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whaleofatjme1920 · 3 years ago

Note

EJ SIMPS RISE 😤😤💪💪💪

may i please request a scenario for yandere ej x fem reader where ej is punishing the reader for escaping ? feel free to go DARK dark with this one <3

Cream Colored Ceiling

[Eyeless Jack X F!Reader]

[Warnings: NSFW - but not for sexual content, just violence, what isn't a warning in this one, mentions of cannibalism (but there is no described cannibalism, just allusions to it), EJ physically harms the reader, amputation, violence of all kinds, throw up, look this is just,,,, it's dark. I repeat, there is no sexual content in here, it's just physically violent]

[AN: yeah. This was uh, yeah.]

Hazy, your mind is hazy. You wake and open your eyes to see that same fucking cream colored ceiling with water damage leaking through the top and dangerously close to your bed, if you’d even want to call it your bed.

You raise one of your hands that feels heavier than stones and wipe quietly at your eyes, dusting them from the sleep. Your body feels heavy, oh so heavy.

You sit up. Nothing strange so far.

Has he really been that gracious with you?

You yawn and stretch, joints and bones popping as you look out the window. There’s that cursed forest. It looks dark, shadowy, misty. The fog is rolling in and you know with it comes the rain. You’re going to be stuck here forever, aren’t you?

The sunlight doesn’t filter through the window, but there’s light regardless. You’re deep into mid Autumn and with it will come winter. It’ll be the third winter you’ve been trapped with this monster.

Your mouth feels dry, much too dry. You smack your lips together a few times, wondering where your saiva has gone and decide to go to the kitchen. It seems like Jack isn’t home right now, which is probably for the best. Alongside him being out, so too is your natural fear of him. You swing your legs over the side of your bed, wondering why you feel so physically exhausted before attempting to stand up.

“Shit!” You cry out as your knees buckle beneath you, your body cascading like a pile of bricks to the floor. Your knees and palms blank onto the hardwood, digging into you most uncomfortably. Tears well in your eyes as you struggle to get off the floor. You continue to curse under your breath as you glance back at your ankles where large surgical wounds lay, covered in stitches and gauze. What the fuck? When did that happen?

Your heart begins to race when you slow, calculated steps padding on the floor. You’re all too familiar with the sound of those combat boots knocking on the floor, pacing back and forth and keeping you awake at all hours of the night. Panic sears itself into your heart as you attempt to get up, pathetically crawling along the floor and reaching for your bedpost.

Jack stands in your doorway, his large form casting a shadow on your throw rug. He tsks, and you can already tell he’s more than disappointed with you. “What did I tell you about getting up?” He asks, voice smooth and clinical, once again padding towards you.

You feel tears well in your eyes as you curl as tightly into a ball as you can.

Jack breathes out with slight disappointment before crouching down and seeing your sorry form. “You knew this was going to happen,” he says, half lidded eyes watching you curiously before he reaches his large, gloved hand out. “Did you pop any of your sutures?” He tilts his head to the side and looks over your swollen, still bloodied ankles. “I think you might’ve.” He reaches to pick you up and you begin to panic, blubbering your apologies.

“I’m sorry, please, don’t touch me, don’t hurt me-” you begin to babble, your remaining strength trying their hardest to push the behemoth away. Tears well in your eyes as Jack grips your calves, sending pain holting like lightning strikes up and down your lower body, making you cry out in pain.

“You deserve it,” he murmurs, his claws pinching into your skin before he lifts you. A glance of annoyance passes over his face before he yanks your grip from the bed.

You struggle against him as you pound your fists into his broad chest, tears of frustration falling down your cheeks.

The tall demon moves without budging. He doesn’t care, you barely feel like a scratch to him.

You watch your surroundings, still fighting against him and feel your heart sink when you realize he’s taking you down the hall that he’s deemed forbidden. The energy you feel from this specific hallway makes you cry out in fear.

Jack eats it up, his own heart beating just a little faster. You won’t ever do what you pulled last night again. He juggles you into one his arms and uses his free hand to unlock the door, the slight beeps of numbers being added into a keypad making your attention shift ever so slightly.

The inside of this room is like a horror scene to you. You see an operating table, and stainless steel tables, cabinets and countertops. There’s a large trash bin filled with bloody gauze and other things, such as discarded clothes, clumps of hair, things you don’t want to think of. Is this it? Is he finally going to kill you?

Fear overtakes your system again and renders you to nothing but silent sobs as Jack pulls off a turquoise colored sheet from the operating table, placing you down.

You try to get off, wiggling and clawing at him. “Let me go!” You cry out like a broken record of a mantra, your eyes wild and feral.

Jack simply shrugs you off, tying large leather brown straps over your waist and your chest, rendering you immobile. “The more you struggle, the more it’s going to hurt you,” he hums, his clawed hands moving across your chest to your wrists. He quickly ties you down there as well, your legs numbly kicking at him through the pain due to severed Achilles tendons. He flicks the wound on your left leg, grinning at your pain. “Won’t be needing these anymore,” he chuckles.

“What?” You say in shock, pupils restricting to the size of pim points.

He takes a seat on his wheeled stool and begins setting you up with an IV drip. “Gonna sedate you, and when you wake up?” He warmly smiles, pricking the vein on your right arm with the needle, making you weakly thrash once more. “Get some sleep,” he murmurs, pumping some sedatives into your bloodstream.

You feel more tears welling in your eyes as your conscience begins to wean. The world becomes more shapes and colors, merging into brightness and shadows before you finally slip into your dreams.

You haven’t been able to trick Jack like this in the history of well, ever. Almost three years with this nightmare and you’ve finally gained enough of his trust to ask him for some time out.

“Don’t stay in there for too long,” he says, large hand gripping your thigh as you swallow down the feeling of hitting him from where you remain seated in the passenger seat. “I want you back safely,” he murmurs, his other hand gently letting go of the wheel to cup your face.

You do your best to show love and admiration in your eyes as you meet his gaze. “Don’t worry. It’s just an hour or so, okay?” You hum, your hand gently holding his and burying your face deeper into his warmth.

“I don’t know why you need anyone else’s company,” he says, a slight acrid venom seeping into his tone. “You don’t need anyone else but me.” It’s almost cute how offended he sounds.

You play the part of loving him. “I know, I know,” you coo, taking his hand from your face and pressing your lips into a pucker. You raise his hand to them, planting a kiss on his palm. “I love you. I won’t be that long.”

Jack’s heart flutters. “I’ll be here, waiting for you.” He says, watching you as you unbuckle yourself, his hand reluctantly leaving your thigh.

You flash him a warm smile and lean over to press a kiss to his cheek, and then his lips. You try not to spit at the scent of blood and taste of rot before pulling away. You then open up his car, sliding from the passenger seat and to the rinky dink little bar you’d managed to convince him to let you go to. Just an hour - that’s all it was. Just an hour. You’d be in and out, get some drinks, and come straight back to his car.

Due to Jack’s appearance, he had told you he couldn’t go in. They’d know something was wrong with him immediately, and you’d gained enough of his trust for you to be away for just an hour. Come straight back to the car when it reaches 10 PM. You promised him. And he fucking believed you.

It wasn’t that hard finding some idiot down on his luck with the ladies. You cozied up next to him, getting to sit with him at the bar and start talking. He was so attentive and sweet, so receptive to the story you had made up to him.

“That sounds awful,” he says, voice low and sweet. His deep blue eyes look at you with nothing but gentleness and fondness. His hand reaches for yours across the bar and you smile, allowing him to take it.

“I just wanna get away from that brute,” you admit. “I just wanna go home.”

He squeezes you just a little tighter. “Why don’t we go back to my car and call the cops?” He offers.

“Where did you park?” You ask, hoping it’s not in the front lot where Jack remains waiting for you.

“In the back.”

What a relief.

A slight smile blooms on your face as you nod. “Yeah, let’s go,” you finally answer. You hop off the barstool and then grip his hand, letting him lead you through the bar and the sea of people. It smells like sweat, alcohol, and regret - you love it. It smells like the beginning of freedom, something better. Maybe, just maybe…

He opens the backdoor to you, allowing you out first. The crisp night air of autumn greets you with her beauty. You can smell maple leaves and pumpkins out in the distance, the atmosphere is incredible. “That one’s mine,” he says, pointing to his car a little ways down in the parking lot under one of the yellow lights. He continues holding your hand as the two of you walk through the parking lot.

You watch as he unlocks the car door, walking around the side to let you in. You accompany him and slide into the passenger seat. Putting this seat belt on feels almost liberating. You giggle when the short man closes the door before walking around the front of his car.

And then he pauses.

Fear seeps into his eyes and leans forward, his abdomen cutting into the hood of the hunk of metal that can barely be called a car before sweat beads and rolls down his forehead. He begins to cough, violently.

Your eyes widen in shock as he begins to cough up blood, and tears well in his eyes. They roll down his cheeks, fat and crystalline like the beads of sweat. He reaches out to you, mouthing for you to run before finally slumping forwards.

You see him, the behemoth that’s held you captive for three years, a sapphire colored mask boring into your soul and searing into your mind with what you can understand is pure, unadulterated rage. You scramble, panicking as you notice the large blade that’s wedged itself into the man’s back as he seizes on the car, his thick body rolling off from the hood and landing with a large ‘thump!’ as he does so. Foam and the smell of something unpleasant wafts upwards and you palm the handle of the car, attempting to release yourself.

Jack takes slow, calculated steps forwards, his shadow growing larger as he gears up to catch you and claim you as his.

Your heart pounds like a drum in your chest, the panic overtaking your system as you finally get the car open. You shoot out of the metal cage like a bat from hell and stumble onto the asphalt, hissing as the black tar digs into your knees and palms. No time for registering your pain, you need to run! Like a freshly born faun, you hobble up and begin to run, wondering if you can make it back to the bar and the safety of other people when Jack’s steps grow quicker.

Fuck, fuck, fuck! He’s going to catch you and he’s going to kill you!

“You’re such a stupid little rabbit,” he hums, watching as you sorely sprint towards the door. “Look what you’ve done,” he taunts, hand gesturing to the man. “You made me kill him and I’m not even hungry,” he hums. “Maybe I should make you eat it instead,” he muses.

The thought alone makes your stomach retch. You stumble once more, body feeling violently ill as you cave. The alcohol paired with his words has you emptying your stomach of its contents that splash to the asphalt, the sickly acrid and saccharine taste overtaking your mouth.

Jack’s giant form finally overtakes you. He stands with his hands behind his back, peering down at you with disdain. “Fucking disgusting,” he coos in a tone that reminds you of a condescending father. He grips the back of your neck and forces you down.

You screech and fight him, not wanting to touch what came out of you.

“No? No,” he grins. “Fine. Let’s go see your date.” His claws dig into your neck as he drags you back to the man’s car where he’s finally gone still. He’s left a puddle of blood. Jack laughs quietly at your struggling before forcing you to your knees. “Are you hungry?”

“No-”

“I think you mean yes.”

The taste of blood still lingers in your mouth, and it remains even in your slumber.

Of course, you passed out due to your traumatic experience, and threw up again as well. Jack took advantage of your fragile state and brought you back to your home, the place you belonged - with him. He cut your Achilles tendons, just a warm up, really.

“Time to wake up.” Jack’s voice permeates your head, rousing you from your slumber. His gloved hands are snapping in front of you.

It’s bright, much too bright. Your body feels simultaneously heavier and lighter. Where are you? You see that you’re now looking into an operating light, and it’s super uncomfortable. “What did you do to me?” You ask drowsily.

Jack ignores your question and instead picks you up. His footsteps begin to lull you into sleep.

Exhausted, you fall back in again, and this time? This time, it’s dreamless.

It’s that fucking cream colored ceiling again that you open your eyes to. The water damage is still the same, and you realize you’re still stuck. You’re about to get up when you hear your door opening.

“Nice to see you up,” Jack says, watching as you slowly come to. “Did you dream about anything?”

You narrow your eyes recoiling as he reaches his hand out to pet you.

Jack glares at you for a moment, his hand straightening before he slaps you. “Don’t get testy, I’ll take your arms next,” he murmurs.

You’re about to bite back when you take in his words. What? Your heart begins to sink, deeper and deeper as your hand shakily reaches to the edge of your bed sheets. No. No. NO. You hold your breath as you rip the sheets off. Your flesh is swollen, puffy and looks like it’s crying out in its own form of pain. Large, manila colored casts and bandages surround your thighs and what remains of your knees.

You begin to hyperventilate. Your chest begins to rise and fall faster and faster - your body feels like a prison.

Jack only coos. “Stop that,” he says lovingly, hand petting your head as you fall deeper and deeper into despair. He removes the black glove from his hand and grabs your face, his dark, eyeless sockets boring into your own eyes. He looks at you with such adoration that acts as a front for the betrayal and anger he feels for you deep down inside. He draws closer to your tear stained face, a small smile bearing shark-like teeth at you before parting his lips to speak to you. “You’re being hysterical.”

#eyeless jack #eyeless jack x reader #eyeless jack scenario #eyeless jack creepypasta #ej #creepypasta #creepypasta x reader #creepypasta headcanon #creepypasta scenario #eyeless jack headcanon #nsft #gore warning

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crowsredlondon · 3 years ago

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Comfort

A Kanej fic inspired by the following quote from Crooked Kingdom.

