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It starts, as all morally dubious schemes do, with Kaz Brekker.
He gathers them up in the Crow Club one day—Jesper, Wylan, Nina, Inej, and Matthias—and proposes a plan that they would’ve all raised their eyebrows at if they hadn’t been through significantly worse ordeals in the past.
“So let me get this straight,” Jesper says, largely unfazed but still skeptical, “you want us to infiltrate some foreign princeling’s birthday ball, pimp out Wylan, steal a treasure chest of jewels, and then blow up the said princeling’s estate after framing his house steward?”
“That’s more or less correct,” says Kaz.
Jesper stares, undecided. Don’t get him wrong; it isn’t that he’s opposed to the idea. He loves the work that they do—the commissions they’ve accepted, the places they’ve managed to reach because of it. Gatecrashing the parties of the nobility sounds exactly up his alley, but the using-Wylan-as-bait part—this, he’s not exactly keen on.
“I’m in,” Nina sing-songs.
“Fancy,” Inej says, inspecting the invitation Kaz slid over to her. “Bet all of the high-profile merchers will be in attendance.”
Matthias just grunts, having resigned himself to his role as the main muscle of their operations since the first time they became a team. Surprisingly, Wylan offers no words of protest at the part he’s to play at the upcoming ball, looking totally accepting of his circumstances—and maybe even the slightest bit gratified.
“I have to say, I’m astonished that Wylan here isn’t putting up a big fuss about being used to hook in dear Prinz Jurgen,” Jesper says, trying to imagine it.
The party in full swing, with Wylan in another man’s arms.
“Well, it’s way better than the job I was assigned to last time,” Wylan says.
Jesper can’t argue with that. Wylan scrubbed muck out of his hair for days. He was also nearly flattened by a garbage disposal container. “So if this is a honeypot mission, why aren’t we using Nina, Miss I-could-charm-the-pants-off-a-brick-wall, instead?” he says.
“Prinz Jurgen,” Kaz explains, “is a man of specific tastes. He fancies his conquests sweet and docile, enjoys the company of doe-eyed boys with soft curls and pleasant smiles. His comings and goings at the House of Snow have informed me as much. He enjoys debauchery and the excessive partaking of opiates, which is to say he won’t be expected to remain coherent the whole night. Wylan’s role is simple: lure the prinz to a secluded room, quietly retrieve the key he keeps somewhere on his person, and sneak out with him none the wiser.”
“What Kaz said, and besides, he wants me to schmooze up a bunch of middle-aged diplomats and deal with Jurgen’s treacherous steward,” Nina says.
“Okay. But how’s Wylan going to pickpocket the key and escape unseen?”
“The prinz will be asleep,” Inej says as she idly twirls her blades. “And so will the guards.”
“Which leaves you and me on guard duty, sharpshooter,” Matthias says.
“You and me, huh,” Jesper sighs glumly.
“We’ll reconvene at sundown to discuss the rest of the details. I have an urgent matter to attend to,” Kaz says, adjusting the lapels of his coat and picking up his cane. “Oh, and Jesper. Try to not get any funny ideas about the betting tables at the dear prinz’s party.”
“Will do, but no promises there,” Jesper says, raising his hands.
The one thing he was looking forward to, and Kaz is deterring it from happening. Jesper is finding the whole mission less exciting by the second. At least he has the kruge waiting for him afterwards.
Finally, the night of Prinz Jurgen’s ball arrives, and their plan kicks off into high gear.
Dressed in opulent costumes—suits with inlaid gemstones, dresses that catch the light with every twirl—they head to the estate on horse-drawn carriages.
As expected, the manor is a vision in ivy and marble. There are lights everywhere—Fabrikator-made pinpricks meant to resemble stars; hanging lamps threaded with vines—and there’s the spectacle that’s the people, the servers bearing drinks, and the substances being offered as party favours.
Jesper’s been here a couple minutes tops, and already he saw three giggling guests snort lines on a balcony railing.
