Inej - Tuck a Knife with My Heart Up My Sleeve
~Cross-posting from Ao3. Content warnings: References to Past Sexual Assualt, Suicidal ideation, and discussions of morality.~
The legend of Dirtyhands was the first thing the Wraith learned about the world outside the cage of Heleen's precious Menagerie. Before she was the Wraith, of course.
The girls she lived with whispered stories about him. Said he was the type of man nobody dared cross. Though at the same time, they hopelessly wished that he would cross them. She could tell by the way their faces flushed and their voices pitched when they spoke of him. The man, if he could be called such, was their age. Young. Attractive. Allegedly.
When Dirtyhands visited for the first time, the girl the Wraith was before wasn't allowed out of her room, booked through the night by a merchant with a shiny gemstone on his pinky ring.
He continued to visit. Both Dirtyhands and the mercher, though the former supposedly never laid a hand on any of the girls. She found that claim hard to believe because nobody walked into a pleasure house without entertaining the thought of debauchery. The girls whispered that the only thing Brekker bought from the house was information. Information and never bodies. He bought info from Heleen and a handful of other pleasure houses on the West Stave, and given his appearances on the nights she was otherwise preoccupied, she could only take one guess on who his target was. The man with the gemstone hands had loose lips and looser fists. Her jaw still clicked to this day.
She often entertained herself with the thought of approaching him one night, that maybe she could figure out the truth behind his messy façade. Man or demon? Boy or Monster? Part of her wished he was the latter. Maybe he would be so kind as to kill her before someone with a tainted, dirty soul did.
The night before she jumped into the harbor, Dirtyhands made one of his visits and she realized that she'd never get a chance to meet the man. Yes, there was the problem that when he entered, she was chained quite literally to a wall in the foyer after a client claimed she had hit him. He was right; she did hit him. But he fucking deserved it after he tried to beat her in some weak excuse for foreplay.
No, her problem was that Heleen somehow knew about that girl's hopes to cross Dirtyhands. Because she always knew everything that happened in that house. The walls had ears, mostly because Heleen's ear was bloody everywhere.
That night Dirtyhands entered the house with little pomp and the girl the Wraith was before could watch with her own eyes how the other girls practically fell to his feet, swarming him and making eyes, whispering flirts to tempt him to their rooms. He evaded their touch effortlessly and stepped out of every embrace without looking anybody in the eye. No, his eyes remained dark and unimpressed even as he met with Tante Heleen, whispering a question about the man with a pinky ring.
Understanding had flooded through her, hot and unbearable. She wanted to scream across the room that he was asking the wrong person. Heleen only knew parts of the conversation. It was her that knew about that man; her who listened to the man babble his secrets in his dazed afterglow. If he was really as uninterested in sex and pleasure like the rumors said–she could help him.
At the time, she had believed the Saints had intervened. Because when she turned to glance at him, their eyes met for a few blessed moments. She'd sworn she saw something flicker in his eyes. Not lust or danger like she saw in the eyes of patrons. No, she saw recognition and determination flash through his eyes.
For those few seconds, she'd felt hope that she'd thought she'd been forced to leave behind in Ravka.
She could help him.
Of course–Heleen could smell that hope from across the room and knew exactly how to snuff out the wisp reverberating through her bones. Heleen pulled Dirtyhands's attention away and dragged him into her private office, calling over her shoulder that "the naughty lynx's" price was lowered for the night. Criminally low.
Inhumanly low.
That night, strangers used her body until it felt like her limbs felt like they no longer belonged to her. It was the night when the last of the light in her eyes died out.
She didn't stop hearing his name–any of his names, and he had plenty–after she became the Wraith. In fact, she probably heard it more as she lurked around the docks than she had when she had been trapped at the Menagerie. The stories told on the streets were a lot different than the ones she'd come to memorize. Nobody talked about his pretty face or how much they'd like to sleep with him.
The people on the docks told much darker tales about Kaz "Dirtyhands" Brekker. They talked about how he burnt the mistress of a rival gang lieutenant alive. Or how he shattered the kneecaps of a merchant who made fun of his disability. He carved out a man's heart just to see how long it would take to stop beating. Some people, when alcohol made lips loose, even said that Kaz had fought the Maestro of Hell himself and came out on the other side. That one, the Wraith knew was only a story. Probably. One night she heard someone whine that Dirtyhands had stolen the left shoes from every rival gang in the Barrel. Only the left shoes; nobody knew how or why he did it.
It was there on the docks that the Wraith learned Ketterdam's favorite mantra: Kaz Brekker didn't need a reason.
She'd become so accustomed to the nightmares spun on the docks that she didn't recognize his face when he first approached her that night. When he first looked at her. The memory played in her brain in a manic cycle because she didn't realize she had forgotten anything about that night. She'd thought there was still a ghost of her chained to the wall of the Menagerie, somehow. She'd forgotten about Dirtyhands.