“For the briefest moment, Inej wondered if Kaz might be jealous of that comfort or if it was simply alien to him. Would he ever let himself rest? Sleep in? Linger over a meal? She would never know.”

This fic takes place 5+ years after the end of Crooked Kingdom. These lovelies of course belong to Leigh Bardugo.

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Sunlight steamed through the window, basking the room in a warm, hazy light. It was summer in Ketterdam and the usual fog had lifted. Inej sleepily blinked open her eyes and rolled over. Her time on land had slowly morphed from business to leisure. During her first few years at sea she would only return to port to gather intelligence and supplies. The crew would take a short leave but for her it never really felt like down time, there was too much to be done. But as years dragged, she found herself spending more time on land and more time visiting instead of working. Now, land made her lazy. At sea her mornings were early and her days long. In Ketterdam, that had stopped being true.

Inej took a deep breath and stretched her limbs and mind before turning to the mussed hair and ruffled clothes of the boy next to her. There was a time when this scene would have been as startling as it had been to first see his hands bare against his cane. Long ago, she thought she would never know him like this. Never see him restful and relaxed. Kaz always started nights laying on his back, hands clasped on his chest, eyes on the ceiling. She assumed it was habit from years of resting without sleeping or sleeping with his guard up. But morning Kaz revealed the beautiful boy beneath the armor.

A few years ago she stopped staying at the Van Eck mansion and had started staying with Kaz. In the beginning, it was a lot of sleepless nights. It was both of them learning how to share a bed with someone and learning how to take down this piece of their armor. But now...she grinned at the sight. Every morning now, and for a while, she found Kaz asleep on his chest, limbs sprawling and face soft. On one occasion, although she wouldn’t dare mention it to another soul, he was drooling. On these mornings Kaz Brekker, the bastard of the barrel, was replaced by a sleepy boy in total comfort.

She reached out and gently brushed a few tufts of hair away from his face. He stirred and released a deep sigh.

“What time is it?” His voice was muffled by the pillow.

“Just after 5 bells.”

“I see the sun has rudely decided to awake, I could use a few more hours of sleep.” He turned on his side to face her, one hand tucked beneath the pillow and the other carefully placed between them.

She hummed and reached for him slowly, gently brushing his knuckles with her fingertips. “You should rest then.”

“Does the captain have anything pressing today?”

“No more than the Barrell Boss.”

“Stay here with me today, I can get Pim to send a runner to get us waffles.”

The morning sun glowed golden on the miracle before her. Kaz looked...at ease, open...hopeful. It made her heart flutter in her chest.

“For you, I would stay even without the promise of waffles. But I will appreciate and enjoy them nonetheless.”

He took her hand in his and kissed it. The day was new and they were just a boy and a girl, sure there was magic in the world.

#kanej #kanej fanfic #six of crows #crooked kingdom #inej ghafa #kaz brekker #i am so soft for these two my goodness #also if anyone wants me to continue this idea lmk #I might do it regardless but still #kaz x inej #inej x kaz #mwrites

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ketterdam-it · 3 years ago

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Part 1 of 3

TW: Angst

One final job for The Crows, Kaz had managed to get everyone together, this would be it before each of them went their own ways.

Wylan and Jesper planned to travel, to visit every wonderful place in the world, together. Nina and Mattias were going to Ravka, for him to meet her Grisha family and then to Fjerda. And Kaz and Inej, well they had bought Kaz's old family farm. When Inej wasn't at sea, they'd live there, they were just about to move in, to start a new chapter of their lives, and Kaz couldn't be happier.

This heist followed a simple plan, and it was over in only two hours. Kaz had told each of them to meet him at the courtyard a bit off from the bank they had just succeeded in robbing. The one that held 13 million Kruge belonging to a Mercher who'd done the Dregs wrong.

They were meant to meet him at the courtyard and as Kaz waited for them. They didn't arrive. It was 15 minutes past when they agreed to meet and the clouds had begun to gather over Ketterdam. Kaz waited 15 more minutes before he made his way to the Crow Club, just a tinge of worry clouding their victory. They agreed to meet in the private room there if they couldn't meet at the courtyard for any reason.

He walked slowly down the cobblestone road, his leg ached more than usual and everything around Kaz was odd, a foreign feeling covered the city like a thick layer of snow, thick in the air, and coating everything around him. There were less rowdy drunkards crowding the streets as he made his way into the Barrel. Everyone around him seemed to move slower and an uneasy feeling spread through Kaz's chest. Constricting his breathing until he did his best to shake it off, to will it away. Though he mostly did, that tinge of worry, that tad of fear, for his friends, his family, for Inej, it lingered.

When at last he reached the Crow Club, he was ready for the relief of seeing his friends, even a bit excited to be forced into celebrating with them. This was a win for them, and their last one at that.

Pim nodded hello as Kaz walked to the back room, his cane thumping consistently on the floor as he did so. The other Dregs weren't aware of what he'd just pulled off, but it'd be a nice surprise for them later. He reached out a gloved hand to turn the door knob, but he faltered, his gloves. He removed them, and though the worry was still there, a small whisper of a smile played on his lips, until he opened the door, and was met with the overwhelming emptiness of the dark room.

Jesper was not there cracking jokes, Nina was not there to tease Matthias, and Matthias was not there to be teased, Wylan was not at the table, begrudgingly playing a game of cards with Jesper, knowing he would win. But the thing that felt the most wrong, was Inej wasn't there. With her long braided hair, and her light, beautiful laugh.

None of them were there and Kaz knew in his heart, in his gut, and in every possibility of what could have gone wrong, that something did, something happened, something was very wrong. The darkness of the room nearly swallowed him whole as the fear began to tear into his heart, the worry robbing his mind of that short-lived victory.

The tinge of worry from before ran rapid through him, he shivered as it went down his spine and his hands shook as it overtook him.

He slammed the door shut, knowing if he didn't he may be trapped there, allowing the darkness to consume him. Something was terribly wrong and Kaz would be damned if he didn't find his friends, if he didn't help them. Then, from the darkest corners of his mind, the possibilities rolled in, the pictures of everything that could have happened to them played over and over, pulling him under the water, drawing him, each horrid image ripping the air from his lungs.

And like that, Kaz Brekker was off, fear and vengeance fighting for a place in his heart, both bloodthirsty creatures. He was nearly running out the door of the Crow Club, down the cobblestones, pain searing through his leg, his head throbbed and his heart pounded as if it would explode. Once he was out of sight, he ran, he ran as though the world was caving in around him. And for him, in this moment it was.

He took every shortcut he knew through every alleyway and behind each building. Ghezen if he didn’t need to do this heist he wouldn’t have, never would have dragged them all into this, but he did, the Dregs were out of money and Jesper was in debt, even Nina and Mathias needed this money.

His emotions ran wild and he didn’t stop it, he could use it. He needed to get to them. He ended to get to Inej, and to his family, and to get his unborn child.

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scorpio-musing · 3 years ago

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Who: Klaus + Solveig Where: Klaus’ room, post afterparty

It had been quite the night, which wasn’t entirely a bad thing. Honestly it had been a while since Solveig’d hooked up with a woman, she’d almost forgotten how fun it could be. Sure, she’d turned out to be a princess, but we didn’t have to talk about that with anyone. Still, there was always that moment, after she’d parted from her company that it felt like something was missing. Or someone. And the alcohol only seemed to amplify the feelings. She’d spent so long trying to go around her feelings, it occurred to her clouded mind, that maybe it was time to go through it.

It had only taken a split second to text Klaus. And admittedly, arguing with him had brought a small smile to her lips. After pulling on her underthings she’d grabbed an over sized t-shirt she’d stolen from some now nameless man years ago. Not exactly her sexiest get-up, at least at first sight, but after a quick hair and makeup touchup, she was out the door. It was then that the nerves really set in, when she was almost to his door and he’d stopped texting her. She was committed now though, and he was expecting her. No point in trying to turn back, that would make it worse for her tomorrow.

Making it to his door, she raised her hand, poised to bang loudly, before thinking twice and knocking gently instead. It didn’t take long for him to open the door and seeing his stupid pretty face suddenly made an anger flare up in her. Well, not an anger exactly, but something close enough to fool herself into believing it was. She didn’t really have a plan for this part though, so furrowing her brow she just looked up at him for a moment. “I hate you,” she finally said.

Klaus had made it back to his chambers when the after-party slowed down. His hair was still wet from his little impromptu pool rendezvous, and his jacket was missing because he’d lent it to Pim. But, all in all, he still looked impeccable. Loosening up the tie around his neck, he discarded it on the clothes hanger close to the door. He had to admit that at those hours, he wasn’t expecting Solveig to want to meet up. The German could roll with it, though, as ominously as she might have made it sound. He doubted this would be some random booty call, given the content of her messages.

Klaus had time to remove his shoes and undo the first few buttons of his shirt until there was a muffled knock on his door. The guard moved toward it, opened it up gently, and looked at her up and down for any markers of what might have led her there that night, yet he found none. Solveig’s opening statement, however, had him arching an eyebrow and staring quizzically at her as if she had, somehow, sprouted a second head in the span of a few short hours. A crease formed between his perfectly smooth forehead, and the German tilted his head to the side. “Greetings to you, too, Solveig,” he spoke with a humorous lilt. “And I’m so happy that you decided to go out of your way to come say that to me on a night I was having such a good time,” it was hard to miss the chiding in his voice.

Turning around on his heels, Klaus took a few steps away from the door, leaving room so she could come inside if it was of her choosing. Undoing the cufflink buttons of his pristine white shirt, he looked at her over his shoulder. “Are you going to tell me why you’re really here?”

Oh good, his hair was wet too. Just in case she thought he couldn’t get more attractive and the universe wanted to give her the middle finger. Her eyes travelled down momentarily too, noticing the top few open buttons of his shirt. The way it seemed to be tailored to accentuate his sculpted body. The humor in his voice pulled her back though and she narrowed her eyes at him. “Why, did it ruin your delightful evening?” Too far into the bottle, she couldn’t keep some of the bitterness out of her voice. That she had a particularly good reason to be bitter, but being tipsy and and frustrated it somehow made sense to her.

As he stepped away she hesitated before following him in. Planned conversation aside, something about Klaus’ room always made her feel out of place, and more-so after drinking. It was too clean, too impersonal, and like she needed to be sanitized before she was allowed to sit in a chair. “Well if you would just stop talking I would tell you.” Not that he was talking that much. With a huff she kicked the door closed behind her. “Like I said though, I do hate you, and I think we should keep that in mind. I mean, fuck, your are arrogant, rude, critical, self-centered. There is really nothing about you to not hate.” As she babbled Solveig took the long way around him, before coming to finally stand in front of him with her arms crossed. “And yet...”

@museplanet-hq

#solveig #ST: Klaus #ST: Klaus001 #wor verse

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boreothegoldfinch · 3 years ago

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chapter 11 paragraph xiii

The painting was wrapped and tied, and Boris had tucked it under his arm and—taking a last draw on his cigarette—had stepped around to the driver’s side and was about to get in the car when, behind us, a casual and friendly-sounding American voice said, “Merry Christmas.” I turned. There were three of them, two lazy-walking middle-aged men drifting along a bit bemusedly with the air of having come to do us a favor—it was Boris they were addressing, not me, they seemed glad to see him—and, skittering slightly in front of them, the Asian boy. His white coat was not a kitchen worker’s coat at all but some asymmetrical thing made out of white wool about an inch thick; and he was shivering and practically blue-lipped with fright. He was unarmed, or seemed to be, which was good, because what I mainly noticed about the other two—big guys, all business—was blued handgun metal glinting in the sleazy fluorescents. Even then, I didn’t get it— the friendly voice had thrown me; I thought they’d caught the boy and were bringing him to us—until I looked over at Boris and saw how still he’d gone, chalk-white. “Sorry to do this to you,” said the American to Boris, though he didn’t sound sorry—if anything, pleased. He was broadshouldered and bored-looking, in a soft gray coat, and despite his age there was something petulant and cherubic about him, overly ripe, soft white hands and a soft managerial blandness. Boris—cigarette in mouth—stood frozen. “Martin.” “Yeah, hey!” said Martin genially, as the other guy—gray blond thug in a pea coat, coarse features out of Nordic folklore—ambled straight up to Boris, and, after grappling around at Boris’s waistband, took his gun and passed it over to Martin. In my confusion I looked at the boy in the white coat but it was like he’d been struck on the head with a hammer, he didn’t seem any more amused or edified by any of this than I was. “I know this sucks for you,” said Martin—“but. Wow.” The low key voice was a shocking contrast to the eyes, which were like a puff adder’s. “Hey. Sucks for me too. Frits and I were at Pim’s, we weren’t expecting to get out. Nasty weather, eh? Where’s our white Christmas?” “What are you doing here?” said Boris, who despite his overly still air was as afraid as I’d ever seen him. “What do you think?” Jocular shrug. “I’m surprised as you, if it makes any difference. Never would have thought Sascha had the balls to call in Horst on this. But—hey, fuck-up like this, who else could he call, I guess? Let’s have it,” he said, with an affable tick of the gun, and with a rush of horror I realized he was pointing the gun at Boris, gesturing with the gun at the felt-wrapped package in Boris’s hands. “Come on. Give it over.” “No,” said Boris sharply, shaking the hair from his eyes. Martin blinked, with a sort of befuddled whimsy. “What’s that you say?” “No.” “What?” Martin laughed. “No? Are you kidding me?” “Boris! Give it to them!” I stammered, as I stood frozen in horror, as the one named Frits put his pistol to Boris’s temple and then caught Boris by the hair and pulled his head back so sharply he groaned. “I know,” said Martin amicably, with a collegial glance at me, as if to say: hey, these Russians—nuts, am I right? “Come on,” he said to Boris. “Let’s have it.” Again Boris moaned, as the guy yanked his hair once more, and from across the car threw me an unmistakeable look—which I understood just as plainly as if he’d spoken the words aloud, an urgent and very specific cut of the eyes straight from our shoplifting days: run for it, Potter, go. “Boris,” I said, after a disbelieving pause, “please, just give it to them,” but Boris only moaned again, despairingly, as Frits jammed the gun hard under his chin and Martin stepped forward to take the painting from him. “Excellent. Thanks for that,” he said bemusedly, tucking his gun under his arm and beginning to pluck and fumble with the string, which Boris had tied in an obstinate little knot. “Cool.” His fingers weren’t working very well, and up close, when he’d reached to take the painting, I’d seen why: he was high as a kite.

