𝑮𝑳𝑰𝑻𝑻𝑬𝑹 | 𝑘.𝑏.

14

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S H O W S T O P P E R
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"WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED HERE?" Rotty exclaimed upon rounding the corner with Kaz, immediately struck by the fresh smears trailing up the the pyramid of cargo, the dark stains on a collapsed wall of nearby crates. And of course Oomen, Geels' shambling enforcer for the Black Tips who could crush skulls with his bare hands, curled up on the ground, giggling.

Kaz knew something had gone wrong the second the mist lifted. Whatever whimsical tendrils had been curling off the harbor had gone shooting through the labyrinth of the docks just after the decoy exploded, gathering into a hulking mass over the fiery rubble. Kaz could see that Feta, upon calling the mist, was sparing time to cloak Nina and Matthias, even shroud him, Wylan, and Jesper in a thin cloud. Those shooting at them — far more than Kaz had anticipated — had no way of telling where their targets were, if they were shooting at allies or not.

By now the mist had retreated back to the sea, Oomen's unhinged giggling replaced the gunfire, and Feta was on the brink of death.

Kaz and Rotty had followed the blood on the pyramid, hoisting themselves up to the first level. Inej was holding herself at an odd angle — she seemed to be injured on her left side — as she pressed shaking hands against Feta's crumpled form. The vibrant red soaking Feta's tunic, Inej's hands, was unnervingly bright for Ketterdam, for the gray dawn. Eye-catching as ever.

Inej had been startled, a bit dizzy herself, by the sudden appearance of Kaz and Rotty.

"Oomen," was all Inej could gasp out upon taking in Kaz's monstrous expression. "We—"

"Later," Kaz said in a clipped voice, barely able to hear over the blood rushing in his ears, rushing from Feta's body. "Rotty, Inej," he instructed. "Come back for Oomen."

Rotty didn't hesitate, the man rolling up his sleeves and speaking lowly as he tried to help Inej get comfortable. He fastened Inej to his back, moving as gingerly as possible as he disappeared onto the docks.

Kaz braced himself in a squat, barely hearing his bad leg screaming its protest.

Feta's head tilted jerkily, the shallow movement of her chest far — or at least somewhat — more composed than Kaz was expecting.

So, she'd said the day he taught her how to pickpocket, trying to put his advice to a scale she was more familiar with, always work under the assumption you're being watched. Got it. It's just an act. She had smirked, and that had been the day he'd learned exactly which smirk of her's preceded her awful jokes. Guess you're really teaching me how to steal the show, huh Kaz?

No matter how hard she was trying to imply control, composure, it was evident Feta could only polish one thing at a time; she couldn't disguise the fear in her eyes fast enough once she realized Kaz was there. It took her longer than it should have considering she was staring right at him, but better late than never, Feta would say. Kaz watched the plea slip from her eyes, replaced by a smile, of all things.

"This isn't the blaze of glory I was promised." Her voice was strained and squeaked as amusement leaked into her words. Her wheezing breaths came out in sharp whistles. Not funny, he considered shooting her down. But the air was ripped from his lungs as he spotted the harsh bruises bloominh along her throat, took in the sharp scent of spilled blood, felt the frigid grin of Death, looming.

Kaz gathered Feta into his arms. Part of him revolted, even despite the layers of clothing between their skin; a far louder part of him reminded him that this wasn't what Feta deserved. He forced himself to mimic her amusement: "You can take it up with Marshall." Something he told her often when she compared gang life to the dramatics of West Stave. Assess her injuries, he instructed himself, though even the voice in his head sounded shaky.