For all that merchers take pride in their so-called austerity and restraint, they’ll still partake of forbidden indulgences like there’s no tomorrow.
“Saints, this is the good stuff,” Jesper moans around a flute of bubbling champagne.
He has to hand it to the prinz; he has taste. And Jesper thought the wine he had in a pleasure barge in the Eames Harbour was legendary.
“Remember: eyes open and no funny business, Jes,” Inej warns him, but her expression is fondly exasperated so it feels less like a rebuke and more of a reminder.
“I swear on the life of my babies,” Jesper assures her, patting his holsters.
Inej is gone in a blink. He could never figure out how she does it—disappear into the shadows like she’s a ghost, this Wraith of theirs.
Because the prinz hired a prominent musical troupe, the music is several grades above decent, filling the air with a sort of magic that has everyone dancing and laughing and kicking their feet. High off alcohol, off drugs, the people make merry.
“To your left,” Matthias says in a low voice as he passes Jesper, casting a critical look at the trio pawing at one another by the banisters.
Jesper snickers. Nina mellowed him out, but trust Matthias to still shudder at anything less prude than a lady showing off her bare ankles. Granted, what Matthias witnessed was nothing short of public indecency, but still.
As Matthias goes off to tail a target Kaz said had connections to a notorious human trafficking ring, Jesper goes on to collect snatches of information and find Wylan.
And find Wylan, he does.
Jesper nearly drops the glass in his hand.
Well. This wasn’t how he expected his first proper sighting of Prinz Jurgen to go. The lounging in a gilded chaise with servants attending to his every beck and call part, he saw coming. But the staring lasciviously at Wylan while feeling up the dolled-up, pampered pets on his lap part?
If looks could kill, he’d have Jurgen in Black Veil by now.
Wylan chose to wear a form-fitting costume that was specifically tailored to evoke grace and innocence, and while Jesper saw him before they left in separate carriages, the lighting has turned him into a different person entirely. His hair is softer-looking, his skin delicate-seeming, and his eyes hold the power to bring Jesper to his knees.
It’s hard to believe this is the same boy Jesper would see with chemical residue on his clothes more often than not; that somehow this sly, angelic creature is pulling entranced looks from the partygoers that pass by.
Wylan isn’t even putting up much of an act, Jesper recognizes. He came as he was. Lovely, demure—and deceptively meek. Kaz was right. Wylan practically has the prinz wrapped around his finger. He didn’t have to try.
As Jesper’s eyes linger on the curve of Wylan’s neck, the soft smile on his face, he has an awful possessive thought: mine.
Immediately, he dismisses it.
Eventually, the prinz gets bored of his giggling pets, and invites Wylan over to his private booth, where he’s promptly assessed by a bunch of burly stadwatch. When they deem Wylan harmless, they return to monitoring the immediate premises. Big mistake.
As the drinks pour and the dancing goes on, Jurgen, having decided to indulge in some more fun, beckons Wylan closer. Jesper, distracted with the thoughts of wringing Jurgen’s neck, almost misses Inej’s signal from the shadows.
Nina, having dealt with the viper’s escape routes, makes a reappearance by the musicians’ stage, and her eyes flash towards him in reminder.
Jesper rolls his neck, reflexively pats down his holsters.
The prinz’s house of cards is about to come toppling down.
The puzzle pieces of the scheme they planned fall into place, bit-by-bit.
Ivor Hoffer, notorious opiate manufacturer, is the first to take the bait; while he’s off consorting with his inside man in one of the parlour rooms, Kaz sets off the rest off his traps—and come running into Kaz’s crosshairs, his targets do.
Inej cleared a path towards the vaults, and all that’s left is for Wylan to return with the key so they can finish what they started.
Jesper was specifically instructed to not interfere, to hold his post by the Three Man Bramble table, but the idea of leaving Wylan with that lecher of a prinz makes him so uncomfortable he makes a quick detour to the area he saw them in last.
