happening, they had to escape. Wesley wasn’t sure why they had come here in the first place. They needed to get back to Creije. It seemed odd he ever thought to leave.

What was so important about some island?

Tavia took Wesley’s hand.

It was warmer and softer than he remembered. He couldn’t feel her callouses or her scars, but she squeezed against his grip and pulled him across the floor and he followed.

They had to run.

They had to be safe from whatever was happening.

They needed to go home, together.

If they ran, things would be okay, and Wesley found that he didn’t so much mind the thought of running. It had always bothered him before, but now he liked not having to stay and see things through. It felt good not to fight.

Shadows gathered like a storm in front of them and Tavia’s grip on Wesley tightened.

Not shadows. A gateway. *An escape.*

Something nagged in Wesley’s mind. Something he was forgetting. Something he was supposed to do.

In the distance, someone screamed his name.

Wesley looked to Tavia and she smiled and suddenly he forgot again.

Whatever the thing was, it couldn’t have been important.

It didn’t matter now.

It wasn’t safe and they needed to run.

Tavia tugged Wesley forward.

Hand in hand, they jumped into the darkness.