“Anyway—” Martin glanced behind him, as if wanting to include absent friends on the joke, then back with another bemused shrug—“sorry. Take them over there, Frits,” he said, still busy with the painting, nodding at a shadowy, dungeon-like corner of the garage, darker than the rest, and when Frits turned partly from Boris to gesture at me with the gun—come on, come on, you too—I realized, cold with horror, what Boris had known was going to happen from the moment he saw them: why he’d wanted me to run for it, or at least to try. But in the half-moment as Frits was motioning to me with the gun, we’d all lost track of Boris, whose cigarette flew out in a shower of sparks. Frits screamed and slapped his cheek, then stumbled back grappling at his collar where it had lodged against his neck. In the same instant Martin—distracted with the painting, directly across from me—looked up, and I was still looking at him blankly across the roof of the car when I heard it, to my right, three fast cracks which made us both turn quickly to the side. With the fourth (flinching, eyes closed) a warm spray of blood thumped across the car roof and struck me in the face and when I opened my eyes again the Asian kid was stepping back horrified and drawing a hand down his front in a bloody smear like a butcher’s apron and I was staring at a lighted sign Beetaalautomaat op where Boris’s head had been; blood was pouring from under the car and Boris was on the ground on his elbows, feet going, he was trying to scramble up from the floor, I couldn’t tell if he was hurt or not and I must have run around to him without thinking because the next thing I knew I was on the other side of the car and trying to help him up, blood everywhere, Frits was a mess, slumped against the car with a baseball-sized hole in the side of his head, and I’d just noticed Frits’s gun lying on the ground when I heard Boris exclaim sharply and there was Martin, tight-eyed with blood on his sleeve, hand clamped to his arm and fumbling to bring up his gun. It had happened before it even happened, like a skip in a DVD throwing me forward in time, because I have no memory at all of picking the pistol off the floor, only of a kick so hard it threw my arm in the air, I didn’t really hear the bang until I felt the kick and the casing flew back and hit me in the face and I shot again, eyes half-closed against the noise and my arm jolting with every shot, the trigger had a resistance to it, a stiffness, like pulling some tooheavy door latch, car windows popping and Martin with an arm coming up, exploding safety glass and chunks of concrete flying out a pillar and I’d got Martin in the shoulder, the soft gray cloth was drenched and dark, a spreading dark stain, cordite smell and deafening echo that drove me so deep inside my skull that it was less like actual sound striking my eardrums than a wall slamming down hard in my mind and driving me back into some hard internal blackness from childhood, and Martin’s viper eyes met mine and he was slumped forward with the gun propped on the roof of the car when I shot again and hit him above the eye, red burst that made me flinch and then, somewhere behind me, I heard the sound of running feet slapping on concrete —the boy, white coat running to the exit ramp with the painting under his arm, he was running up the ramp to the street, echoes reverberating in the tiled space and I almost shot at him only somehow it was a completely different moment and I was facing away from the car, I was doubled over with my hands on my knees and the gun was on the ground, I had no memory of dropping it although the sound was there, it was clattering to the floor and it kept on clattering and I was still hearing the echoes and feeling the vibration of the gun up my arm, retching and doubled over, with Frits’s blood crawling and curling on my tongue.

Out of the darkness the sound of feet running, and again I could not see, or move, everything black at the edges and I was falling even though I wasn’t because somehow I was sitting on a low stretch of tiled wall with my head between my knees looking down at clear red spit, or vomit, on the shiny, epoxy-painted concrete between my shoes and Boris, there was Boris, winded and breathless and bloody, running back in, his voice was coming from a million miles off, Potter, are you all right? he’s gone, I couldn’t catch him, he got away. I drew my palm down my face and looked at the red smear on my hand. Boris was still talking to me with some urgency but even though he was shaking my shoulder it was mostly mouth movements and nonsense through soundproof glass. The smoke from the fired gun was oddly the same bracing ammonia smell of Manhattan thunderstorms and wet city pavements. Robin’s egg speckles on the door of a pale blue Mini. Nearer, creeping dark from under Boris’s car, a glossy satin pool three feet wide was spreading and inching forward like an amoeba, and I wondered how long before it reached my shoe and what I would do when it did. Hard, but without anger, Boris cuffed me with his closed fist on the side of the head: an impersonal clout, no heat about it at all. It was as if he were performing CPR. “Come on,” he said. “Your specs,” he said with a short nod. My glasses—blood-smeared, unbroken—lay on the ground by my foot. I didn’t remember them falling off. Boris picked them up himself, wiped them on his own sleeve, and handed them to me. “Come on,” he said, catching my arm, pulling me up. His voice was level and soothing although he was splattered with blood and I could feel his hands shaking. “All over now. You saved us.” The gunshot had set off my tinnitus like a swarm of locusts buzzing in my ears. “You did good. Now—over here. Hurry.” He led me behind the glassed-in office, which was locked and dark. My camel’s-hair coat had blood on it, and Boris took it off me like an attendant at a coat check, and turned it inside out and draped it over a concrete post. “You will have to get rid of this thing,” he said, with a violent shudder. “Shirt too. Not now—later. Now—” opening a door, crowding in behind me, flipping on a light—“come on.” Dank bathroom, stinking of urinal cakes and urine. No sink, only a bare water spigot and a drain in the floor. “Quick, quick,” said Boris, turning the faucet full pressure. “Not perfection. Just—yeow!” grimacing as he stuck his head under the spout, splashing his face, scrubbing it palm down— “Your arm,” I found myself saying. He was holding it wrong. “Yes yes—” cold water flying everywhere, coming up for air—“he winged me, not bad, only a nick—oh God—” spitting and spluttering—“I should have listened to you. You tried to say! Boris, you said, someone back there! In the kitchen! But did I listen to you? Pay attention? No. That little fucker—the Chinese kid—that was Sascha’s boyfriend! Woo, Goo, I cannot remember his name. Aah—” sticking his head under the faucet again, burbling for a moment as the water streamed over his face—“—bloo! you saved us Potter, I thought we were dead.…”

Standing back, he scrubbed his hands over his face, bright red and dripping. “Okay,” he said, wiping the water out of his eyes, slinging it away, then steering me to the pounding faucet, “now, you. Head under—yes yes, cold!” Pushing me under when I flinched. “Sorry! I know! Hands, face—” Water like ice, choking, it was going up my nose, I’d never felt anything so cold but it brought me around a bit. “Quick, quick,” said Boris, hauling me up. “Suit—dark—doesn’t show. Nothing we can do about the shirt, collar up, here, let me do it. Scarf is in the car, yes? You can wind it around your neck? No no—forget it—” I was shivering, grabbing for my coat, teeth ringing with cold, my whole upper body was soaked through—“well, go ahead, you’ll freeze, just keep it turned to lining side out.” “Your arm.” Though his coat was dark and the light was bad I saw the burnt skid at his bicep, black wool sticky with blood. “Forget it. Is nothing. My God, Potter—” starting back to the car—half running, me hurrying to keep up, panicked at the thought of losing him, of being left. “Martin! That bastard is a bad diabetic, I have been hoping he would die for years. Grateful Dead, I owe you too!” he said, tucking the snub nose in his pocket, then—from the handkerchief pocket of his suit—drawing a bag of white powder which he opened and tossed down in a spray. “There,” he said, dusting his hands off with a lurching back step; he was ash white, his pupils were fixed and even when he looked up at me, he seemed not to see me. “That is all they will be looking for. Martin will be carrying too, all junked up, did you notice? That was why he was so slow— him and Frits too. They were not expecting that call—not expecting to go to work tonight. God—” squeezing his eyes shut—“we were lucky.” Sweaty, dead pale, wiping his forehead. “Martin knows me, he knows what I carry, he was not expecting me to have that other gun and you—they were not thinking of you at all. Get in the car,” he said. “No no—” catching my arm; I was following him to the driver’s side like a sleepwalker—“not there, it’s a mess. Oh—” stopping, cold, an eternity passing in the flickering greenish light— before wobbling around for his own gun on the floor, which he wiped clean with a cloth from his pocket and—holding it carefully, between the cloth— dropped on the ground. “Whew,” he said, trying to catch his breath. “That will confuse them. They will be trying to trace that thing for years.” He stopped, holding his nicked arm with one hand: he looked me up and down. “Can you drive?” I couldn’t answer. Glazed, dizzy, trembling. My heart, after the collision and freeze of the moment, had begun to pound with hard, sharp, painful blows like a fist striking in the center of my chest. Quickly, Boris shook his head, made a tch tch sound. “Other side,” he said, when I, feet moving of their own accord, followed him again. “No no—” leading me back around, opening the front passenger door and giving me a little shove. Drenched. Shivering. Nauseated. On the floor: pack of Stimorol gum. Road map: Frankfurt Offenbach Hanau. Boris had circled around to the car, checking it out. Then, gingerly, he came back to the driver’s side—weaving a bit; trying not to step in blood— and sat behind the wheel and held it with both hands and took a deep breath. “Okay,” he said, on a long exhale, talking to himself like a pilot about to take off on a mission. “Buckle up. You too. Brake lights working? Tail lights?” Patting his pockets, sliding up the seat, turning the heater up to High. “Plenty of gas—good. Heated seats too—will warm us up. We can’t be stopped,” he explained. “Because I cannot drive.” All sorts of tiny noises: creak of seat leather, water ticking from my wet sleeve. “Can’t drive?” I said, in the intense ringing silence. “Well, I can.” Defensively. “I have. I—” starting up the car, backing out with his arm along the seat—“well, why do you think I have a driver? Am I this fancy? No. I do have—” upheld forefinger—“drunk-driving conviction.” I closed my eyes to keep from seeing the slumped bloody mass as we

drove past it. “So, you see, if they stop me they will run me in and this is what we do not want to happen.” I could barely hear what he was saying over the fierce buzzing in my head. “You will have to help me out. Like—watch for street signs and keep me from driving in bus lanes. The cycle paths are red here, you are not supposed to drive on them either so help me watch for those too.”