Ambient scarlet lighting, soft lounging pads, ornate drapery, a bust of his country’s kaiser wielding a scepter—what clearly used to be an antique showroom has been transformed into another of the prinz’s many playrooms.
They’re barely touching—it’s just Jurgen’s fingers around Wylan’s elbow—but it still makes Jesper see red, so he forcibly looks away.
All of Jurgen’s pets had the same blissed-out expression when he touched them, and it isn’t hard to imagine what he plans to do with Wylan next. A hand on your skin, and it isn’t long before it’s on your waist, too, or lower.
They’re gone when Jesper finally regains enough presence of mind, but when the door to the inner chambers opens, it’s only Wylan who walks out, victorious but nonchalant. The stadwatch, as Inej promised, are nowhere in sight.
“Nice job, merchling,” Jesper whispers into Wylan’s ear once they’re back within the din of the party.
Maybe it’s the lighting that’s distorting perception, making everything seem intoxicating and euphoric, but even through the haze Jesper can tell that Wylan is annoyed. His expression, although outwardly pleasant, is betrayed by the sharpness of his gaze.
“You were watching me,” Wylan says.
A server floats by with a tray of brandy glasses. Jesper swipes one then drinks deeply, the liquid burning his veins. “I was.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“I know.”
“Then why did you?” Wylan’s tone takes on a bitter edge. “Thought I couldn’t handle it?”
This is all going sideways. This isn’t the conversation Jesper in mind. “Of course not!” Jesper snaps.
Loud; too loud. A few heads swivel in their direction.
“You’re supposed to be by that table,” Wylan mumbles. “Not trading jabs with me.”
Fuck that—there’s still time. Jesper is a professional, and he knows the timing of when he should step back in; years of cons and thievery have engraved the steps into his heart.
Besides, this a two-in-one deal; Jesper gets what he wants, with the added bonus of drawing eyes away from Kaz at Lilya Werner’s table. Jesper merely improvised, so what?
“He was all over you,” Jesper says in a low voice.
Wylan flushes red, defiant. “And that bothers you because?”
“Gods above, Wylan, you’re one of the smartest people I know, you can’t possibly be this dense,” Jesper growls.
How is it they’re back to square one again? Bitterly arguing, this time with none of the teasing and banter Jesper has grown so fond of.
“Tell me, Jesper,” Wylan breathes, and his tone is softer now, almost shaky. “What are we?”
Jesper leans in, grabs Wylan by the wrists. A flash of surprise steals across Wylan’s features, but he looks pleased, and Jesper knows he made the right choice. It’s so messed up, how it’s almost like they’re putting on a show, and it lights up every wire in Jesper’s brain that loves danger, loves the thrill of a chase, loves Wylan—and when they finally kiss, it’s fire, the jackpot, and adrenaline all rolled into one.
To hell with flings. Jesper’s over it, what they once were. He wants their new beginning to be this: together, with eyes for no one else but each other.
“This,” Jesper says into his mouth, hoarse, desperate.
“Good,” says Wylan, the singe of those beautiful eyes burning him down to the bone.
They kiss again, and this time it is less like looking into the eye of a storm and more basking in a field of sunlight. He’s warmed by it—enchanted by it—his heart a miniature sun in orbit.
And then, they break apart because an explosion sounds in the distance. The floor shakes, chandeliers rattle, and people run out screaming and panicking.
“I guess this is our cue,” Jesper says, heading over to the table.
“Let’s pick up where we left off tomorrow night?” Wylan shouts over the fray.
“Sounds perfect,” Jesper says, before getting himself into position and shooting at an explosive Matthias planted on a jutting balcony of the second floor.
The mission ends up a success.
They make it through the prinz’s night of revelry. They blow shit up, fight fire with fire, and steal loot from bigger crooks than themselves. What’s their life if not a constant chase of catching bigger and bigger prey? Seeing those who wronged them go down; seeing their gilded thrones go up in flames.
(Thousands upon thousands of kruge richer, Jesper wakes up one morning itching for the thrill of another heist with Wylan dozing by his side.)