ItCP05

## Chapter 5

**Chapter 5** of **Into the Crooked Place** is told by **Wesley**.

## **Full Version**

WESLEY HAD A SECRET.

Actually, he had hundreds, but there was one in particular that nobody could ever know, and it was that Wesley was not entirely in his right mind.

People threw the word *crazy* around a lot, and Many Gods knew they all thought Wesley was criminally insane. They just didn’t know how right they were. Because for years now, Wesley had voices in his head.

Specifically, one voice.

An impossible voice.

The voice of a girl he knew long ago, who even after she was dead and gone had left her voice to get stuck behind. Perhaps to remind Wesley that he didn’t have a conscience and should never try to find one.

She functioned as white noise most days. Images and a sense, a knowing, that she was there, listening to his every move and he had to be on guard, constantly, to shield himself from her. But every so often, when Wesley wasn’t concentrating hard enough, her voice broke through and took on a life of its own.

She scolded him when he was too good and cheered when he was very, very bad, and Wesley didn’t know how to stop it. He didn’t know how to stop her.

All he could do was push her down into the back of his mind, adjust his tie, fix his cuff links, and *focus*. Bury her deep until she decided to rise to the surface again.

His very own ghost.

Wesley looked at the clock and watched the seconds tick away.

The headquarters for the Kingpin’s consort was a grandiose building that wisped out on one side. The sole purpose of a consort was to act as a go-between for Ashwood and the other Kingpins, shaking hands on their deals and ferrying their secrets. She was a cross between a spy and a diplomat, and rumor had it that she kept stashes of the realm’s darkest magic in a host of safes. It was a busking legend all of the kids told, though Wesley had never put much stock in it.

Still, the building was grand because the consort liked to think she was. It sat brazenly on the wrong side of the bridge, each of the windows a ruffle of feathers, and to the right it bowed and dipped like the arc of a broad chest.

It was great and mighty, in an obvious way Wesley had never been fond of, but it was also sly and sneaky in a way he quite liked: to the rest of Creije and, especially to the Realm Doyen, this was nothing more than a magic factory where legal elixirs were extracted and repackaged.

The good guys just didn’t know about a few hidden floors.

Across the room, a doorway bubbled and Wesley glanced up to see a thin man step out from it. Reynholt Leifsson, the secretary of the building.

He was dressed all in black, hair slicked to one side, his skin so chalky that from a distance he looked a little bit like a floating head making his way toward Wesley.

“Mr. Thornton Walcott,” Leifsson said in a smooth Creijen rendition. He extended a gloved hand, which Wesley did not take, and dipped his head.

Wesley glanced down at his gloves and raised an eyebrow. “You’re always wearing those.”

“One finds it’s always best not to leave fingerprints when dealing with dark magic.”

“That’s easily taken care of.” Wesley closed the button of his blazer and stood. “If someone doesn’t have the skill not to leave a print, you can always cut off their fingers.”

The ghost in his mind applauded, as she always did when Wesley was awful.

Leifsson blinked. “Yes,” he said, “that would be quite effective.” He extended a hand over to the doorway he’d emerged from—“Right this way”—and turned on his polished heel, leading Wesley toward the mirror.

Wesley took in the cold gray rendition of himself—the bow tie that signaled this was going to be an odd day indeed—and reached out a hand. The mirror erupted around his touch, ripples curling from his fingertips until his face was obscured.

This was the part he could never get used to. The doorway to his office at the Crook was similar, in that it read palms like any system worth its salt, but this did more than that. It read the person, their intentions and, most importantly, their loyalties. As far as Wesley knew, Ashwood was the only one in the realms to have developed something so sophisticated.

Wesley kept his fingers to the mirror and though it took a few moments, once the magic confirmed his allegiance, the glass stilled.

Wesley slid his hands into his pockets and stepped into his reflection.

The hall on the other side was long enough that it seemed to narrow to a point, and the walls were a solid line of mirrors, marked by silver handles at odd junctions, with no clear lines separating one doorway from the next.

