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Wylan wakes to a hand pressing across his mouth. His eyes snap open in the dark.
“If you make a single noise, runt, I will slit your throat so quick you won’t even see the knife.” Someone grits out, very close to his ear. The curly hair next to his jaw is moved by their warm breath.
There is someone in his room.
On his bed.
Wylan is not planning to make a single noise, or move at all – in fact, he couldn’t even if he wanted to. His body is locked frozen solid with absolute terror.
He can’t see anything in the dark.
Shallow, desperate breaths from his nose whistle in the silence.
Wylan is terrified. He doesn’t know what’s going on.
The person murmurs next to his face again. “Is that clear, Wylan?”
They know his name.
Wylan’s heart stops beating. It feels like someone put ice in his veins.
His breaths become faster. His eyes are wide open but he can’t see a thing.
He nods jerkily into the palm. His metal bedframe creaks, quietly.
Shit. Oh, shit. He’s going to die. He’s going to get killed and he’s going to die. Oh, Gods.
Wylan feels like sobbing but he can’t. The hand releases its pressure over his face.
“Good.” The person is further away, now, “Get up.” Wylan gets up.
His bare toes shake as he puts his legs down on the floorboards. His thin pajama shirt and trousers do nothing against the chill of terror he feels. His breathing remains quick and weak.
Oh, Gods. Someone’s in his room.
His legs almost give out as he stands up, but he grabs his bedframe and remains steady. He prays this is all just a terrible nightmare.
“Come out to the corridor.”
The voice is feminine. Wylan distantly registers an accent but he can’t think enough to discern where from. He feels faint as he drags both his hands roughly along the wall to feel out where his door is in the dark. The wallpaper feels dry and smooth under his fingertips, hissing as they run across it.
He reaches his doorframe, but the space next to it where solid wood would normally be is gaping open and empty. Wylan’s bedroom door is wide open.
Oh, shit.
He stumbles into the corridor, trembling arms that were held out in front of him pushing into something solid.
It's the person. Oh, he’s going to die.
They grab his thin shoulder to steady him, but then don’t let go. Their fingers are small but long, the grip bruising.
His heartbeat has kicked violently into action, jackrabbitting a thumping beat under his ribs. He’s tense, muscles rigid enough to make him dizzy.
The carpet of the corridor muffles their footsteps as Wylan is led down it. His eyes flick wildly in the pitch black like a prey animal. He still can’t make out anything except vague shadows. There are no windows in this corridor.
He barely breathes, trying to stay dead silent. Shakes wrack his frame.
In the back of his brain, Wylan registers that they are going towards the back of the house. Where the servants’ entrance is. There hasn’t been more than a single housekeeper in the staff in a long time, and this door isn’t used often.
Oh, Gods, Wylan is being kidnapped. He’s being kidnapped and then he’s going to die.
The figure leading him is eerily quiet, Wylan can’t even hear them exhale or the shuffle of clothes.
He is so scared. He feels like his bones are clattering together with the force of his trembling.
The house is so quiet.
Wylan’s bedroom is on the third floor out of four. The staircase at the end of the hallway spirals down, down, down.
He descends the first flight. The stone steps are freezing against his pale feet. He almost trips, but the tight hold on his shoulder keeps his body upright, again.
Wylan starts to continue down the second flight of stairs, but the figure stops him. He freezes. He is spun around, and they walk down the next corridor.
This person knows the layout of his house.
The hallway on this floor is fancier. The carpet is thicker but more frequently walked. Heavy curtains line the windows, but they are all pulled shut. Usually oil lamps light the route, but they are all unlit.
The housekeeper is off this week.
This has been planned.
Wylan feels like he might pass out.
They come to a stop in front of a doorway. It is very familiar to Wylan, and more dread pools in his gut just at the sight of it – a trained response.
He forgot that as well as the unused servants’ entrance, there’s another room at the back of the house.
One that a criminal would be interested in.
His father’s study.
Now that they are closer, Wylan can see a faint flickering light bleeding through the slit under the heavy mahogany of the door.
His dad?
The figure holding him leans close, and Wylan freezes, eyes wild. But they reach past him, and tap on the wood. Only with their fingertips, barely enough to make a sound, clearly meant to replicate a knock.
Oh, Gods; there’s more than one person in his house. There is someone else on the other side of that door.
A moment passes.
Wylan can feel his heartbeat in his mouth.
He strains his ears in the silence to hear the latch slowly slide across, then quietly click open.
His hands are trembling and sweaty.
The door painstakingly swings open, hinges perfectly oiled.
In the doorway stands a tall frame, silhouetted in the dim light of the study beyond.