On the Overtoom again, heading back into Amsterdam: Locksmith Sleutelkluis, Vacatures, Digitaal Printen, Haji Telecom, Onbeperkt Genieten, Arabic letters, lights streaking, it was like a nightmare, I was never going to get off this fucking road. “God, I better slow down,” said Boris somberly. He looked glassy and wrecked. “Trajectcontrole. Help me watch for signs.” Blood smear on my cuff. Big fat drops. “Trajectcontrole. That means some machine tells the police you are speeding. They drive unmarked cars, a lot of them, and sometimes they will follow a while before they stop you although—we are lucky—not much traffic out this way tonight. Weekend, I guess, and holiday. This is not exactly Happy Christmas neighborhood out here if you get me. You understand what just happened, don’t you?” said Boris, heaving for breath and scrubbing his nose hard with a gasping sound. “No.” Somebody else talking, not me. “Well—Horst. Both those guys were Horst’s. Frits is maybe only person in Amsterdam he knew to call on such short notice but Martin—fuck.” He was speaking very fast and erratically, so fast he could barely get the words out, and his eyes were flat and staring. “Who even knew Martin was in town? You know how Horst and Martin met, don’t you?” he said, half-glancing at me. “Mental home! Fancy California mental home! ‘Hotel California,’ Horst used to call it! That was back when Horst’s family was still talking to him. Horst was in for rehab but Martin was in because he is really, truly nuts. Like, eyestabber kind of nuts. I have seen Martin do things I really do not like to talk about. I—” “Your arm.” It was hurting him; I could see the tears glittering in his eyes. Boris made a face. “Nyah. This is zero. This is nothing. Aah,” he said, lifting his elbow up so I could wrap the phone charger cable around his arm— I’d yanked it out, wrapped it twice above the wound, tied it tight as I could —“smart you. Good precaution. Thanks! Although, no need really. Just a graze—more bruised than anything, I think. Good this coat is so thick! Clean it out—some antibyotic and something for pain—I’ll be fine. I—” deep shuddering breath—“I need to find Gyuri and Cherry. I hope they went straight to Blake’s. Dima—Dima needs a heads-up too, about the mess in there. He will not be happy—there will be cops, big headache—but it will look random. There is nothing to tie him to this.” Headlights sweeping past. Blood pounding in my ears. There weren’t many cars on the road but every one that passed made me flinch. Boris moaned and dragged his palm across his face. He was saying something, very speedy and agitated. “What?” “I said—this is a mess. I am still figuring it out.” Voice staccato and cracked. “Because this is what I am wondering now—maybe I am wrong, maybe I am paranoid—but maybe Horst knew all along? That Sascha took the picture? Only Sascha brought the picture out of Germany and tries to borrow money on it behind Horst’s back. And then when things go wrong—Sascha panics—who else could he call? of course, I am just thinking out loud, maybe Horst didn’t know Sascha took it, maybe he would never have known if Sascha hadn’t been so careless and dumb as to—Goddamn this fucking ring road,” said Boris suddenly. We had gotten off the Overtoom and were circling around. “Which is the direction I want? Turn on the Nav.” “I—” fumbling around, incomprehensible words, menu I couldn’t read, Geheugen, Plaats, turning the dial, different menu, Gevarieerd, Achtergrond. “Oh, hell. We will try this one. God, that was close,” said Boris, taking the turn a little too fast and sloppy. “You have some minerals, Potter. Frits—Frits was out of it, nodding practically, but Martin, my God. Then you—? Coming around so brave? Hurrah! I did not even think of you there. But there you were! Say you never handled a firearm before?” “No.” Wet black streets. “Well, let me tell you something that will maybe sound funny? But—is a compliment. You shoot like a girl. You know why is a compliment? Because,” said Boris, with a giddy, feverish slur in his voice, “in situation of threat,

male who never fired weapon before and female who never fired weapon before? The female—so Bobo used to say—is much more likely to drop her mark. Most men? want to look tough, have seen too much movies, get too impatient and pop their shot off too fast—Shit,” said Boris suddenly, slamming on the brakes. “What?” “We don’t want this.” “Don’t want what?” “This street is closed.” Throwing the car in reverse. Backing down the street. Construction. Fences with bulldozers behind them, empty buildings with blue plastic tarps in the windows. Stacks of piping, cement blocks, graffiti in Dutch.

“What are we going to do?” I said, in the paralyzed silence that followed, after we’d turned down a different street that seemed to have no streetlights at all. “Well—no bridge here that we can cross. And that’s a dead end, so…” “No, I mean what are we going to do.” “About what?” “I—” My teeth were chattering so hard I could barely get the words out. “Boris, we’re fucked.” “No! We are not. Grozdan’s gun—” awkwardly he patted his coat pocket —“I’ll drop it in the canal. They can’t trace it back to me, if they can’t trace it back to him? And—nothing else to tie us. Because my gun? Clean. No serial. Even the car tires are new! I’ll get the car to Gyuri and he’ll change them tonight. Look here,” said Boris, when I didn’t answer, “don’t worry! We are safe! Shall I say it again? S-A-F-E” (spelling it out clumsily on four fingers). Hitting a pothole, I flinched, unconsciously, a startle reaction, hands flying up to my face. “And why, more than anything? Because we are old friends—because we trust each other. And because—oh God, there’s a cop, let me slow down.” Staring at my shoes. Shoes shoes shoes. All I could think, when I’d put them on a few hours before I hadn’t killed anybody. “Because—Potter, Potter, think about this. Listen for one moment please. What if I was a stranger—someone you did not know or trust? If you were driving from garage now with stranger? Then your life would be chained with a stranger’s forever. You would need to be very very careful with this person, long as you live.” Cold hands, cold feet. Snackbar, Supermarkt, spotlit pyramids of fruit and candy, Verkoop Gestart! “Your life—your freedom—resting on a stranger’s loyalty? In that case? Yes. Worry. Absolutely. You would be in very big trouble. But—no one knows of this thing but us. Not even Gyuri!” Unable to speak, I shook my head vigorously at this, trying to catch my breath. “Who? China Boy?” Boris made a disgusted noise. “Who’s he going to tell? He is underage and not here legally. He does not speak any proper language.” “Boris”—leaning forward slightly; I felt like I was going to pass out —“he’s got the painting.” “Ah.” Boris grimaced with pain. “That is gone, I’m afraid.” “What?” “For good, maybe. I am sick over that—sick in my heart. Because, I hate to say it—Woo, Goo, what’s his name? After what he saw—? All he will think about is himself. Scared to death! People dead! Deportation! He does not want to be involved. Forget about the picture. He has no idea of its true value. And if he finds himself in any kind of fix with the cops? Rather than spend one day in jail even? All he will want is to get rid of it. So—” he shrugged woozily—“let’s hope he does get away, the little shit. Otherwise very good chance the ptitsa will end up thrown in canal—burned.” Streetlights glinting off the hoods of parked cars. I felt disincarnate, cut loose from myself. How it would feel to be back in my body again I couldn’t imagine. We were back in the old city, cobblestone rattle, nocturne monochrome straight out of Aert van der Neer with the seventeenth century pressing close on either side and silver coins dancing on black canal water. “Ach, this is closed,” groaned Boris, jerking to a stop again, backing up the car, “we must find another way.” “Do you know where we are?” “Yes—of course,” said Boris, with a sort of scary disconnected cheerfulness. “That’s your canal over there. The Herengracht.” “Which canal?” “Amsterdam is an easy city to get around,” Boris said, as if I hadn’t spoken. “In the old city all you have to do is follow the canals until—Oh, God, they closed this off too.” Tonal gradations. Weirdly enlivened darks. The small ghostly moon above the bell gables was so tiny it looked like the moon of a different planet, hazed and occult, spooky clouds lit with just the barest tinge of blue and brown.

“Don’t worry, this happens all the time. They are always building something here. Big construction messes. All this—I think is for a new subway line or something. Everyone is annoyed by it. Many accusations of fraud, yah yah. Same in every city, no?” His voice was so blurry he sounded drunk. “Roadwork everywhere, politicians getting rich? That is why everyone rides a bike, it is quicker, only, I am sorry, I am not riding a bicycle anywhere one week before Christmas. Oh no—” narrow bridge, dead halt behind a line of cars—“are we moving?” “I—” We were stopped on a pedestrian footbridge. Visible pink drops on the rain-splashed windows. People walking back and forth not a foot away. “Get out of the car and look. Oh, hang on,” he said impatiently before I could pull myself together; throwing the car into Park, getting out himself. I saw his floodlit back in the headlights, formal and staged-looking amidst billows of exhaust. “Van,” he said, throwing himself back in the car. Slamming the door. Taking a deep breath, bracing his arms out straight against the steering wheel. “What is he doing?” Glancing side to side, panicked, half expecting some random pedestrian to notice the bloodstains, rush at the car, bang at the windows, throw open the door. “How should I know? There are too many cars in this fucking city. Look,” said Boris—sweating and pale in the lurid tail lights of the car in front of us; more cars had pulled up behind, we were trapped—“who knows how long we will be here. We are only few blocks from your hotel. Better you should get out and walk.” “I—” Was it the lights of the car in front of us that made the water drops on the windshield look quite so red? He made an impatient flicking movement of the hand. “Potter, just go,” he said. “I don’t know what is going on with this van up here. I’m afraid the traffic police will show up. Better for us both if we are not together just now. Herengracht—you cannot miss it. The canals here run in circles, you know that, don’t you? Just go that way—” he pointed—“you will find it.” “What about your arm?” “It’s nothing! I’d take off my coat to show you except is too much trouble. Now go. I have to talk to Cherry.” Pulling his cell phone from his pocket. “I may have to leave town for a little while—” “What?” “—but if we don’t speak for a bit, don’t worry, I know where you are. Best if you don’t try to call me or get in touch. I’ll be back soon as I can. Everything will be okay. Go—clean up—scarf around the neck, up high—we will speak soon. Don’t look so pale and ill! Do you have anything on you? Do you need something?” “What?” Scrabbling in his pocket. “Here, take this.” Glassine envelope with a smeared stamp. “Not too much, it is very very pure. Size of a match head. No more. And when you wake up, it will not be quite so bad. Now, remember—” dialing his phone; I was very conscious of his heavy breathing—“keep your scarf high up at your neck and walk on the dark side of the street as much as you can. Go!” he shouted when still I sat there, so loudly that I saw a man on the pedestrian walk of the bridge turn to look. “Hurry up! Cherry,” he said, slumping back in his seat in visible relief and beginning to babble hoarsely in Ukrainian as I exited the car—feeling lurid and exposed in the ghastly wash of headlights from the stalled vehicles—and walked back over the bridge, the way we’d come. My last sight of him, he was talking on the phone with the window rolled down and leaning out, in extravagant clouds of auto fume, to see what was going on with the stalled van ahead.

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spell-cleaver · 4 years ago

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The Mourners

This year I got to participate in @grishaversebigbang and it was so much fun! So many thanks to my gang:

Corporalki: @dirtyhandsnet

Materialki: @dthieno, whose art is here, @mooni-mars, whose art is here, @phantomscpera

Summary: When Kaz Brekker goes missing in the middle of Ketterdam, Inej and Jesper team up to look for him, and think about what he means to each of them along the way.

Read it here on AO3, or under the cut!

The Mourners

Inej Ghafa was feeling relaxed, which then made her feel suspicious.

She'd been perched in the rafters of the Slat for several hours now, sharpening her knives with a sort of lazy precision, only half of her attention focused on monitoring what was going on below. Anika and Pim had started bickering with Bastian, and Big Bolliger was staring at them with an odd look on his face—she made a mental note to investigate that later. She knew Per Haskell was upstairs, reviewing the meticulously kept records Kaz had given him on the Dregs' profits; he'd want to talk to Kaz as soon as he got back. So did she.

The assassination of the Zemeni ambassador still unnerved her. She wanted to spin more theories about it with him, wanted to find a way it could make sense, because if this assassin could pull off something the Wraith couldn't fathom... she didn't like that at all.

But Kaz wasn't back yet. He'd taken Jesper and Seeger to East Stave to scout out something Inej apparently hadn't been privy to, but that had been at noon. Now it was nearing eleven bells, and he wasn't back yet.

That was... strange.

She was not Kaz's keeper. But this, just as much as that assassination, unnerved her.

The Slat came alive whenever Kaz Brekker came home. She'd been crouched up here for hours, observing it all; she certainly hadn't missed his entrance.

Something must be wrong.

He'd grouch at her for fussing, but... something was clearly wrong.

She stood, nimble and balanced as a crow on its perch, and scampered along the beam, then along the wall, dropping nimbly onto the flight of stairs that led to the upper levels. Then she made a beeline for the ground floor, where Anika and Pim were still caught in their argument with Bastian. Anika's crop of yellow hair was easy to pick out.

They jumped out of their skins when Inej cleared her throat behind them.

"Do you know where Jesper is?" she asked lightly, but tactically. It wouldn't do to reveal that she was worried about Kaz, but Jesper? He might give her a few clues.

"Last I heard of him, he was going to the Crow Club," Pim said with a shrug, turning back to glare at Bastian. Inej nearly rolled her eyes; the Dregs could fight about the strangest things sometimes, and she was tempted to place a bet on how strange this disagreement would end up being as well. "Why?"

She shrugged. "He's my friend. And he owes me a game of cards."

"You'll find a game of cards at the Crow Club," Anika snorted, the corners of her lips curling upwards in a smirk. Inej ignored her and just pulled the hood of her jacket up, ducking out of the doors of the Slat to head on her way.

She kept her head low in the nighttime air, squinting against the dim yellow lights. The bridge over the canal, she crossed with speed, eyeing the cluster of people on the other side but walking straight forwards; they didn't look too dangerous, and if they tried anything she knew how to make them regret it.

But they didn't approach, and she continued on.

The Crow Club loomed; she gave a grim nod to the bouncers outside then ducked in. They knew her face well enough from whenever Kaz had asked her to run an errand and they didn't bother making a move to stop her.

She grimaced when she entered, squinting at the sudden change in light and noise. The music nearly blasted her off her feet, and the lamps on the walls and the glittering decor provided a stark contrast to the dull outside atmosphere no windows available to let in the night.

She glanced around. Most of the denizens were... not well-dressed but not poorly dressed either, out for a night of fun and pouring kruge into Kaz's coffers, while she was wearing the same dark clothes she always wore, but she passed unnoticed through the crowd anyway, like smoke.

Jesper... Jesper, where was—

She heard the spin of Makker's Wheel and glanced in that direction. He wasn't there. Instead, he was—

She heard raised voices.

Frowning, she headed for the toilets off the side where the back door onto an alley that wound its way to the canal stood open. She wrinkled her nose at the smell of the... alley... that wafted in, careful to shut the door that led back into the main room of the club, and then she heard the voices again.

"You think I had any choice about this, Rojakke? I didn't know Kaz was gonna let you go! I can't stop him."

Inej started forwards. That was definitely Jesper—he leaned against a wall a little was along, his lanky body as disproportionate as the ramshackle Slat. And there was Rojakke with him. She hesitated, then just stood there a little way away from them—close enough that they could see her if they looked, they were her friends and she wasn't about to eavesdrop on them without giving them a fair shot at spotting her—and listened.

