BOMBS AWAY ➤ kaz brekker

an enemy of our own making

Kaz tried to keep his attention on the gunfire and yells that surrounded them, but every time he knew he wasn't being shot at, even for a second, he glanced around, trying to find Esther. He himself had taken Marit to the docks, to keep her in check while Esther bought supplies. He had assumed that she knew Ketterdam well enough, but what if she had gotten lost? What if she was bleeding out in a back alley? The dark image flashed in his mind, and he shook his head, trying to clear it. He ducked behind two large crates stacked on top of each other, stuffed with lumber. Raising his head like a snake about to strike, he shot over the top and felt a rush of satisfaction when his bullet connected with one of the gang members opposite him. When no more shots whizzed directly towards him, he ran low out from his hiding spot, his bad leg aching with every single step.

Jesper preferred when people were shooting at him. He wasn't too fond of dying, and didn't welcome it, but the rush of shots fired focused his mind like nothing else. Bullets flew above his head, brushing past his hair. Someone shot a barrel of wine dangerously close to him, sending the red liquid pouring out of the wood. It reminded him all too much of blood, blood that could very likely be spilled tonight. Dregs blood. Most likely, one of their number had already been hurt. He just hoped none of them had been killed. Jesper glanced around him and sighed loudly when he spotted Wylan curled up with his hands protecting his head. That boy was miserably innocent. Jesper took aim and fired to give himself cover, then pulled the red-haired mercher boy towards him. He hoped Esther wasn't alone out there among the crates - the girl wasn't even from Ketterdam, and had the least experience in the Barrel out of all of them.

Wylan was terrified, so terrified he felt he was close to combusting. He was shaking all over, his body almost vibrating on the ground, his hands feebly protecting his head. Blasts echoed all around him, ringing in his ears. His head shook. He wondered if he would be deaf after the fighting ended. If the fighting ended. If he ever made it out. He tried to quench his fear, but couldn't think of how. What was it that Esther had said about fear? It is an enemy of our own making. Esther always managed to calm him. If she had been here, she would have soothed him, getting him up, keeping him safe. She would summon a flame in her hand and burn a path to safety, sending their enemies crawling away to whatever deep, shadowed hole they had crawled out of. But Esther wasn't here, and he didn't know what to do without someone to tell him where to go, how to survive. Then he felt a hand at his collar, and he was dragged behind a crate to find himself face to face with Jesper. 

Nina felled as many enemies as she ate waffles. And she ate a lot of waffles. They were her number one source of joy, after all. But it was hard to find joy in the deathscape of the docs, the Ferolind blown to pieces just feet away from her. Crouched between two crates, she brought her hands together, flicking her fingers, bringing a man's heart to a grinding stop. The maze presented a disadvantage to her, hiding her targets from her. A whistle brought her attention to behind her, where she saw Jesper flash two fingers. Twenty-two. Of course Kaz had a backup plan. He probably had a backup plan for his backup plan. He probably had backup plans that ran through the entire alphabet. Twice. Matthias cowered beside her - could a six-foot-four Fjerdan witchhunter cower? It wasn't exactly the right word - but he kept himself small to keep himself safe. She whipped a knife from underneath her sleeve and cut the ropes that bound him, tossing him a pistol from underneath her coat. "Defend yourself," she said. She looked out over the docks, searching for the Dregs. In the distance, she thought she saw a short burst of flame. She assumed it was Esther, trying to protect herself.

Matthias held the gun in his hands. He could kill Nina right now. He could blow the brains out of her skull, end her wicked life. He could find the other witch, the Shu girl, and end her, too. And then what? Kaz would have him dead in a matter of minutes. And even if he managed to escape in the chaos, he would never find himself reinstated as a drüskelle. He would live a life of exile, simply because he revenged himself now, and not later. So he raised the gun instead to the gang members who attacked them. His eyes flashed around, trying to discern the shapes of men among the crates. He could not, in the darkness, tell where anything was, but occasionally he could trace the bullets back to their source and take aim, hoping he didn't miss. A second flash of fire in the distance caught his attention, and he was again reminded of the deadly powers that the second witch, Esther, held within her. He couldn't help but think of the Inferni that burned his town to ashes. 

Inej was dying, very quickly. The knife embedded in her side told her that much. But someone was holding her, someone was picking her up and running with her, taking her back to the ship. Kaz was holding her, carrying her in his arms. 

"Not just yet, Inej," he said. 

"Did we win?"

"I'm here, aren't I?"

He kept running.

"I don't want to die."

"I'll do my best to make other arrangements for you. Keep talking, Wraith. Don't slip away from me."

"But it's what I do best."

Inej tried to think through the darkness muddling her brain. The blast of an explosion as the Ferolind combusted. The body she saw fly through the air, one she hoped wasn't one of the Dregs. The flashes of fire, two twin suns in quick succession. They reached the Ferolind, and he set her down on the deck. And then, only moments later, another joined them, dragging something onto the wood.

"Kaz," she muttered. Her savior glanced behind him and slowed as he recognized Esther's sister. What was her name?

Her name was Marit, and these so-called Dregs would do well to learn it before she killed them all. In the day that she had been in their alliance, after the contract she had signed for her uncle as insurance came under the ownership of Dirtyhands, she had learned that they were a force to be reckoned with. But she couldn't find herself afraid of them - except for Brekker. She had only been in Ketterdam for a single week, and yet she had heard whispers of the boy's hands, stained with blood. Of the boy's mind, sharp and deadly, a wicked blade made for killing. And of course, of the boy's strange new affiliation with the Razorgulls' new demo girl, no longer in their allegiance. The girl who blew up a ship filled with jurda coming into the Dime Lion's berth, that also stored stowaway passengers. Her sister, that dreaded girl who had defied their mother. 

And where was Esther now? Well, she was dead, of course.

She was rather close to it, anyway.

She had been a single step away from the Ferolind when it exploded, flinging her body through the air. Suddenly she was not herself, and she saw through the eyes of a young boy who had taken refuge in the hull of a ship packing jurda. She saw through the eyes of those who her bombs had helped to kill, thrown into the air. Dead, dead, dead, just like she was about to be.

Then she saw Marit advancing towards her, a gleaming knife held in her hand. Her skin felt like it was dying, her heart was failing, she knew it, but she raised her hand and let out a burst of flame, trying to keep her away. A second escaped her hand, this time brighter, but she could not stop her sister from raising the knife. Then it plunged into the wood beside her neck, slicing the rope that had become tangled around her neck as she flew through the air. Her eyes met Maria's, then rolled up into her head, and she was still.