Talons⛥Kaz Brekker

⛥𝔖𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔢𝔫⛥

I followed him anyway.

If you ever cared about me at all.
I actually snorted as I vaulted over a chimney. I've had plenty of chances to get away from Kaz and never come back, but I do because I care. I care for Kaz Brekker. I care for Dirty hands himself. I care for the Bastard of the Barrel. I was brought up to find a rich husband and become a meek mother of his children. That was supposed to my life. A normal life for a merchant's daughter.

But my life was completely opposite. Yes the one I loved was rich, sorta, but not the same way. And I wasn't meek are quiet around him. I could feel the press of Kaz’s fingers against my skin, feel the birds-wing brush of his mouth against my neck, see his dilated eyes. Two of the deadliest people the Barrel had to offer and we could barely touch each other without both of us kneeling over. But we’d tried. He’d tried. Maybe we could try again. A foolish wish I knew, the sentimental hope. Kaz would have laughed at my optimism.

I hissed as I slid down a drainpipe, feeling the bandage around my left hand pull free. I was going to leave a trail of blood over the skyline. We were drawing closer to the Slat, but I kept to the shadows and made sure there was a good distance between me and Kaz. He had a way of sensing my presence when no one else could.

He paused frequently, unaware he was being observed. His leg was troubling him worse than he’d let on. But I would not interfere at the Slat. I could abide by his wishes in that, at least, because he was right: In the Barrel, strength was the only currency that mattered. If Kaz
didn’t face this challenge alone, he could lose everything—not just the chance to garner support from the Dregs, but any chance he would ever have to walk the Barrel freely again. I’d often wish to chip away a bit of his arrogance, but I couldn’t bear the idea of seeing Kaz stripped of his pride.

He dodged over the rooftops of Groenstraat, following the route him and Inej laid out together, and soon enough, the back of the Slat came into view—narrow, leaning lopsided against its neighbors, its shingled gables black with soot. How many times had I approached the Slat from just this angle? I spotted Kaz’s window on the top floor. I’d spent
countless hours perched on that sill, feeding the crows that gathered there, listening to him scheme. Below it, slightly to the left, I spotted the sliver of window that belonged to my own tiny bedroom. It struck me that, whether the auction succeeded or failed, this might be the last time I ever returned to the Slat. I might never see Kaz seated at his desk again or hear the thump of his cane coming up the Slat’s rickety steps, letting me know from its rhythm whether it had been a bad night or a good one.

I watched him crawl awkwardly down from the lip of the roof and pick the lock on his own window. Once he was out of sight, I continued over the steep pitch of the gable to the other side of the Slat. I couldn’t follow the way he’d gone without giving myself away. On the front of the house, just below the roofline, I found the old metal hook used for hauling up heavy cargo. I grabbed it, ignoring the disgruntled warbling of startled pigeons, and nudged open the window with my foot, wrinkling my nose at the stink of the bird droppings. I slipped inside, moving
across the roof beams, and found a place among the shadows. Then I waited, unsure of what to do next. If anyone looked up, they might see me there, stood in the corner like the Vampress I was, but why would anyone think to?

Below, the entryway buzzed with activity. Apparently the festive mood of that morning’s parade had suffused the day. People came in and out the front door, shouting to one another, laughing and singing. A few Dregs sat on the squeaky wooden staircase, passing a bottle of whiskey back and forth. Seeger—one of Per Haskell’s favorite bruisers—kept blowing the same three notes on a tin whistle for all he was worth. A group of rowdies burst through the door and tumbled into the entry, cawing and screeching like fools, stomping the floor, banging into one another like a school of hungry sharks. They carried axe
handles studded with rusty nails, cudgels, knives, and guns, and some of them had painted crows’ wings in black across their wild eyes.