"He trusts you, you gotta tell him—"

"Kaz? Trust me?" Rojakke was grasping at straws there and they both knew it, because— "Kaz doesn't trust anyone."

Rojakke grunted. "Yeah, well. He's wrong. I ain't no cheat."

"You wanna say that to his face? Or his cane?"

"I wasn't." That was a lie, Inej was pretty sure, but she couldn't help but feel bad for him anyway. "I ain't no cheat, and I'll tell him myself—where is he?"

"I don't know."

"He was with you, now where'd he go?"

"Rojakke, I don't know, now get out of here and get another job."

"Where's the Wraith? I'm sure she'd—"

"I don't know," Inej said, stepping forwards. Rojakke damn near jumped out of his skin, and she was pretty sure she saw Jesper reach for his guns before he realised who it was. "That's why I was looking for you, Jesper; where's Kaz?"

"Why does everyone think I know that?" Jesper grumbled.

"Because you were with him last!"

"I—"

"Rojakke, you've been let go." Inej cast him a look. Weakness wouldn't help here, and he'd been close to taking out his gripe on Jesper with his fists. "Get out of here, bluster about Kaz isn't gonna help you."

"I ain't got paid for my last shift yet!"

"And you're not gonna get paid if you've been skimming."

"So what, Brekker kicks me out without having the guts to come do it himself? Sends a little girl and a gunslinger to do it instead?"

"Kaz didn't send Inej—"

"Yes," Inej said flatly, slipping her hand into her pocket. Her brass knuckles fit snugly around her fingers. "Get out, Rojakke."

Rojakke reached for her, scowling fiercely. "I ain't leaving until I get what I'm owed, from Brekker or from—"

She struck him in the cheek. Once, twice. He staggered back.

"Rojakke..." Jesper said.

Rojakke ignored him, staring at Inej. "I thought we was friendly!"

Inej ignored that.

"You're a great dealer, Rojakke, you can get a job at any gambling den on East Stave. How about you just get out of here before Kaz comes looking to settle this debt himself, instead of sending a little girl and a gunslinger to do it, hmm?"

Rojakke scowled even more fiercely. She met his eye solidly; the only sound was the rhythmic lapping of the water against the nearby canal.

Finally, without a word, he left.

Inej led Jesper to an unused private gambling parlour before sitting him down in the dealer's chair. She didn't take one of the five seats around the table; instead she perched across two of the armrests, one boot planted firmly on the floor, the other perched at her knee.

"So?" Jesper raised an eyebrow at her, studying her. He could never tell much about her from her expressions, she rarely gave anything away, but something about the tension in her posture, her shoulders, her face, told him she was worried. "I appreciate the help with Rojakke, but what's this about?"

"You were with Kaz earlier. Where did he go? It's nearly twelve bells and he hasn't come back to the Slat since noon." She fixed her eyes on him: right now, she seemed so tense and taut that it was hard to imagine anyone ever not being able to notice her, but the shock she'd given him in the alley was proof enough of just how easy it was for her to vanish. Sometimes, Jesper, wondered if she genuinely was part-wraith after all.

He shrugged, leaning back in the chair, his left leg bouncing where he sat.

"Hell if I know. He just dumped me here, told me to let Rojakke go, 'cause he'd been skimming or something, then took off into the night." He tapped at his knee. "You don't know where he is? You know everything in this city."

Inej snorted.

"I wish." Jesper couldn't but notice as her fingers ghosted across her forearm, the mangled scar there, but didn't dwell on it. "But no, I don't know. And I don't like it."

"Because Kaz always tells you everything?"

"As if. I usually tell him most things, and I get nothing back. But it's not like him to take off into the night like this."

Jesper raised an eyebrow.

Inej rolled her eyes, a short laugh escaping her.

"Not for so long," she amended. "Not after he's spent so much time on some mysterious task with you. Did anything strange happen at... wherever you were, today? If he was distracted..."

"You think Kaz got jumped?" He shook his head. "You're fussing, Inej."

She wrinkled her nose.

"No." She slid off the chairs and back onto the floor. She didn't pace, what she did was more graceful than that, but— yeah, no, she was pacing gracefully. "This is odd. Especially with the murder of that Zemeni ambassador."

"No one who goes after an ambassador is gonna go after Kaz."

She gave him a look.

"What were you two even doing? I don't understand why Kaz is still being so secretive about it."

Jesper debated telling her for a few seconds. If Kaz hadn't already told her—and he told his Wraith everything—then he probably didn't want it shared. But he also probably didn't want Inej up and fussing about him all night, which would just harm his reputation.

"We were spying on the building works for the Kaelish Prince," he said easily. "Kaz is pissed off about something, he's intent on Pekka Rollins. There's no way he suddenly got the money to buy that building and start working on it, not from what we know about the Lions' coffers. Kaz wanted to check it out, see what Pekka's hiding."

Inej narrowed her eyes. "You were spying on Pekka Rollins?"

Right, he thought bitterly. That was usually her area of expertise.

"Nah. Just scouting the place around. You know Pekka's got good security; he probably doesn't want to send you in unless he knows there's something worth investigating. Doesn't want to risk you like that."

She snorted, glancing away.

"I could handle it."

Jesper winced.

"Look, I'm sure it's not that Kaz doesn't trust you."

It came out more bitter than he'd intended, and Inej stopped her pacing to glance at him. Good; at this rate, he thought as he bounced his leg some more, they were both going to wear out the gaudily patterned carpet.

"Kaz doesn't trust anyone," she said softly, repeating back what he'd said to Rojakke. How long had she been standing listening to that conversation, anyway?

He sank back in the chair with a slight sigh.

"I'm sure he'll be back soon, then you can interrogate him on wherever he's gone to your heart's content," he offered.

She took it as the joke it was, and smiled.

"He'd sooner break my arm with that cane of his."

"Nah." He kicked his legs up and got to his feet, heading for the door. "Then he'd have to wait for you to heal before you could spider again, and he's too impatient for that."

"Thank you," she said abruptly, just after he opened the door and the noise crashed in. "Come back to the Slat with me?"

Jesper glanced back at the tables, at Makker's Wheel, then to Inej, and realised that had not been a question.

"Sure," he said, and slung an arm around her shoulders. She was smaller than him, so it was easy; it was also easy to feel the way she tensed up momentarily, until he relaxed his grip and she leaned into him properly.

They walked back like that, the song of the canal the only sound.

The next morning came, and Inej woke to the sound of Per Haskell's fury. Kaz was not yet back.

He was spitting, shouting something at Anika or Pim or someone, and Inej was fairly sure he'd be shouting for her next; who else would know where Dirtyhands had gone than the Wraith who kept his secrets?

But she didn't know where he was.

And that meant, she thought grimly, counting her blades where they laid tucked against her skin—Sankta Alina, Sankt Petyr, Sankta Lizabeta—she had to go and look for him herself.

The first plan of action she ought to take was to go to the Kaelish Prince herself, and scout out what had happened. That was the last place he'd been reliably, other than a brief visit to the Crow Club and disappearing, and... well, Inej would be lying if Kaz didn't always seem to have a vendetta against Pekka Rollins. From time to time he'd get a vicious look in his eye; he'd say nothing but he'd stare into the distance, hand tightening on his cane and mouth tightening in a way that made the harsh lines on his face even more severe, eyes narrowed minutely. It was a tiny expression that she doubted most people would pick up on, but he had been the one to teach her to notice things. He couldn't give her a knife then expect her not to use it.

So, by all realms of logic... the Kaelish Prince was where she'd be headed. To investigate Pekka Rollins more, and therefore investigate what by all the Saints Kaz was up to.

But she didn't. Kaz would not have returned there—she knew that. She'd go there as a desperate measure, but if Kaz had merely been on a night stakeout mission to watch a place, he would've told someone.

He would've told me.

Instead, when she climbed out of the tiny window of her tiny, ratty room and vaulted over ramshackle rooftops, she headed west—towards West Stave. It was morning, there would be a fresh wave of pigeons flowing in from arriving ships, ready to be plucked and ushered into various dens of iniquity, and wherever profit was being made, Kaz was right around the corner.

She clambered over the rooftops, just enjoying the way the crows swooped overhead and the early morning sunlight played against the still-dewy cobblestones. They distracted her from her worry.

She shouldn't be worrying. Kaz knew what he was doing. Kaz didn't need her to, as Jesper had so eloquently put it, fuss.

But she worried anyway. Something was wrong.

Was she just hurt he hadn't told her? she wondered as she shimmied down a drainpipe and landed in the street, striding through clouds of tourists like a shadow. She passed the White Rose, saw Nina Zenik striding towards it. When she caught her eye, Nina gave her a flirtatious wave and Inej returned the gesture, smiling exasperatedly.

Somewhat buoyed by that, she continued on, but she had to continue thinking—was she just hurt that she didn't know? The fact that she didn't know shouldn't be unusual. She hadn't known Kaz had had dirt on those guards at the standoff a few nights ago, she hadn't known he'd be able to look Geels in the eye like that and win, and she hadn't known he had dirt on Big Bolliger. Kaz Brekker didn't need a reason, but he always had one—it just so happened that none of the rest of the poor suckers who shared this city with him happened to have any clue what it was.

She ducked down West Stave, ran along Goedmedbridge, then onto the other side. Beneath her on the canal, a boat full of flowers punted past; she could smell wild geraniums, flamboyant roses, orange lilies...

Inej appreciated flowers, but few with sweet, notable scents were hardy enough to be grown in Ketterdam. The artificial perfumes slathered on them stung her nose, and she turned away.

Perhaps it was a good thing there was no boy in this city who would buy her flowers.

She ducked into the crowds and just... observed this time, hanging around the Anvil in particular, watching people come and go. Cobbet, Tante Heleen's favoured bruiser, was stationed outside the Menagerie as usual, and Inej ducked her head to avoid meeting his gaze before she melted back into the shadows. She climbed back onto the rooftops and watched from there.

Kaz wasn't anywhere around here; she'd know the distinctive tap-tap-tap of his cane anywhere. But she still let herself scan the crowd, and listen closely at every door before she took off back towards the White Rose again, hopping back down—again—to street level. Perhaps, if Nina didn't have a client, she could talk to her; she served some of the richest and most well-connected men in the city, soothing their pains and anguishes, and it was perfectly plausible that she'd have heard something during those sessions. There was nothing entitled men liked doing more than talking.

She was heading back over the canal when someone grabbed her wrist.

She didn't cry out. She just instinctively drove her elbow back to wind them, stomping on the arch of their foot, sliding Sankta Lizabeta out from her sleeve to jag against his jugular—

And Cobbet wrapped his massive hand around her throat. Tight enough that she couldn't escape. Tight enough that it sent shivers and shudders racking through her, terrified. She could breathe, but... it was tight enough that he could change that in a heartbeat.

The edge of her blade caressed his throat in return; she was at eye level with the thin stream of dark blood that dribbled down onto his collar from the oh-so-shallow cut.

"Tante Heleen saw you spying on us, little lynx. You trying to take our secrets back to Brekker? You belong with her."

Inej could barely move her jaw, but she got the dexterity to spit, "No secrets worth stealing from a prissy, pompous peacock."

He tightened his grip and she gasped, choking, being shoved up against the wall of Goedmedbridge. Tourists and pigeons and lowlifes alike were giving them a wide berth.

Inej thought of the good maiden who'd thrown herself off the bridge to give it its name, and wondered if the event didn't have a much darker root than the story told.

She pushed her blade deeper into his neck in response, hating the savage pleasure she got from seeing him bleed, knowing she'd have to do penance for it later... but she watched him bleed, and cut deeper, and they were at a standoff until—

"You're going to drive away the pigeons with all this brutality," she whispered hoarsely.

With a grunt, Cobbet released her. She tried not to gasp, to rake in air, even as she could feel bruises blooming over her throat like the blue and purple irises which had fallen from the flower boat to the canal below. She refused to give him that satisfaction.

"Brutality from a spider who fights like a thug."

"And you're not a thug yourself?" Inej's gaze flickered when she saw a flash of blue and gold. There was Tante Heleen in her standard peacock blue regalia, if without the finer hints of it—wearing it down the street on West Stave would be asking to be pick-pocketed. She gestured with a hand for Cobbet to move away, then smiled sweetly at Inej.

Inej held her gaze, hard and fierce, until Cobbet vanished into the crowd by his mistress's side and they returned to tormenting the poor girls who hadn't escaped their grasp.

Inej turned her back and strode down to the other side, fast enough that her feet almost grew wings and took flight.

"That was a close call," quipped a voice.

She pivoted on her foot to seize the person's elbow, Sankta Lizabeta still red with X's blood—but she stopped, and scoffed, when she recognised Jesper.

"Oh. It's you."

"Yes, it's me." He followed her farther along the canal, to where there was a tourist climbing into a gondel and wobbling like Inej's young cousin the first time he'd tried to walk the tightrope. Inej raised her eyebrows at the tourist—Ravkan, by the looks of them and the language they were speaking—and wondered if they'd fall.

They didn't. She turned her attention back to Jesper. "I appreciate your help in that situation."