Leifsson inclined his head toward the right and placed a firm grip around the first handle. “After you,” he said, and the doorway dissolved before them.

The room was as much red as it was black, with walls made from the same glass Wesley had come through. The carpet was a midnight ruby and what little light there was came from charcoal-colored candles that hung from glass chains, and the subsequent reflections their dim flames cast.

In the center of the room, a dark figure reclined and the shadows around him cooed.

Leifsson backed slowly from the room.

“Wesley,” the Kingpin said.

His name repeated in an echo.

Dante Ashwood was there and he was not.

He was a man and he was not.

Wesley could see the outlines of his top hat and the streamlined jacket that pinched across his body. But his face—Wesley had never seen the Kingpin’s face. Nobody had. In place of skin and eyes there was darkness and smoke, only the faintest smudge of his lips was visible, and the orb of his black cane shone under his transparently pale palm.

Around him, the air flickered like flames.

Though each of the four realms had a Doyen to lead, three also had a Kingpin with a capital *K* that stood for criminal. While the Realm Doyens ran things aboveground, the Kingpins ran the black magic trade, with underbosses to manage their many cities and buskers recruited to sell their dirty magic and consorts to be their messengers. But though the other Kingpins were powerful and evil, possibly soulless, they were still undoubtedly human.

All except for Ashwood.

*Not a human, but a god*, his ghost said.

Wesley ignored her, as he always tried to, and bowed to the Kingpin.

Ashwood laughed at the formality. “So serious, my boy. Pour yourself something expensive and sit down.”

“I’m fine, *tek*.”

“Wesley.” The Kingpin tapped the orb of his cane. It blinked under the touch of his long, blanched fingers. “Pour yourself a drink.”

Wesley cleared his throat and headed to the bar.

The air was dense with the layers of protection they each wrapped around themselves, because you couldn’t trust yourself in Creije, let alone anyone else. Though Wesley didn’t kid himself, if the Kingpin wanted his magic to be silenced, then it would be.

He only liked to offer Wesley the illusion of power, never really giving him full control over anything, least of all his own life.

Wesley picked up a bottle of Cloverye, the drink of choice in Creije, and filled his glass.

“It’s not often we get to see each other,” Ashwood said. “You’re so busy making Creije into your kingdom. Gone are the days when you relied on me for guidance.”

Wesley took a swig of his drink, back still to the Kingpin.

There was a hint of nostalgia in his voice that Wesley didn’t care for.

It wasn’t like Ashwood had taken him on as an apprentice and they were some happy little family.

He’d found Wesley on the eve of his seventh birthday, wandering the alleys with his hands in other people’s pockets, and Ashwood had been as much a shadow then as he was now, with gloved hands and a face made from chimney smoke. He’d supposed that Wesley was an orphan, surely, with no family and nowhere to go, and wouldn’t he very much like both of those things?

Only Wesley did have a family and he did have somewhere to go.

The only difference was that he wished he didn’t.

Wesley knew what taking the Kingpin’s hand meant, but he wanted to return to the streets only after he’d grown big and strong and could prove his worth to a family that had never wanted him to begin with. But then months became years and magic became life and by the time Wesley was enough of something to show them, it was too late. Magic sickness broke out and the worst batch was in the small street on the outskirts of Creije that he’d grown up on.

His family was probably dead and even if they weren’t, the boy who wanted to prove something to them was.

Wesley knew better.

He had discovered Creije now, unlocked its secrets, and he delighted in its delicate twists and rough edges. The glow of lights and stars and magic. He’d fallen under its spell and all he wanted was to keep it safe.

To protect it, the way he knew nobody else could.

“How are my other underbosses?” Ashwood asked.

Wesley took another sip of Cloverye and made his way to the sofa that sprawled parallel to the Kingpin.

“Still necessary,” he said. “For now.”

Ashwood laughed. “And my elixir?”

