Tavia held on to Wesley’s hand. This was the boy who she’d survived the streets of Creije with. Who’d become her friend, when she had none, and her family, when she had none. Who meant so much more to her than anyone could.

Tavia looked into Wesley’s eyes.

“I promise,” she said. “It’s all going to be okay.”

Tavia kissed him again, slow and endless, a kiss wild with possibility. Like if she wished hard enough, the night would never end and the sun might never rise and they could just stay locked in that moment, and that promise, forever.

31

WESLEY

Tavia’s hair spread across the pillow as she played with the mirror doll.

Wesley watched her.

He’d been unable to take his eyes off of her for the past few hours, but now that she had the mirror doll he definitely couldn’t stop staring. They were his least favorite kind of magic and though Wesley dealt in many things that were deadly and devious, he found nothing quite as eerie as a puppet for somebody’s life.

They varied from maker to maker, but the dolls were consistently dreadful. Made from buttons and badly stitched thread, or tree bark and twine, they began as a jigsaw person, barely formed and off-kilter, their black-spot eyes ready to change with the flick of a charm.

Only then did they become person-like, their form dislocating from the makeshift to the harrowing reality, tree bark turning to rotten skin and patches of hair growing from the twine, their button eyes hollowed out to mummified pits and jagged nails sprung from their new fingertips. Once blooded, they transformed into corpse-like versions of their victim.

For now, Tavia held a puppet.

Soon, she would hold a body.

Tavia stroked her hand over the doll’s head tenderly, like it was some kind of a pet.

“You know, that’s really creepy,” Wesley said. “Why do you keep that thing by your bed?”

“Oh, relax.” Tavia waved him off. “It’s not like it’s linked to anyone yet.”

“I think that makes it worse.”

An absent vessel, a body without a soul, a puppet without a master, waiting for Tavia to shape it into whoever she wanted.

Wesley didn’t know what Crafter had thought up such a thing, but he was glad that whoever they were was long gone.

“Seriously, put that thing away,” he said.

He reached over the covers to grab it from her, but Tavia jerked it away.

“Worried I’ll slip some of your blood over its smile?” she asked.

Wesley scoffed, but the way she looked over at him, amused, unsteadied his heart.