TROUBLE , kaz brekker

viii. i didn't know you had a brother.

CHAPTER EIGHT

FINDING THE ADDRESS OF PEKKA Rollins' man was easy enough. Getting him to talk was the hard part.

Echo returned to Black Veil a few hours later, clutching a gun she hadn't bought and a heaviness that crushed her chest. Sunrise dusted the sky a bitter shade of dark-grey, the landscape painted in shades of black as she moved, silently as one of the ghosts, along the gravestones. She felt just as grey as the rest of it - exhausted, weak and probably slightly anaemic. It had been close to twenty-four hours since she'd last slept, twelve since she'd been shot and eight since she'd left The Crows behind to run a fool's errand for her life.

The strangely coloured pills the medic gave her had worked. After the gentle application of just the right amount of pressure, he'd inspected her wound and prescribed something strong. The medicine numbed the pain in her wounded arm and besides some minor expected drawbacks ( nausea, muscle spasms, making her see three of everything ) Echo was as ready as she could be for what came next.

As she'd walked, she'd planned. Without the rigorous time-keeping of Kaz Brekker's schemes, Echo finally had a moment to think - which didn't lead to the blissful contemplation she'd first thought. Just the thought of her mother - that capricious bitch - was a heavy weight that sat on her chest a choked the air from her lungs. But after tonight, Echo vowed, she could fix things. She could make it right. But first she had to burn that damned letter.

When you couldn't melt into the shadows like the Wraith, Echo found it was best to move as if you were exactly where you were meant to be, like you belonged. She strolled the streets of the Pleasure District as if it was her home - a horrifying thought, but a necessary one if she didn't want to meet the business end of a Stadwatch pistol. The streets were dark and the lampposts that could have burnt brightly were filthy and dim, the cost of the Barrel's harrowing reputation. No Merch with sense would spend his hard earned cash ensuring the degenerates of the Barrel had well-lit streets on which to murder, thieve and vandalise. Echo knew how she would look - a vibrant slip of red hair against the stark dirt. She tucked her hood around her head a little tighter.

When she reached the address provided by an unwitting source, Echo wrapped a pale hand around the handle of the front door, but it didn't budge. Shit. Locked. Although, Kaz had taught her better than to take that as a rejection. The thought of him had brought a scowl to her face, deep and wounded. But even with the fatigue of her arm, the picks she hid in the pockets of her coat were cradled between aching fingers and Echo had the mechanisms of the lock cracked in minutes. The door swung silently on it's hinges, enticing her, compelling.

Echo would find her mark on the first floor. He was bent over the dining table, one hand on a tankard, the other clutching a book she didn't care enough to inspect. The house was silent. He took a long drink. Echo pocketed the gun he'd discarded on the bookshelves and took a step forward. The floorboards had groaned.

Kaz was right, she was never the most subtle, but she could be vicious - when the circumstances demanded. The mark shot to his feet, scrambling for the pistol he'd long since discarded and Echo took that as her cue. The brittle glass tankard, the same one he'd been drinking from just moments ago, shattered over his skull and the force sent him folding like a bad poker hand as he collapsed against the panelled floor.

When the man came to, bleeding from the jagged gashes in his head and sniffling like he'd caught a cold, Echo had her boot on his neck. He was big, sure, strong and probably a formidable foe, had the odds been even. But Echo had his gun. She brushed the barrel against damp skin of his forehead so he wouldn't forget it.