Now they had been reunited at last. Did it count as reunited if they'd never met in her past life? The specifics didn't matter. Now, her body vibrated with the possibilities of second chances, though she tried to stomp down the instinct. There was nothing Dirtyhands could do for her anymore. Nothing she could do for him. Nothing she wanted to do for him.
Kaz had told her that not all of the stories were true. Even if they were, the Wraith couldn't find it in herself to accept a deal with the man. Monster?
And yet, that didn't stop the Wraith from keeping a close eye on the docks of the fifth harbor, wondering when he'd return.
It took him a week.
She had plenty of things to do to occupy her time, of course, and refused to let herself get too sidelined by pretty faces asking for monstrous things. A new slave ship came in from the coasts of Ravka, heralded by Fjerdan men who'd abandoned the druskelle cause. Not for worthy causes. Instead, they discovered that there was more money in slavery than there was in murder.
The boat's crew had heard of her. They wore earmuffs and blindfolds as they approached the misty coasts of Ketterdam, buying into the rumors that the Wraith could be stopped by something as simple as a wish. If wishing solved things; she wouldn't be here.
There were almost two dozen children trapped in the hull of that boat. Nobody was older than the Wraith had been when she was taken. And to think people dared to call her a monster.
She kept the least threatening crew members alive, the ones who surrendered instead of trying to run or trying to fight, and watched as they made it to their dock in the Third Harbor. The ship was a lucky ship, because as she listened to the frantic yells of the people on shore as the boat arrived, she learned that while she may have killed the captain, someone else had whisked away the buyer. Which in Ketterdam terms, meant that the buyer was either killed or about to be killed. With this deadly combination–nobody wanted to negotiate buying out the indentures. Not when the Wraith had so obviously cursed this deal from the start.
She scowled at that. There was nothing magical about murder. But she let the thought go quickly, focusing her attention on the children being led out of the hull of the ship. Since she started attacking ships, Kerch had been forced to make new laws, reunion laws, for the children she saved from slavery because the country could not afford to house all of them. Especially since they could hardly claim that these children had been taken here willingly.
She thought for a country so obsessed with money, they would save more cracking down on the slave ships, so people wouldn't be tempted into bringing boatfulls of children into their harbors. But, no. Instead they continued spending countless amounts of kruge every year on reunification.
When she did have a moment to spare, the Wraith lurked beneath the waters of the Fifth Harbor. Not because she was looking for Dirtyhands, she told herself. But she'd heard a rumor that Kaz owned this harbor, which was giving her another reason not to trust the monster who wanted to make a deal with her. Though, the longer she stayed, the more she was able to relax (as much as she could relax), she realized that the Fifth Harbor wasn't a place she spent a lot of time.
It wasn't a slow harbor. It was busy as the rest of them, though as she listened to the day trading, the harbor was used for wine and travel and weapons and exports of every variety. Not every. Apparently, Dirtyhands had a rule that he didn't allow human trade to occur under his watch and the harbor was no place for illegal indentures.
Which, unfortunately, only made her like the idea of him more. A ludicrous thought, really, when she was supposed to be considering killing the man.
Still, she let the thought keep her company as she waited for Kaz Brekker to reappear at the docks. Perhaps she would have preferred that he didn't wait a week between their meetings, though she would never dare vocalize such a thought.
Instead, when he appeared that night, she waited for him to ease himself down at the edge of the dock, carefully taking off his shoes and setting them aside as he looked out at the water. He didn't call for her this time, or search for her figure, an inaction she appreciated as she swam up to join him. This way they felt like… not friends… comrades? Was there a word for someone who brokered deals of death? Not monster, not monster, not mons–
"I haven't always been the Wraith," she said in lieu of an introduction, hoisting herself up so she could rest her arms on the dock. "I used to be a girl with a family and hopes and dreams. Then I was taken to Ketterdam, where I lost those things. And when I no longer felt human anymore–I jumped into the harbor looking for death, and became this instead."
He didn't say anything, and if she didn't know any better, she would say he wasn't listening. But she did know better. She could see the slight twitch of his brow, and how his lips turned down slightly, and how his hands curled into fists. Like he was preparing himself for a fight.
She could give him a fight. "How long have you been Dirtyhands?" she asked.
"If you ask the city, Dirtyhands emerged straight from the fires of hell to wreak havoc on the streets of Ketterdam," he said, stretching his fingers out. "But to the streets, I'm less of a person. Less of a monster. More of a legend. A story to inspire children's nightmares. A nightmare to tell other gangs, so that they might not cross the Dregs."
The Wraith rolled her eyes. "Then it's a good thing I didn't ask the streets, but the man himself."
"You should know that the man himself has killed people for asking less," he mumbled. "There was a boy, a long time ago. But Ketterdam broke the boy who existed before the demon took his place. Now they're stuck with me. A monster of their own creation."
"The city has a habit of making monsters out of its citizens."
He only shrugged at that.