"If I'd helped?" he scoffed. "It wouldn't have helped at all."

She couldn't deny that.

She had to be the one to defeat challenges when they came—she had to, or she'd look weak. And if she looked weak, the sharks would be after her blood.

She had to find her own battles, or people would start thinking she was an easy target.

But she didn't say any of that, or respond to it—this was a barbaric way to live. She just pursed her lips, and Jesper took that as his cue to continue.

"Per Haskell wants to know where Kaz is."

"Don't we all."

"He figured you'd be the most likely to know."

"Doesn't everyone."

Jesper frowned. "No luck then, I take it?"

"None."

He blew out a breath between his teeth. "How long have you been looking?"

"Not long," she conceded, bringing up a hand to rub at her throat. "I got distracted."

He gave her a sympathetic look. It wasn't pity—neither of them had the capacity for pity anymore—and she just replied with a wry smile in return.

"I'm going to check out East Stave," she said, putting a bit of spring back into her step. "I assume Haskell sent you to find me?"

"He was going to send Teapot. I thought you'd prefer my beautiful face."

She snorted; when he gave her a mock wounded look, she smacked his arm lightly and grinned. "I do prefer your face, Jesper, thank you for coming."

He grinned in response, stopping in the middle of the street to give a flamboyant bow. That, and the eyesore that was what he called appropriate dress, meant that the crowd parted for him like he was a street performer.

"Any time, my friend," he said on the way back up again. "Are we dropping by to see Nina on the way out?" He turned towards the White Rose, but she grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled him back on track before he fell in the canal.

"She's probably with a client, and you'll draw enough attention as it is. Do we really want her here too?" She smiled, to take the sting out of it; Jesper huffed. Those two—those three, perhaps—had a reputation whenever they went out for waffles together.

"But Inej, my dear," Jesper said as they turned onto a new street. "What's the point if you don't draw any attention to yourself?"

She laughed. "The point, Jesper..." She slowed her pace, dropped back and vanished from his side to duck into an alley and scramble onto the rooftop in three neat bounds—up onto the overflowing dumpster, grab onto the pipes, swing herself round and up.

She clambered over to peer over the building's front. In the flow of the crowd, Jesper hadn't noticed for a few long-legged paces, then he stopped and stared around, somewhat frantically, though there was a touch of amusement there too—he knew she was messing with him.

Inej took a small stone, a fragment of a loose plate, and tossed it down. It bounced off his shoulder; he looked up, then, and scowled at her.

"Is to not get caught," she finished. "Now, get up here. And do you have anything less..." She grimaced. "Noticeable?"

"No," he said baldly.

"Great." She sighed. "Get up here anyway." The unusual slope of some of these roofs—why was Ketterdam so strange?—and the sort of damp, grey mist that was clinging to the wind that blew in from the north meant that the street goers probably wouldn't notice a boy wearing bright yellow and green perched on the rooftop.

Probably.

He eyed her perch. "How did you get up there?"

"Alleyway. Dumpster, pipes, jump."

He backtracked, and scurried to eye the route. "Are... you sure...?"

"Or there's a ladder buried under the pile of rags in the corner," she said helpfully.

Jesper went to look, and sighed when he saw it. "Of course there is. Did you put that there?"

"Of course I did. Make sure to bring it up with you—we don't want anyone else to see it, and no one else will see it on the roof."

"Will do."

Jesper made it onto the lip of the roof, eventually, and then they both dragged the ladder up to rest lightly against the tiles. Jesper had never seen Ketterdam from this angle before, but Inej seemed to navigate the landscape here almost more confidently than she did on the ground. No wonder she was such a good spider.

He peered over the side, at the network of people who rushed through the city's streets, the gondolas that rushed through the canals, like blood around its beating heart. He felt prickly up here, fidgety; the mist muted everything and all seemed still.

Everything moved, but at its own pace. A seabird flew by to shit on the roof right next to him.

They climbed along rooftops for a while, the place a whole new terrain—Jesper was no longer sure where they were in the citywhen he glanced down, unless he could pick out a few familiar shop fronts. It was a whole new world, but Inej navigated it with ease.

After a while, Jesper was starting to tire, but he didn't want to say so. He wanted to keep watching the way she worked, gracefully slipping over peaks and shingles like she was more bird or gutter rat than girl. A few times he started panting after he hauled himself up too far, too heavy for the climb or unable to find the nonexistent handholds she seized, and his attempts to disguise it only brought amusement. He rolled his eyes, running his hands over his guns for... well, reassurance. They were pristine, even if moisture was starting to condense against them. He'd make sure to clean them later, to check they were alright, but they probably were. So long as he hadn't bashed them in the climb.

"Here," Inej said at last, settling down to sit herself cross-legged on a seemingly unremarkable stretch of roof, adjacent to the street, with a sooty chimney at her back. If she got dirty where she leaned against it, it didn't show up against her black hair and clothes.

He was a bit more protective of his nice colourful outfit, but... if he was trying to blend in, and he was tired.

He plopped down next to her, and leaned against the brick.

"Shhh," she admonished in a whisper. "Not so loud."

"Why?" he hissed back; noise hadn't been as much of a problem when he was scaling that wall back there, and grunting and cussing to the high heavens.

She just tilted her head and he heard it, then: voices, drifting. They weren't from the street, the street had its own noise, but... behind them...

"The chimney," he realised.

Inej nodded. "Something about the acoustics means that sound travels especially well in and out of that fireplace, through the vents. There are several spots along here"—she pointed, and Jesper looked ahead to see more busts of chimneys loom out of the smog and mist, behind to see the same; they'd come up a ridge between two—"and they lead to different rooms in the building. This one is where you usually hear the most... high end gossip."

"Of course you knew this was here," he marvelled quietly. The Wraith and her secrets—this was one he was happy to learn. "This whole spidering thing is easier than it seems."

She raised an eyebrow at his sweaty, soot-stained, shredded clothing. "Is it?"

Point taken.

"Where are we?" he asked. "What building is this?"

She tilted her head, then, towards the street that ran adjacent to their position by the chimneys. She was closer to the edge, so she had a better view, but he leaned over her to peer down...

And opposite them was a shop whose windows were full of dresses. And suits. And hats.

He frowned. He knew that tailor's shop. One of the fanciest in town—sold outfits to merchers, kingpins and Barrel bosses alike. Tante Heleen's finest came from those doors; the merchers conducted... merchering in that shop's suits; even Per Haskell owned a flamboyant hat or two, and a fine burgundy waistcoat, from the good old days when he could fit it around his waist.

He'd visited that shop yesterday. That shop was situated directly opposite the building Rollins had made—

"We are on the roof," he said quietly, "of the Kaelish Prince!?"

"Yes."

"This spot would've been so nice to know about this time yesterday."

She shrugged, a little smile playing around her lips. "Kaz doesn't know all my secrets, as much as he may like to think he does."

"Evidently." He gave her an appreciative look. "He should've asked you to go with him, yesterday."

"It's fine that he didn't. I'm sure he had a reason. He always does."

Yes. That he did. "Why are you so loyal to him?" Jesper had to ask.

"He paid off my debt at the Menagerie. I owe him a lot of money."

Jesper glanced down at her scarred forearm—where the feather tattoo had once been, and where the crow and cup tattoo sat on his arm. He'd never understood why Kaz didn't make her take on their tattoo once her old one was removed; he supposed it was one of those strange acts of generosity that sometimes seized him. Whenever they came up, before Jesper realised what exactly his ulterior motive was, Jesper usually got the urge to ask if he had a fever.

"Yes, but..." He scowled. "You fuss over him. You care about him. Why? He's a podge; we both know that."

"He is."

"He doesn't deserve you."

She smiled at him. "He doesn't deserve you either, Jesper. You worry about and look up to him as much as I do."

Jesper suddenly found it difficult to meet her gaze.

"I'm just good with guns."

"You're great with guns. But the fact you dragged your sorry guns up here with me proves you're an even better friend."

He didn't know how to take that, so he just shot her an awkward grin and they fell silent.

"How long did you spend scouting out this place yesterday?" Inej asked.

"Far too long, now that I know this was here the whole time. The Kaelish Prince just opened up, how long have you known this place was here?"

Inej shrugged. "Since we heard that Rollins was buying up the place," she said. "I figured it would be something we'd want to spy on."

He laughed—loudly, at first, then more lowly when she shushed him. "You—"

She shushed him again.

"What—"

Then he shut his mouth.

There were voices.

"This chimney overlooks several of the private parlours Rollins uses for the higher class pigeons," she murmured. "There should be interesting discussions going on in there—can you hear..."

He could.

Two... Dime Lions, he was pretty sure they were, judging by the way they spoke; they were certainly some of Rollins's gang members, even if he didn't recognise their individual voices, but he did recognise what they were talking about.

"Did the merchers leave anything in here when they were here?" one grunted—a woman, by the sounds of it. Something rattled—it sounded like a curtain on its rail; he betted they were sweeping the windowsills and crannies of the room for lingerers human and valuable. "I liked the look of them watches—"

"We gotta tell Pekka if they did. You know he don't want to piss off the merchant council. They'd be out for 'is neck."

"You take the fun out of everything," one of them moaned, and the other one laughed. There was an oomph; Jesper assumed he'd swatted his companion. "Ow!"

"Get to work on that there carpet, brush up all the shit they left behind. This is important."

"I got that, when the merchers showed up on the doorstep. What're they doin' here?"

Jesper and Inej exchanged a look. Multiple members of the merchant's council, visiting a new pleasure and gambling house on East Stave? It wasn't unheard of for any of them to visit this part of town—except maybe Van Eck; the only spine that guy had was a pious stick shoved up his pious backside—but all together? At once?

He didn't like this.

"Pekka was putting on a show, of course." The man was started to get irritated from her constant questions, but Jesper hoped he indulged her further—hoped they kept talking—

"He's always putting on a show. What was this show?"

"Taking down the competition. He made some deal with Van Eck before; he already had an in with him. So now he's trying to make a deal with the whole council to bring—" A pause, so the sarcasm and drama in his delivery could be fully appreciated. "Industry and commerce, in the name of Ghezen."

The woman burst out laughing. Even Inej rolled her eyes, and Jesper tried not to be amused at all of it.

The man sounded miffed. "Yeah, well, they're cleaning up the rats. That kid he dragged in, them who was spying—had him arrested for murder, right in front of them. And it was just the beginning." A laugh. "The Lions already rule the city, but soon there won't even be competition."

Inej caught her breath.

She exchanged a look with Jesper.

"How'd you know that?"

"I was there. Dragged that bastard in myself—him with his cane, wriggled like a worm. That kid who thinks he runs the Dregs, got Fifth Harbour cleaned up for them, keeps trying on shoving us out of there."

Jesper froze. Inej looked like she wasn't sure her heart was beating anymore, though her face was utterly frozen in that expression, leaning in to listen better...

"Brekker?" The woman scoffed. "You sure? Brekker's a demon—"

"Looked like a kid to me. Spat like one, too. Right in Pekka's eye."

"What happened to him?"

"Hell if I know. Pekka probably tested out this new influence he's got with the merchers on him, got him locked up somewhere. Outta his way." There was a thumping noise, like he'd put down his broom to shrug, and splutter. "Now, get over into that fireplace, it's gotta look presentable..."

Their voices faded into an indistinct background noise. Jesper and Inej... sat there, for ages. They didn't leave the room for what must have been an age, until the next bell, when the fussing, cussing Lions ushered themselves out. Only then did Inej... lift her head again and look him dead in the eye, and that was when Jesper knew it was bad.

Jesper opened his mouth. "Locked up—"

Inej stuck a finger up, pinched her lips together and inclined her head further down the rooftop. He nodded, and followed, until they were farther away from the grates.

"Locked up," she confirmed, still in a hushed whisper. "I... why was Kaz spying on him? What did he want to know?" She looked genuinely perplexed. "What has he got himself into? And why?"

Jesper said nothing. Then he said, "That's a lot of questions."

"And we don't know the answers."

Jesper tried to smile. "I'm up for more climbing and eavesdropping if you are. I'm up for even a few break ins if you are." He thought the eyebrow waggle might be a bit much, but he did it anyway.

Inej did laugh at that, eyeing Jesper's outfit—still eye-catching—before she nodded with a grin.

"Jesper," she said lightly, though he could hear the strain in her voice, "I am always up for a few break ins."

In the end, it wasn't hard to figure out where they should be breaking in. Kerch was small, and the Merchant Council even smaller—and besides, Inej had not missed the name that that man had dropped when regaling the woman with all the juicy gossip.

Van Eck.

Jan Van Eck, of the long, timelessly esteemed Van Eck family, reaching back generations. Inej had tabs on him just as she had tabs on everyone important in that city—or rather, everyone important to Kaz's schemes.

Van Eck, an upstanding, pious businessman, who did not know honest work from dishonest work but worshipped Ghezen fanatically all the same. He had a son supposedly studying music in Belendt—a son who had actually left home and refused to answer his letters, hiding in the Dregs, protected by Kaz for a reason Inej could not fathom, though she didn't admit any of that to Jesper; that was Kaz's little secret to protect and use when he wanted to—and a wife slightly older than his son. She was pregnant. He lived on one of the fancier streets and had a beautiful garden that backed on a canal; his first wife, Wylan Van Eck's mother, had died of a mysterious illness several years ago.