Oh, shit.
“Good work.” They murmur – a grating, gritty drawl, seemingly taking in the sight of him.
Wylan is quickly dragged into the room and the door is clicked shut behind him.
He blinks in the sudden illumination, eyes startled and disoriented.
The hand is promptly pressed back against his face, preemptively muffling Wylan’s involuntary yelp.
He is startled, because there are two other people in the room. The man that was at the door is revealed – tall and wiry, with choppy black hair and pale cheekbones. He is young, but using a cane to lean on.
He looks like a criminal.
He looks like he’s going to kill Wylan.
Gods.
The other figure sits on an armchair by the unlit fireplace, a man by the looks of it. His smooth dark skin is highlighted by the oil lamp flickering on Wylan’s father’s desk. He’s dressed in expensive fabrics, rich purples and blues and greens.
On the side table in front of him glints two guns.
Wylan wants to throw up.
He can’t draw his eyes away from the weapons. He’s shaking so hard he feels sick.
“Sit him down, Inej, he looks a moment away from fainting.” The first man says. Wylan feels himself firmly placed down in the chair he usually sits in when called to this room; the sturdy one facing the desk.
His stomach clenches.
The hand is pulled away from his mouth – they’ve clearly realised he won’t scream.
The gangly man limps over and settles himself comfortably in Jan Van Eck’s chair, resting his cane against the arms. The black leather of his gloves creaks as he interlocks his hands on the polished wood in front of him. The large, gold-framed oil painting behind the chair surrounds him like a halo.
Wylan wants to sob. He’s cold and dizzy and so so scared.
He closes his eyes and breathes shallowly, trying to regulate the panic he feels.
The room is quiet, save for the man in the armchair shuffling around. Wylan hears a dull clink, as if he’s picked up one of the guns. He chokes back a cry.
He’s going to die in his father’s office.
“Wylan,” the man opposite him says, and his eyes jerk open. The man has no iris, only deep spheres of black black black. It makes him look like a vulture.
“I have a few things to ask you.” Wylan waits for more, but the man must expect an answer. Wylan frantically nods his desperate agreement.
“Lovely. First thing, Wylan; how old are you?”
If Wylan were thinking clearly, he’d think this question is a bit unexpected, considering the situation. However his brain is filled with static, so he doesn’t even blink.
He tries to speak, but only a broken croak spills out of his throat. He coughs, and tries again. His throat is dry and heaving.
“Nineteen.” Wylan whispers. A muffled scoff can be heard from behind him. The man shifts.
“Your father is a very famous man, around here, do you know that?” Wylan nods. He did know that. “All of the merchants enjoy their popularity, don’t you think? Going to dinners, setting up foundations. Being seen with their family.”
There’s a pause.
Wylan holds his breath, eyes wide open. His lungs are heaving silently under his thin shirt.
“Do you know the difference between your father and the other merchants, Wylan?” The criminal continues.
This time he doesn’t wait for an answer. He leans forward slightly to Wylan, eyes wicked sharp and cheekbones tight.
“Jan Van Eck doesn’t have a family. Right?”
Wylan doesn’t move.
“Everyone knows this. Never seen with a partner, no wife, no children, no heir. Bit odd for someone so wealthy, don’t you think?”
Wylan is frozen still.
“And then I discover something.”
Wylan can’t breathe.
“Imagine my surprise when I find out Jan Van Eck did have a family. A wife and a child. A son, even. His heir. Wylan Van Eck. An heir that hasn’t been seen for fifteen years.”
The man leans back, and crosses his arms. His black waistcoat creases.
“So what happened? Clearly the son isn’t dead — no coroner records or burial sites. So I dig. I send my people out to try and find this boy. At this point I think I’m looking for a body, right?”
Wylan thinks he might throw up. He doesn’t understand what’s going on.
“Until my spider sees something, in Jan Van Eck’s house. And my men see something in Jan Van Eck’s financial records.”
Oh, Gods.
“A woman. No ordinary woman, either. Paid secretly in written checks. Paid very highly. A tutor. Lara Visser. Now why would Jan Van Eck need a tutor? One that is known for teaching children, teenagers. She’s not a prostitute, and she’s clearly there for a reason”
A pause, where the man regards Wylan with an impassive glare.
“Do you remember Lara Visser, Wylan?”
Wylan nods, mutely. His eyes are wide and prickling in fear. His bony hands are shaking. His thin clothing offers no comfort.
She left only two weeks ago.
“Very intelligent woman. She’s fine, don’t worry. But this tells us something. This tells us that Jan Van Eck’s son is still alive. Is still living in his house.”