Wesley paused, unsure how to answer that.

“You look concerned,” Ashwood said.

Wesley stared through his mirrored glasses, reflecting the magic of the Kingpin right back into the chasm of his face, because Dante Ashwood could see from a person’s eyes and into their soul, wading through their secrets, and Wesley very much liked keeping his secrets.

Besides, he had enough people in his head.

“We haven’t made much progress,” Wesley admitted. “It’s tough to sell something when you don’t know that much about it.” He tried to choose his next words carefully. “A detailed rundown of the magic could help. If you have plans, I thought I’d be the first person to know.”

The Kingpin let a small crack of silence pass between them, and then he said, “You are my right hand, Wesley, more dear to me than any other underboss. But I need a left hand too.”

Wesley let the irritation simmer inside him, careful that not even a morsel slipped onto the outside.

“Is the elixir really happiness?” he asked.

“It is,” Ashwood said. “And it isn’t. This magic is a way to ensure I win my war.”

“We’re not at war.”

“We will be soon.”

Though Wesley couldn’t see the Kingpin’s face, he was sure he felt the smile crawl along it. Wesley may have liked chaos, but he had no desire for war and especially no desire for his city to be a part of it.

“I’ve always thought that you would make a fine second in command,” Ashwood said. “You know you’re like family to me, Wesley.”

Which was true, Wesley supposed, because the Kingpin had raised him from the streets, crafting him into the man he was today. He’d made him special and turned him into the leader of an entire city.

Wesley owed him everything.

And he hated it.

He hated that Ashwood was family, in a way. Not the one Wesley was born with, or even the one he chose, but one that was made for him. One he was cut from. Besides, Wesley really didn’t like the idea of being anyone’s son. He already had a father and that man was awful enough for him to never consider having another one.

“Who do you want to go to war with?” Wesley asked. “I thought you and the other Kingpins had an understanding.”

The shadows around Ashwood slithered. “I don’t care about those fools,” he said. “My elixir is going to bring the Doyen to her knees.”

Wesley was glad his glasses hid the growing uncertainty in his eyes.

“You’re after Schulze,” he said.

The Kingpin made a choked sound that straddled the line between laughter and disappointment. “I’m after a new age, my boy. Fenna Schulze thinks she can pass laws in my realm that restrain us, but I was here long before that arrogant little girl took office and I’ll be here long after. Magic—black or white—keeps the realms turning. I won’t let a politician ruin it all.”

He said *politician* like it was the dirtiest word imaginable.

“And the elixir will help you do that,” Wesley said. “Is it really that dangerous?”

He couldn’t help but ask. He had given Tavia that magic and if she got hurt—

“Risks win wars,” Ashwood said. “My elixir allows me to open people’s minds so they can see beyond Schulze’s propaganda and into my truth. When I bring them to my side, we’ll take down this government with as few civilian casualties as possible.”

Casualties. Not murders.

“I call it the Loj,” Ashwood said proudly.

*The light.*Or at least the street slang for it.

The old saying used to be *lojisi uf hemga*—the light of happiness—but street kids started to see it as more than that. A peace of mind that became like a goal to attain. It was the feeling in your heart after your first warm meal in days, or when you managed to find shelter in the rain and could sleep on a firm mattress in place of street floors. It was the relief that came with knowing you could stop worrying for a while and let your bones rest.

It was the reason most street kids became buskers.

They wanted the Loj. The knowing that everything would be okay.

And Ashwood had named his magic after it.

“It’s really new magic,” Wesley said. “How is that possible?”

Ashwood leaned forward and the tip of his hat flickered with candlelight.

*You know how*, the ghost whispered.

“It’s quite an easy thing to do,” Ashwood said. “When you have Crafters by your side.”

And there it was.

The thing Wesley hated most about Dante Ashwood.

The most awful line to cross.

