CoS05

## Chapter 5

**Chapter 5** of **City of Spells** follows **Wesley**.

## **Full Version**

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.”

The demon cawed by her side, like it approved of this lesson about its history.

“They’re made from the darkness left behind by the cursed spells. Spells that steal a mind, spells that steal a soul, and spells that steal a heart.”

When Zekia stroked the shadow demon, half of her hand grazed its spine and the other half fell into the abyss of its ghostly body.

“You can’t kill shadow demons because they’re made from magic and magic can never die,” she said. “In the end, magic always wins. It’s forever. It’s a gift from the Many Gods and we have to protect it.”

Wesley kept his breath steady.

“Is this part of the torture?” he said. “You didn’t break me with your mind magic or your shadow demon, so you want to bore me with a history lesson?”

Zekia laughed.

She laughed a lot when Wesley spoke, even though half of what he said really wasn’t that funny. Torture had dampened his sense of humor.

Still, she always laughed, like she thought that if Wesley knew she liked him, he might just forgive her for everything. And the thing was, he did. Wesley missed the little kid he’d befriended, who, despite everything, he couldn’t bring himself to hate.

“You’re too stubborn and Ashwood will get mad soon,” Zekia said. “You’re ruining everything, Wesley. The future is so dark and I can’t make it light without you, don’t you see?”

She pushed her long black braids from her face, her bracelets clinking together.

“If you’re looking for light, I’m the wrong person,” Wesley said. “Just because Asees and Arjun gave me a magical loan, it doesn’t mean I know anything about your Crafter dreams. I’m not like you, kid. I never was.”

Zekia played with the hem of her dress.

“You know that’s not true,” she said quietly. “You know that you’re not a vessel for someone else’s power.”

Wesley sat up against the wall in a way that made his ribs hurt a little less.

“Wesley,” she said, her voice a mix of nerves and joy. “Don’t you feel it? Your magic isn’t borrowed or stolen. It’s *awakened*.”

“I’m not falling for any more of your mind games.”

Zekia shook her head and took three quick steps toward him, almost excited. She bent down, her dress pooling into his blood.

“You’re a true Crafter, Wesley,” she said. “You’re one of us. I knew it the second I got into your mind. I’ve been wanting to tell you for days, but you’ve been pretty mad and I didn’t know how to say it.”

Wesley shook his head. “Bullshit.”

“It’s not,” Zekia promised. “I swear it on the Many Gods and on my life and on everything else in the realms. You’re not like the other buskers and crooks. You’re like us, Wesley. You’re just like *me*.”

An Intuitcrafter.

Wesley wanted to tell her she was even more crazy than he’d thought, but the more he looked at the earnestness in her face and the more he tried to rack his mind, the more nothing else made sense.

A true Crafter.

As the thought raced through his mind, the magic inside of him sparked.

*Yes*, it whispered, after so long silent. *Yes.*

Was that why magic had always felt like home to him?

Not just a skill Wesley needed to learn and master, but a part of his soul that had always been missing. When Ashwood first took him from the streets and taught him to be a busker, it was like a fire inside of Wesley started to burn too hot and fierce to ever dissipate.

He touched the silver staves running up his arm, so similar to the ones Zekia had.

They had appeared during the shadow moon, when his power felt infinite and wondrous. He’d been so worried they would disappear one day and that he’d become that empty shell again, but they hadn’t. They’d stayed and the power inside of him hadn’t left either.

*You’re like us.*

*You’re one of us.*

Wesley had never belonged to anything or anyone.

He’d never had anything he hadn’t stolen or taken with blood. Except for magic.

Magic had always felt so very much his, even when it was just a trick bag or a charm he kept in his back pocket. Each and every one felt like air in his lungs.

Now he finally knew why.

“I know you think we’re wrong,” Zekia said. “But we just want the Crafters to be okay again. Like before the war. Like better than before. You have to want that too, now you know you’re like us. Don’t you?”

Wesley wasn’t sure what he wanted right now, except to get out of this place and take her with him. He needed to see the sun and feel the air on his face and have Tavia glare at him like he was a huge bastard.

It was the only way to get any kind of damn clarity.

“Kid,” he said. “Let me get you out of here. I can take you back to your family and we can fix all of this. We can go to the forest and—”

“Be quiet!” Zekia snapped. “You can’t talk about that place here.”

“Then let’s go and talk about it somewhere far away from here,” he said.

Zekia’s smile faded and she stood up slowly from the floor, the damp dripping from her dress.

“You’re not going anywhere,” she said.

“Kid—”

“No!” she yelled, shaking her head wildly. “You can’t go. I won’t let you leave.”

Wesley sighed.

Thing was, he already knew how to escape. He’d been planning it since the moment they took him, going over every possible scenario. The problem had never been that he couldn’t go, but that he didn’t want to go without Zekia.

The chains weren’t keeping Wesley prisoner; she was.

Even now, she was still the ghost inside his mind, making him second-guess every decision.

She was like this because of him.

She was with Ashwood because of him.

Wesley couldn’t leave her behind again, like he had done all those years ago, when he’d thought being an underboss was worth any sacrifice.

He couldn’t go back to Tavia and Saxony and Karam without her.

Zekia deserved a chance.

At the very least, Wesley owed her that.

At the very least, he had to try.