He had been the one to pull the strings and... get Kaz locked up?

Do something to Kaz.

They needed to see his transactions. They needed to know what he'd done, who he'd paid, what he'd gained from it—and where he'd put Kaz.

And hope that it wasn't a grave six feet under.

Inej didn't stop. She barely blinked. She kept forging onwards.

Jesper jogged to catch up. At one point they shimmied down, off the rooftops, and were instead fording through the throngs of tourists along the Lid to get to the Zelver District, then through the throngs of people in general.

"Where are we going?" Jesper asked. His stride was long, but Inej was fast, and she noticed he was half-jogging to keep up.

"Van Eck's transactions are all handled by one man—well, he has a team of lawyers and accountants and legal yes men, but they're headed by one man, and that man has the files to everything."

"Ah," Jesper said. "And we're breaking into his home to see what legal actions he's taken recently to have Kaz condemned?"

"Yes." She hopped up onto a narrow, crumbling wall between the path and the canal; a stone slipped and her foot went out under her, but she caught herself and leapt back onto the pavement again without even veering towards the water. "And Cornelis Smeet will hopefully have answers hidden somewhere in the backlog of his office."

"So we're going to break into the house of some upstanding mercher's favourite lawyer and rob him plain as day? In the middle of the day? When do I get to start shooting."

Inej laughed. "I'm not a planner like Kaz. I'll get in, get the information, and get out. Then we can go find Kaz, and you can shoot at his captors to your heart's content."

"After Kaz has cracked them across the heads with his cane and decimated them first, I presume?"

"Of course. After that."

They returned to the Slat, then—there was no way Inej could hope to break in there without first scouting it out, and figuring how to get past those famous dogs of his, so they had to slink back with their tails between their legs and, honestly, no further clue where Kaz was. Inej avoided all of Per Haskell's questions pointedly. No, she didn't know where Kaz was. Yes, she had tried to find him. No, she hadn't found him. Yes, she was telling the truth.

Just not the whole truth.

She didn't tell him about the Pekka Rollins situation. Or the merchers. Haskell was soft. He was old school. He wouldn't want to pick a fight with those two big bosses, even if it was for his favoured lieutenant. And Inej wasn't going to risk him telling her to leave it alone and stop poking the beast.

So she just made empty promises to keep investigating the next day—there were debts to be paid and money to be made—and slipped back to her room again to feed the crows, pausing outside Kaz's office door.

There was no one in there, of course. But she glanced around, then glanced back out hurriedly—guiltily, almost.

Jesper saw her do it, but they just exchanged a look, a nod, and didn't elaborate from there.

"Kidnapping and killing a mercher's son?"

"Those are the charges."

"What— Kaz wouldn't—" Jesper stopped pacing—there wasn't much space to pace in Inej's cramped little room, but he made do—paused, then started again. "No, Kaz would." Inej shifted uncomfortably. "That was what they had on him?"

"That was what they claimed they had on him."

"Of course. It's probably nonsense—Kaz would do it, but he wouldn't get caught." He paused. "Would he?"

"He didn't." Inej gritted her teeth. "Van Eck's son never arrived at the music school in Belendt, and he's blaming Kaz for his disappearance."

"Poor kid. Poor soft little mercher's kid, if Kaz went after him."

"He didn't. Wylan Van Eck came to Kaz, trying to get away from his father."

Jesper froze.

Inej settled onto her windowsill, letting her legs swing underneath her, so she could look Jesper in the eye. "He just turned up in the Barrel one day, and Kaz wanted to know why. So he had you find the kid and convince him to join the Dregs."

Jesper's mouth dropped open. "Wylan? You mean that shy little kid—"

"Keep your voice down; everything leaks in the Slat. But yes."

"No way. That—" He paused. "That explains a lot, huh."

"About what?"

"Why he's so sheltered. Why—"

"You flirted with him?" Inej sat forwards, amused, and he laughed.

"Maybe I did."

"I heard you had a slight crush on him."

"An interest is more like it, thank you very much—"

Inej laughed—then sobered up rapidly. "But... yes. Van Eck had Kaz thrown in Hellgate for kidnapping and murdering Wylan."

Jesper's lips went wan. "You didn't mention Hellgate."

"I did!"

"You— never mind. Hellgate?" His hands ran lightly along the revolvers at his sides, twitching. "I... What. Poor Kaz."

"Don't say that to his face."

"Trust me, I wouldn't dream of it. Maybe it's more like poor Hellgate."

"Yeah."

"So," Jesper said. "We go get Wylan. Dump him in front of the Council, to prove he wasn't murdered and kidnapped. Get Kaz out of there—"

He trailed off when he met Inej's eye; they shook their heads at the same time.

"They won't listen," she said. "If Pekka wanted Kaz in there, there was a reason, and there's no way two Barrel rats are going to be listened to. They'd just claim that we kidnapped Wylan, not matter what we got him to say on our behalf; they'd accuse us of threatening him. And Pekka would probably get us silenced as well."

"So what else can we do?"

Inej smiled. "We can break into Hellgate."

Inej was insane, but so was Jesper, so he supposed that was why he was following her.

Apparently breaking into Hellgate wasn't the death sentence that Jesper had always figured it would be. Inej had sat him down in Kaz's office, picked the lock on a few of his drawers, and pulled out...

First, a false bottom.

Then, another false bottom.

Then, a sheet of papers in neat, cramped Kerch, covered in spidery diagrams and annotations, currents and notes about guards rotations, names and bribery prices and potential secrets to threaten with, drawings and notations of the types of locks used at each door and padlock...

"What is this?" Jesper hissed. Inej held her finger up to her mouth, stuffed the meticulously flat pages in her pocket in a few neat folds, then slipped out of the window onto the rooftop.

Jesper sighed, but clambered out after her, trying not to think about how ungainly he probably looked, with his lanky limbs. At least here, they were high up enough that only the birds had a hope of seeing him.

Once they were onto the rooftop, Inej threw her legs over a peak and slid down it silently. Jesper followed—and noticed how the wind cut out here, the breeze dying to barely a stir. She pulled the sheets out, then, as well as a small pencil he hadn't seen her stick in her pocket, and crouched cross-legged in the cranny.

"Come down here, where we'll definitely be able to talk without anyone listening," Inej said. "Kaz has multiple plans for breaking into Hellgate—though, as far as I know, none for breaking out."

"He was prioritising the wrong thing."

"Or that was something I never found out. It's possible he has them, just hidden elsewhere."

Jesper gave her a look. "You mean he didn't tell you?"

She shrugged. "I spied on him, that was how I found them."

"You spied on Kaz Brekker—"

"You can't train a falcon then expect it not to hunt," she shot back, though not without a grin.

"How many secrets of Kaz's do you know just because he didn't trust you not to find them out anyway?"

"Probably far more than he's comfortable with."

Jesper laughed loudly. "I don't think he's comfortable with any of them."

"Exactly. Now," she'd turned back to the plans. "Nina Zenik, from the White Rose, has been wanting Kaz to help her get a friend of hers out of Hellgate."

"There's no way he'd do that."

"No, not at all, and he hasn't—but he has the plans for it if he needs to. I'm sure a big, strong Fjerdan will come in useful for a plan of his one day, and when he does, Kaz will help."

"He's such a bastard."

"He is." She took the [pencil] and circled the blueprints to Hellgate, looking at it from a bird's eye view and squinting. "But he's a prepared bastard, and that's gonna be useful for us."

They'd stayed up there for ages, flicking through his multiple plans of attack and adapting it to fit their... specific talents. The one time Inej brought up going to Per Haskell to get some backup, Jesper shot her down.

"No," he said. "He... you know he won't pick a fight with Pekka over Kaz. Especially won't break into Hellgate for Kaz."

Inej frowned, but said nothing—just nodded.

Once they had the plan, they looked at each other.

"Kaz came up with the plan that's gonna bust him out," Jesper observed passively.

Inej snorted. "Of course he did."

In actuality, their plan wasn't nearly as refined or put together as Kaz's would've been. It was based off of an early draft and even then, cut back for convenience; if it worked, it would be a miracle, and everyone in the Barrel knew that miracles were scarce.

But Inej and Jesper went out to get their allies and get their supplies nonetheless.

Inej dropped by the White Rose that afternoon, standing waiting in the parlour before Nina's latest client—Van Aakster came out. Inej took note of him, then dismissed him. After that, she slipped right in before anyone else could.

"I'm on my break now, madam, I'm afraid— oh." Nina's sickly sweet spiel turned into something coarser and more genuine when she set eyes on Inej. "It's you."

"It's me," Inej agreed, leaning against the wall and shutting the door behind her with one smooth motion of her foot. "I haven't seen you in a while."

"And I haven't seen you, Brekker's been running us both ragged. Which means you must be here on his behalf. What does he want me for?"

"I'm not here on his orders—"

"Great, then do you want to get waffles? I don't have another client for a few hours."

Inej paused. "Waffles sounds nice," she said, smiling. "But first: how do you feel about breaking into Hellgate?"

Nina blinked.

Then she stared.

Then she bent over double in a mighty guffaw, grinning, and clapped her hands. "I'm in. You know I'm in." The relief in her voice was subtle, but there—like a bowstring that had been drawn tighter and tighter and tighter for months had finally been released. "So long as we rescue—"

"Of course." Nina didn't flinch at Inej's promise, or even the fact that Inej knew about Matthias in the first place. "But there is someone else to rescue too, and I get the feeling this is going to be entertaining."

"We're rescuing Dirtyhands himself, then? What trouble did he get himself into this time?"

"More trouble," Inej said, "than I suspect Haskell will want to deal with."

Nina froze. "You haven't told him?"

"If I don't tell him, he can't explicitly order me not to."

"Inej Ghafa, I like the way you're thinking." She was concerned—Inej understood that; so was she—but it was drowned out by the blaring relief. Kaz's plan, counting on the fact that Nina would be there, would want to rescue Helvar, was turning out to be useful. "Now, let's go get waffles, and I can hear all about this place you're coming up with."

"It's Kaz's plan. Jesper helped me adapt it."

"Jesper's coming? I like it already."

Jesper had grown fond of rooftops, no matter the difficulty getting onto them. He let his legs dangle as he waited for Inej to track back to the Slat with Nina in tow; when he saw their silhouettes coming from ages away—his sharpshooter's sights were useful in more ways that one—he shimmied down and hit the stairs of the Slat, jogging down to the ground floor to meet them. Muzzen was hanging around on the other side of the canal for them, the sun was setting and the night was spreading its obsidian wings over the city, so it was just Jesper and his supply of Kaz's many Komedie Brute costumes they were waiting for. They'd convene, scatter the resources to where they needed to be, then meet up at midnight.

But on the way down, with his arms full of boxes and his guns slapping against his waist, he ran into someone.

Wylan Van Eck glared at him. "Watch where you're going."

"It's a bit hard, fancypants, can't you see I'm carrying stuff?"

Wylan just huffed and grumbled something unintelligible. Usually Jesper would push it, tease some more, but... he paused. Studied him closely.

He'd always thought Wylan, with his gleaming rosy curls and button nose, wide eyes and delicate, clever hands, looked like a prince out of a fairy tale. The truth was... well, as close to that image as anyone from Kerch could be: he was a mercher's son.

It explained everything, and kicked up more questions than a horse kicked up dust in the fields at home.

What was Wylan doing, slumming it with them?

Merchers weren't nearly as glamorous as fairy tales made princes out to be, but their life styles certainly were.

"What?" Wylan snapped.

Jesper shrugged. "Just admiring your beautiful face."

Wylan glared, and hurried off.

Jesper headed down, and then they were outside and the time had come.

Inej had reached Terrenjel by the time they arrived so she watched them come, in the dead of night, the lanterns on the boats from Fifth Harbour bobbing like small moons over the waves. Nina stepped out first, veiled in blue in the image of the Lost Bride, while Jesper's Mister Crimson mask was one of the more hideous things Inej had ever seen, in the eerie mist and lighting of the night. Muzzen came last, sporting another Mister Crimson outfit—no one could ever accuse the Dregs of being original when it was unnecessary.

They hit the shore and she slipped in next to them, squeezing Nina's hand first. Jesper jumped, but immediately clocked who she was, in her Grey Imp image, and gave her an acknowledging nod; then they were scurrying onwards, and paying the Dime Lion who stood watch.

Inej... really wasn't happy, come to think of it, that the Dime Lions ran the Hellshow when she knew it was Pekka who'd got Kaz tossed into here in the first place, but that didn't matter. She'd bribed the right guard with the right secret to get him to pass a message to Kaz, in code, so Kaz ought to know that they were coming that day. He knew what to do.

So she stood there, and pretended her trembling under the Lion's gaze was from excitement and not dread, as he led them down and down and down into the winding staircase that led to the old prison.

Nina's hand constricted on hers the farther they went; there were no railings on these stairs, and everyone was jostling around them like it was the Lid at early light. The homely scent of cleaning liquids and... well, dedicated scrubbing, gave way to the inevitable stench of mildew, sweat, and unwashed bodies dwelling in their own waste. And the farther they descended, the louder the chanting got, until it was less a pounding and more a roaring; less like water, more like fire.