The magic Wesley sold now was nothing short of mimicry, with trick dust gathered from the residue of magic, that barely hosted power past practical jokes. Or elixirs to alter the mind and body, extracted from dosed—and handsomely compensated—people in government-funded warehouses, only to then be repackaged and sold. And charms? They may have been the most powerful magic—and also entirely illegal—but with the right amount of training, buskers could wield them or use them to create cursed objects. With the right technology, they could even be duplicated.

But nothing, not a single kind of magic, could be created anew.

Unless you were a Crafter.

Before the War of Ages, Ashwood spent decades in the company of those magical captives. He’d studied them, learned their tricks, and embedded himself in their legends until their power snaked into him and became a dark, nefarious thing.

It was a story every busker in Uskhanya heard the moment they were recruited.

Ashwood was not a man and he was not a Crafter.

He was the embodiment of the in-between. A living shadow.

Powerful enough, people said, to have lived for a century.

And though the war was supposed to have put an end to the Crafter trade for good—though it was said to have put an end to the Crafters themselves, killing many and leaving the rest to flee—it seemed Ashwood wouldn’t let petty things like impossibility get in his way.

He had found those rare, hidden beings and turned them into puppets.

“How many Crafters do you have?” Wesley asked.

He didn’t want to know the answer.

*Yes, yes you do*.

“The number is of no consequence,” Ashwood said. “But there will be no more hiding in the shadows once I am Doyen. We shall rise and make a brighter future, Wesley, filled with magic.”

Ashwood’s power coated the air like heavy rain, soaking into Wesley’s breath.

Ashwood belonged in the shadows, far away from the light and those who walked in it. To have someone like that in real control would plunge the four realms into chaos and tear Wesley’s city to pieces.

Besides, there wasn’t a sane person in all of Uskhanya, crooked or not, who would support Ashwood as Doyen. Politicians may have been criminals, but people didn’t like them being so open about it. Even if Ashwood pried the title from Schulze’s cold, dead fingers, he would never be accepted. You could kill for a criminal kingdom, but not for a legitimate leadership.

Ashwood would destroy the realms trying to conquer it, because he didn’t care about Uskhanya or Creije. He didn’t want what was best for the city and he certainly didn’t love it like Wesley did.

He would see it burn, if that’s what it took.

“When your war comes, what happens to Creije?” Wesley asked.

“Nothing,” Ashwood assured him. “As long as the people stand with me. Rebellions won’t be tolerated, Wesley. Every player in this game must follow the rules.”

“War isn’t a game,” Wesley said.

“Everything is a game, my boy. And by the time of the shadow moon, my Crafters will be ready to win.”

The shadow moon.

Wesley thought back to the picture hanging in his office. He thought of the stories he had read about how it could amplify Crafter magic.

The Kingpin’s smile snaked across to him, like he could read Wesley’s mind behind the shield of his glasses. “You know as well as I do what power the shadow moon holds over magic,” Ashwood said. “Our army will be a sight to behold.”

*He did promise to make you the world*, the ghost cooed.

Wesley tried to stop himself from wiping at that damn smudge on his cuff links, or reaching up and adjusting his tie, even though his fingers shook with the urge every time the voice in his head spoke.

He squeezed his fists together instead.

There had to be a line. Somewhere in the sand, there had to be a line that even the worst people couldn’t cross.

“You gave Creije to me,” Wesley said. “So that I could make it great.”

Ashwood tapped the orb of his cane, contemplating his words, and Wesley waited, his tie like a noose around his neck.

*Hush now, it’ll all be okay.*

Finally, Ashwood stood, lithe and towering. The room fogged around him.

Wesley looked up at the faceless man who took him from the streets and made him into someone to be feared. The man who gave him a home and was ready to take it away with a snap of his fingers.

The man who thought of him like family.

The man he hated more than anyone.

“I don’t want my city destroyed,” Wesley said.

The Kingpin reached out a frostbitten hand and placed it on Wesley’s shoulder, almost fatherly.

“Some things need to be destroyed,” he said, “in order to be rebuilt.”