She sighed and rested her chin against her forearms, ignoring the tickle of the starfish that had taken residence on her bicep. Perhaps if it wanted to stay submerged in water, it should have planted itself somewhere else. "I still haven't decided if I'm going to help you."
"If it helps, you won't be killing an innocent man."
"There's no such thing as an innocent person in Ketterdam," she bit back.
"Perhaps."
His answer shocked her. Though she knew better than to expect himself to claim innocence, she thought that maybe he knew someone better than them. Someone to keep the hope alive. But if that were truly the case, then he wouldn't be here week after week bargaining his own death.
"If this is supposed to be a deal," she said, pushing thoughts of innocence and decency out of her head, "what do I gain from fulfilling your wish?"
She kept her eyes plastered to the dock, memorizing the pattern of the wood grain, though she could feel the shift in the air when his eyes finally turned back to her. His body tensed for a moment, before he relaxed (as much as he could probably relax).
"What do you want, dear Wraith?" he asked, his voice rough. Her attention shot back to him and she found him smiling–sharp, devious. The smile of Dirtyhands Brekker.
The smile triggered her fight or flight response, and for the briefest second, she wanted to cease negotiation and kill him. The Wraith hated men who looked like that. Hated men who looked at her like that. She took that instinct and set it aside as she tore her eyes away from that damning smile and refocused on his question.
What did she want?
She wanted a lot of things before she became the Wraith. She wanted more time with her family. She wanted to perform on the tightrope again. She wanted, maybe, to one day fall in love. Those wants melted away like sugar in the damp hold of the slave ship that took her to Ketterdam.
When she was at the Menagerie, all she wanted was freedom. Escape. She wanted to hurt the patrons and clients who dared hurt her. She wanted to kill Tante Heleen. She wanted death.
She wanted so deeply, so fiercely once upon a time ago. Look where that got her.
What did she want?
Was she even capable of the feeling anymore?
"I don't know," she said finally.
When she built up the courage to look back at him, his smile was gone. Like he couldn't bear to continue with the facade. Or maybe that was just her hope getting the best of her once again. The barest flicker of pain flickered across the harsh lines of Kaz Brekker's face as he met her eyes. "I know that feeling," he rasped. His voice was too quiet, almost gentle. Almost like it belonged to someone else entirely.
"Is that why you're trying to negotiate your demise?"
He looked away, his jaw settling into a tense line. "It's not that I want to die, per say," he relented. "It's more of a passive… not wanting to live. Nobody wants to be immortal, Wraith and I'm too tired of playing the same games day after day and nothing ever changing." His hands gripped his thighs and he stared at the water. "Perhaps it's time to see if Death is any better than this."
This man was what–twenty? That was hardly immortal by any stretch of the imagination. "Maybe the Saints have other plans for you," she said instinctively, the words falling from her mouth before she realized what she was saying. She wanted to take the words back, but it was too late. She braced herself for Dirtyhands' ire, his mockery. Something told her that a man who fancied himself a monster didn't hold things like faith in high regards. Not that she really had a reason to, being the actual monster.
Instead, he laughed, a soft puff of air escaping from his chest as that same awe-struck smile he wore the first night they spoke stretched across his face. "An observant Wraith," he said, his amusement clear. "I never thought I'd see the day."
Indignation shot through her. Maybe she didn't intend to fall back on the faith she maintained as a human, but he didn't have to treat her like an abnormality. Even if she was. Especially if she was. "I've never met a demon with a death wish," she replied curtly. "And yet, here you are."
He bristled at her words, though she hadn't the slightest clue why. Before she could fall back on her instinct to apologize–another instinct she thought she'd forgotten over the years–the bells tolled twice, and the spell was broken.
"I suppose that's my cue," Kaz said, heaving out a sigh.
The Wraith nodded and pushed herself away from the dock so he had space to stand, landing in the water with the quietest splash. His feet and socks were soaked through all the way up to his shins, and he tensed as the cool night air flicked over the fabric. His eyes squeezed shut and she had to stamp down the urge to laugh. Did he forget that sitting with his feet in the harbor would have the consequence of soggy feet?
"Don't laugh at me, Wraith," he said, though there was no bite to his words. Only exhaustion. Whatever camaraderie they'd built was lost when she referenced his intent to die. "We'll continue this conversation another time," he said. "Think about what you'd like as payment. I'd burn the whole city down, if you wanted. Nothing is impossible." He frowned, shaking his head. "Most things aren't impossible."
She could have told him that burning the city would be an easier way to die than trying to convince her to take the deal. At the very least, she enjoyed talking with him.
Instead, she watched quietly as he hobbled back to wherever he went after they talked. Nowhere respectable at two bells, when the stars were still out, though it made sense. The shade of night smothered a fair share of immoralities. She didn't like operating in the sunlight hours, either. Monsters preferred the cover of the night. Not that it was often sunny in Ketterdam.
It was easier to commit sins when it seemed like the Saints weren't watching.
It was harder to repent, though.