Then they emerged there, and Nina gasped next to her, the room packed with people. Inej's eyes stung from the assault of colour; her ears stung from the assault of sound. She could taste sweat on the air. Komedie Brute costumes abounded and bumped into each other, the strange lighting and otherworldliness of the room making them seem to change size and colour, as though they were peering through a kaleidoscope. Jewellery and silver zips and adornments flashed gold, like sparks, as they reflected the braziers; everything seemed to glitter.

But, as much as she could appreciate the strange beauty and ugliness of the room, Inej let her gaze be drawn to the important parts: the exit, where the crowd was thickest, and the wheel up ahead—and the men who stood beside it.

The person running the fight, a young man in a filthy, shredded lion skin cape, spun the massive wheel. The red needle clicked, clacked, clicked, clacked, clicked—

And landed on boar.

The man standing in chains—a very young man, barely older than Kaz—sagged in relief. Or perhaps that wasn't the best word for it. But he did not look quite so terrified as the lion skin man stepped forwards to unlock his shackles, and then—

There was a pounding, a grunting, a sort of groaning, and the boar thundered out of the gaping corridor that led to the animals' cages.

Inej... didn't really watch as the young man ran at it with his bare hands, something like desperation, something that certainly wasn't sanity, contorting his face. She was glad not to watch when she heard him screaming.

She just turned to Jesper and murmured, "Let's go."

He nodded back at her. She grinned.

When she looked back at the stage, the young man was nowhere to be seen, but his blood certainly was.

"Next!" the lion skin man bellowed.

The next person was brought out. And there, as they'd planned, was Kaz.

Inej hadn't seen him in... two days now, or just over. It wasn't a long time, and the differences weren't prominent, but they were there. His hair, already odd, looked like the nests of the crows he was so fond of; outside of his usual sleek, professional-looking outfits, he appeared... rougher, younger; and there was a long cut across his right cheek, now closed, which caked half his face in an unpleasant mix of brown and red.

He stepped out of the shadows like a ghost—like a wraith, a figure in black and white. There weren't many people in the crowd, it seemed, who knew that the boy in front of them was one of the darkest, brightest minds in the city, but the Dime Lions certainly did; they were snickering and pointing at him, and how he was brought so low.

He ignored them.

His gaze scanned the crowd—idly, it seemed, but when Inej skirted around in her Grey Imp costume to get a better vantage point, he locked onto the way she moved... and he smiled, ever so slightly. She couldn't help but smile back, with the same sort of wickedness to it.

The lion skin man shouted, and reach up an arm to spin the wheel against. The needle skittered around the wood and Inej watched with far more attention this time—if all went well, the outcome wouldn't matter, but when did things go well?

The wheel slowed. The needle scraped past the bear, the wolf, the snakes... and landed on the rinca moten.

She sucked in a breath.

The desert lizard.

Great. She couldn't wait to have to deal with that on the loose.

Almost time. Almost time...

She circled around again, nearer to Nina and Muzzen, to nearer the exit back into the prison. She stopped just behind Muzzen, and he slipped off his Mister Crimson cloak to reveal a guard's uniform underneath.

The guards stepped forwards, to directly in front of Kaz, to unlock his shackles.

Nina flexed her fingers, gaze fixed on the nearest guard, and narrowed her eyes.

"How down?" she whispered.

"Shut eye," Inej murmured back.

The guard went down.

Just as all hell broke loose.

There was the screech of dozens of cages and the roars and hisses of far too many animals; Inej turned away from where Muzzen had plopped his mask on top of the guard, swept him up in his cloak, to fix her gaze on the lizard lumbering towards Kaz. Bears and boars rampaged around it, the guards were screaming, but Kaz was staring this thing down like it was a city guard who thought they could push him around—

It hissed and hit; he threw himself to the side as much as possible, limping heavily. It suddenly hit Inej that she didn't know where his cane was—hopefully he'd left it at the Slat before he went spying on Pekka because otherwise—

The lizard lashed out again and this time Kaz toppled over in his attempts to get back, still glaring warily. He scrambled to get back to his feet as the lizard stalked forwards, venom dripping from bared teeth—

Inej ditched her costume. The cloak flowed behind her like smoke.

Then she leapt over Kaz's head, onto the lizard's back, and cut its throat.

"Inej," Kaz greeted in his gravelly voice.

She rolled her eyes, wiping the lizard's blood on her trousers. "You're welcome, Kaz." She glanced back at the others—Nina and Muzzen had vanished into the depths of the prison, presumably to find Helvar, though that was something she wouldn't tell Kaz about just yet. Jesper was standing by the downed guard, already taking his costume back, and brandishing that thing like a flag. It was a good thing the Hellshow didn't use bulls. "Get over here."

He followed her eyes to see Jesper, who paused awkwardly at the intensity of Kaz's gaze, of his analysis and judgement. He even waved.

Kaz limped over to them. Inej followed, silent as a summer wind, knowing better than to offer him support.

"You have bastardised my plan," he rasped.

Jesper gave him a look as carnage rained around them. "You're welcome, bastard," he drawled back.

There were five of them. In one room.

Nina was stubbornly not looking at Matthias, despite the fact she was stealing a few glances here and there, while Matthias glared at her constantly. Wylan was collapsed in a corner opposite them, looking baffled as to why Kaz had decided to throw them all in there.

Inej and Jesper—Inej perched on the arm of a sofa, Jesper sitting on the sofa itself—sat near to them and exchanged odd looks.

There was a thumping, a specific gait that they all knew too well, and the door burst open to admit Kaz, back to cutting his normal, intimidating profile with a coat and his cane, his coffee-dark eyes staring around at them. Jesper noticed that they softened slightly when they landed on Inej, and didn't harden until after they'd moved away from Jesper. He didn't know what to think about that.

Inej spoke up first. "So you recovered your cane after all?"

"I'm not foolish enough to take it with me when I go scouting an enemy boss, Inej." His voice was grating, like he found the question so obvious it was annoying. Inej and Jesper exchanged looks—again. "But yes."

"And the old man didn't kill you too badly for getting captured?"

"He's never happy—"

"What an understatement."

"—but he's more interested in the proposition I have for him—what I found out from Rollins."

Inej pursed her lips. "If it was this important, why did you go scouting alone? I'm always going to have a better chance at discovering the truth than you are."

Kaz just said, "It's personal with Rollins," and left it at that.

He wasn't going to explain himself. Of course he wasn't.

"There's a Grisha Fabrikator named Bo Yul-Bayur in Fjerda," Kaz announced. "He's Shu, and has developed a drug—jurda parem—that is meant to be used on Grisha. It makes them capable of feats unknown to man, miracles worthy of saints"—Kaz glanced at Inej with humour; Inej rolled her eyes and shook her head—"and he's been captured by Fjerdan authorities, who want to use it."

"Why?" Nina snapped. Her attention had been piqued the moment he said Grisha, and... Jesper wouldn't admit it, but his had been too, when he'd said Fabrikator. "Why would they want to help Grisha?"

"They don't. The drug is highly addictive and essentially makes the Grisha slaves. The Fjerdans want to see if they can turn what they view as heresy to their advantage—to serve them in battle."

Helvar looked furious. "That would never happen. The drüskelle—Brum would never—"

"Jarl Brum is dead, isn't he? He's not calling the shots anymore. And the drüskelle are helping keep Yul-Bayur captive."

Matthias looked ready to object again, Nina looked like she'd make their hearts burst accidentally if she became any more stressed by the truths Kaz was dropping like dead flies.

Inej cut through the tension to ask, "And why," she narrowed her eyes, "do you care?"

Kaz slashed his gaze to her. "Because, darling Inej, the Merchant Council is offered thirty million kruge to anyone who can break into the Ice Court and bring Yul-Bayur back to Kerch. If jurda parem is unleashed on the world, it'll be chaos. The stock markets will collapse. The economic state of the world as we know it would be changed forever." He tutted. "You know they can't have that."

"And why are we here?" Wylan finally had the courage to pipe up. Jesper shot him an impressed look, and all he got in return was a dirty one. Rude.

Kaz said, "Because, Wylan Van Eck, your father has forged an alliance with Pekka Rollins and hired him to send a team north to break Yul-Bayur out himself. And we're going to go after them, and we're going to get there first."

Matthias looked like someone had smacked him, repeatedly, in the face with a fish. Nina was staring at Wylan with raised eyebrows.

"Haskell gets twenty percent of the cut," Kaz said. "Everyone else gets four million kruge, each."

Jesper glanced around. A gunslinger, a spider, a Heartrender, a demolitions kid who could double as a hostage, and a Fjerdan who'd know his way around.

And Kaz.

The most important part.

"Think on it," Kaz said callously. "I'm not going to force you to say yes." But he gave Matthias a pointed look—Jesper suddenly remembered that the two had conversed, briefly, beforehand. He wondered what he'd offered him.

Kaz turned to leave, but suddenly Jesper was filled with an urge, the need to say something, and he opened his mouth— "Kaz."

Kaz turned back, expectant.

Jesper looked at him, equally expectant.

Kaz's gaze slid to Inej, then back to Jesper, sitting so close and looking at him with just as much weight.

His hand constricted on the head of his cane. He was wearing gloves, as always—and suddenly, Jesper remembered that Kaz had not been wearing gloves in Hellgate. He wondered what that meant.

Kaz turned back to leave the room. The door slammed; the clack, clack, clack of his cane faded down the stairs.

Jesper heard Inej sigh, but all he did was clench his jaw, stand up himself, and leave the room too.

Unlike Kaz, he headed up.

"Have I converted you to the rooftops?" Inej called out teasingly.

Jesper turned his head to grin at her from where he was perched on the edge of the roof of the Slat, legs swinging out over the drop below, thumping against the walls. Inej slipped down next to him, close enough to bump shoulders, as they watched the sun rise to the east over the university and financial districts, staining the skyline scarlet.

"Maybe you have. It's fun up here."

"It's peaceful. You're on your own and no one will come up here to bother you."

"Yeah." Jesper grinned down at the drop. "Also it's kind of exhilarating."

Inej laughed. "That too."

They sat in silence for a moment more. Inej was very aware of her friend's solid, warm weight at her side, the garish colours of his favoured clothing too familiar to be jarring, now, and the way his guns clicked lightly against her sheathed knives.

"Ready to go to Fjerda?" Jesper asked her.

"I'm not looking forward to it. This sounds like a suicide plan."

"But we'll go anyway." He wrinkled his nose. "Despite the fact that none of us particularly like the cold."

"We'll be able to compare Kerch's wet cold to Fjerda's frozen cold."

"Both will be disgusting, I'm sure."

"You'll be stuck on a boat for two weeks with Wylan."

Jesper raised an eyebrow. "Still can't believe he's actual mercher material. Well, no, I can believe it—it fits. But it's strange."

"It's strange that the person Nina's been fighting for the last year to save is a Fjerdan who more than anything wants her dead."

"Should we have left them in a room together?"

"Nina can handle herself."

"I know. I'm worried about the Fjerdan." He wrinkled his nose. "And Wylan."

"I'm sure Wylan has the sense to leave the room while he still can."

"For now. As you said, we're going to be stuck on a boat with them. For weeks."

Inej watched him. "You don't like boats?"

"Not at all."

“I haven’t had the best experiences with them on the sea,” she confessed. “Though canal boats are fine.”

He looked back at her, then, and the sunlight shone gold on his face. "Then why are we doing this? What's in it for us?"

Inej sighed. "Four million kruge." Jesper had just raised his eyebrows and nodded his agreement appreciatively when she added: "And the hope that we'll make Kaz proud."

Jesper let out a snort. "Has he thanked us for saving him yet?"

"No, not yet. And I wouldn't hold my breath for it."

"What a bastard. Want to help me annoy the hell out of him on the journey there?"

"Don't you already do that?"

He punched her in the shoulder.

"Alright, alright, I'm in. He deserves it."

"He'll kill us, but he deserves it."

"No, he won't," she said—a little too solemnly, she thought. The wind stirred the strands of hair in her plait and tugged at them like a child playing with string. "He needs us."

"He'll die before he admits it."

"But he needs us anyway. And we'll mourn him if he does."

"No mourners," Jesper said.

Inej said back, "No funerals," and dwelled on it.

The idea was that in Ketterdam, people got left behind. There were too many tragedies on a daily basis, too much pain and suffering, and too many people oblivious or uncaring to it. If you were shot or stabbed or slaughtered, no one would be around to scream. If you vanished into thin air... no one would notice your absence; no one would miss you.

Inej thought that maybe—maybe—that wasn't quite true.

"Kaz is who he is. He's not going to be changing any time soon," she said.

Jesper scoffed. "He's not going to be changing at all."

"I'll take that bet."

"Really?"

"Yeah." She turned back towards the rising sun, tilting her head back to let the rays touch it, closing her eyes. "If being forced to work in such close quarters to us for so long on this trip doesn't lead to some noticeable change in him, I'll take you out for waffles. And if it does, you take me out."

"Deal." They clapped and clasped their hands together, gripping them tightly. "That's even a gamble I'd be glad to lose."

#grishabigbang #gvbbfic20 #inej ghafa #jesper fahey #kaz brekker #six of crows #my writing #random words on a page #the grishaverse

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