No Mourners, No Funerals

14.✓

Kaz leaned back and stuck the knife into the traitor's gut, twisting the blade before dragging it up, opening his belly. The traitor's eyes went wide, and Kaz watched the life fade from them before he got up, wiping the bloodied blade on the boy's jacket.

He'd need to see to the destruction of the Blacktips, but he knew one thing—the rest of this puzzle wasn't them. They were too dumb.

Kaz glanced back at the bouncer's body. The poor skiv had no idea he was giving away his position and thought it'd buy him further into the Dregs, deeper into the information. Dirtyhands had other people to deal with.

Flicking his bloodied sleeve, he limped towards the exit of the alley, putting the knife back in its sheath. He had to get to Wylan's. It seemed there was more than just a dinner party he was missing.

***

Jason rummaged through drawers and cabinets in the first room, looking for any documents that would be useful. He stopped when something caught his eye—a note. It was hard to read in the dim light, but he was able to make it out.

The note was from Inej Ghafa herself.

It was nothing much except for one sentence. He may be a bastard, but I trust him with my life, as does he.

Jason smirked and thought to himself, Got 'em. He then climbed back out the window and crept back to his headquarters.

***

Kwet remained at the top of the elegant staircase, only taking in information as Kaz had ordered. Things seemed to be tense. How had not one, but two people with seemingly no relation to the Van Eck family end up in Wylan's very own mansion?

It was strange. Very strange.

She adjusted her stance, careful not to draw any attention as she glanced around for any other uninvited visitors.

How had these girls gotten away with this? Who had given them the information?

Kwet cursed. That damn bouncer. Of course, he hadn't even been at the door when Sybia had entered earlier. How stupid was she to leave her with him there? Gods, she hoped this didn't put her job at stake.

Vlam had settled into his new room. It was definitely strange living under a gang roof, and well—being part of said gang. Soon he'd have a tattoo, something he had never even considered getting.

Oiche had taken up residence at the foot of the bed, curled into a ball of fluff, the tip of her snowy tail resting on her nose.

Slowly, Vlam traced the scar across his face, hairline, nose, jaw. Sighing deeply, he fell onto his bed. Again something he wasn't used to—a family? Well, he wasn't exactly sure how gangs worked, but the few ex-members he had run into in his old town often said it was a family, often better than their blood relations.

He stood up again and hung his coat on the bedframe, looking at the daggers sheathed under his forearms. He slid one under his pillow and the other, under the bed.

Paranoia was definitely a factor here.

Sliding off his boots, he laid down again, absentmindedly petting Oiche. Suddenly, Vlam's eyes narrowed in on the flame of the small lantern hanging on his wall. He focused on the flame, sensing the chemicals, the heat, all of it. Breaking his concentration, he rolled over and watched the bleak world outside his window.

Vlam was starting to get annoyed. Lately, he had been getting less and less sleep, and when he did, it was like he hadn't slept at all. Occasionally, he'd get nauseous and have to fight back the urge to vomit.