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Celeste had never met the infamous criminal know as Dityhands--an obvious reference to the blood stains or scars or scales that lay under his signature leather gloves.
She had never met him, but it was common sense to be scared of him. You didn't need to shake hands with the devil to know he was the devil, to know he was wicked. No one wasn't scared of him.
Though, when she turned thirteen and, as her mother so lovingly called it, began her rebellious phase, she doubted his reputation. Like Santa Klaus, like the Boogeyman, like the tooth fairy, like hypnotizing sirens lain on large rocks with pear corsets and fine hair, she wondered if he was merely a legend designed by grandmas and grandpas and told to children to keep them from venturing into the poorer parts of Ketterdam.
But now she was sixteen and no longer such a fool. She knew he wasn’t a figure of lore, knew he was real and dangerous and deadly. So, everyone, even she, was truly terrified of the man with the silver-headed crow cane.
Well, that wasn't strictly true. Rumors, warnings, and praise were murmured about one known as the Saint of the True Sea--Dirtyhands’s former spy, the Wraith. People said that she and Dirtyhands were old friends, parted co-workers, lovers, rivals. There was no telling what their bond really was, what truly bound them together.
Celeste liked to think they were in love. She adored reading those books filled with princesses and princes that her older brother always teased her for. Those are for kids , he would say. She didn’t let his mocking bother her. She knew her stories were childish, but she loved her books, her fairytales, and every happy ending.
They seemed like a fairytale match. The demon and the saint. It reminded her of one tale- a boy raised in the streets who stole to survive and a beautiful princess who wanted nothing more than to help her people. They fall in love.
Celeste wanted to love someone, to have someone love her. She thought it would be quite nice.
She had never met the pair, together or separate, but one day, that changed.
Her mother was invited to a wedding at one of the men on the Merchant Council’s house, and there, kept to the side, whispering amongst themselves, were Dirtyhands and the Wraith. They did not look very scary to Celeste.
The saint was wearing a teal dress that looked as if it was made to mimic the restless waves of the glittering sea, and the demon was wearing a suit that looked like a more expensive version of her father’s. He had his gloves and his cane, and, much to her surprise, there was no blood on either.
Maybe, she thought, possibly recklessly, her younger self had been right to doubt his story.
They were standing close enough that Celeste could not tell if they were touching or not and watching something intently across the room.
Celeste moved closer, grabbing a crystal glass of champagne as she went, waving politely to some of her mother’s friends.
She did not walk right up to them (she was not that stupid), and instead settled for standing a few meters away from them, her gaze trained on the dancefloor, on her mother across the room, on the group of finely dressed ladies swarmed around a punch bowl, squealing and giggling like gossiping schoolgirls. Often, however, and as subtle as she could manage, her eyes slipped to the pair to the left of her.
Closer now, and with a clearer view, she could see the way Dirtyhands’s gaze stayed locked on the saint, the way he let a smile slip, just briefly. The saint was laughing, grinning, speaking the quiet words that drew a grin from the demon, and oh if she didn’t think they were lovers before, she did now.
As if the seal the deal, Dirtyhands’s hand brushed the saint’s, then, only for a moment, their fingers tangled.
Suddenly, her gaze locked with the demon, his eyes boring into hers.
She froze, caught. She couldn’t bring herself to look away. It felt like staring down the barrel of a loaded gun.
She didn’t look away, not even for a second. After what felt like minutes, her whole body on edge, the man tilted his head slightly, then looked away.
She breathed out. Then in.
She suddenly felt ever so foolish. He was only a man with a woman he fancies. She was only at a party, not with a knife to her back.
She liked the adrenaline his sharp gaze caused, though, the feeling of danger.
There was a commotion among some of the guests, and when the floor parted to those making a ruckus, Mr. Williams was being shouted at by his dainty little wife.
Celeste scoffed at the scene playing out before taking a sip from her champagne. She grimaced at the taste; she much preferred the whiskey she swiped from her father’s liquor cabinet.
When she glanced back at Dirtyhands and the saint, the happy couple and one other woman were with them, talking and chuckling.
She observed them with fascination, astounded that the most revered pirate and the most feared murderer appeared so painfully human.
It was a successful outing, she decided later.