The room is tense. Nobody moves. Wylan can’t look away from the man in front of him.
“Obviously this begs the question — why was this heir so perfectly hidden? Well, almost perfectly. Why has he been kept away from the public all these years? A disability? Shame? Paranoia?” The man shifts in the chair. “And then I realised, I don’t care.”
He smiles, wicked and bitter. A smooth scar pulls across his cheek. Wylan thinks he looks like the devil.
“I don’t care, Wylan, because Jan Van Eck has something I want. Something of mine.”
The figure Wylan assumes to be Inej creeps up silently into view behind the man. He forgot she was even in the room.
She’s tiny. Her black hair is pulled into a tight braid behind her head, and Wylan is afraid of her. Blades glint beneath her dark clothing. A threat.
“You see that painting behind me, Wylan? The DeKappel. Behind it is a locked safe, I think you know.”
Shit.
Wylan didn't know that. He brings his hands to clutch at his own fingers.
Inej silently reaches up and unclasps something behind the frame with a snick. The painting gently swings open, slowly, tensely, and reveals a shiny panel in the wall. Engraved on the front is the Van Eck family crest. Wylan can’t make out the letters underneath.
He’s never seen this before. It looms menacingly above them all. Taunting.
“That safe contains one million Kruge that was stolen from me two years ago by one of your father’s men.”
Wylan didn’t know that either.
The man stands up. He seems impossibly tall as he stares down his nose at Wylan.
Oh Gods, he is really going to die.
Wylan holds his breath and begs himself not to cry.
“Now, as much as I despise Jan Van Eck, he is a very clever man. Very cunning. Good at swindling men out of their money. And one thing we both know that that man cannot be beat at, is secrecy. You are clear proof of that.”
The man is pacing now, not even looking at Wylan. Wylan tracks his figure with petrified eyes. He feels cornered.
“And the one thing that I cannot figure out is how to crack this safe. Yes, I know how it works, inside and out. I know its material and type of lock. But I can’t figure it out. And my money is inside.”
The man stops, takes a deep breath, and points his piercing eyes towards Wylan’s hunched and trembling form.
“Then we find out about you. The heir. If the evidence matches up, you’ve inherited the intelligence of your father. The Visser woman, one of the best tutors in Ketterdam, has taught you.”
Wrong.
“Your father has kept you away, no doubt mentoring you relentlessly to fulfill his legacy.”
Wrong.
“You are of age, you told me a few minutes ago.”
No, no, no.
“Wylan, I know you know the way into this safe. You are my key.”
Wylan doesn’t know. He feels like throwing up all over the desk.
Oh, no. Oh, Gods, no, no, they’ve got it all wrong. Everything. All wrong. Oh, shit, Wylan doesn’t know and he’s going to die.
They’ve got everything wrong.
He’s not clever. Not at all.
He can’t even read.
The one thing that they haven’t factored in that Wylan is stupid. Completely stupid. Unable to learn skills that a toddler can.
Visser was another effort from his father to beat in skills that he just doesn’t get. He thought a better tutor would make a difference, but you can’t cure total unintelligence.
Oh, Gods.
He starts to speak, to correct the man, but he’s interrupted. A tear has spilled out of Wylan’s eye and is trailing hotly down to his chin.
“Wylan, tell me the code.”
Wylan shakes his head, frantically. He chokes out, “No, no, I can’t, I-”
Something cold presses against the back of his head.
Wylan stops breathing.
His heart slams to his feet.
The gun.
Wylan thinks he is more scared than he ever has been in his life.
“Wylan, I really need you to tell Kaz the code.” A heavy voice speaks lowly, near to Wylan’s head. The other man.
Wylan didn’t even hear him move.
He can only shake his head silently, not daring to breathe. His ribs feel constricting, too small.
“I am a very dangerous man,” Kaz warns, lips pulling back in a sneer, “and I will do very bad things to you, Wylan, if you don’t open this safe for me.”
He can hear the second man breathing heavily next to his ear. He must be crouching down. The metal gets pushed harder into Wylan’s skull, grinding against the strands of his hair.
The safe is a terrifying silver beast behind Kaz.
Tears are falling freely now, heavy and hot down his trembling cheeks. “No, you- you’ve got it all wrong, no, I can’t-” He begs. His knuckles are white where they grab at each other.
A pause. The air has shifted.
They all go quiet. Inej dashes silently to crouch on the windowsill.
Footsteps sound down the corridor. Heavy ones.
His dad.
Oh, Gods. He must have heard Wylan’s begging.
Wylan shuts his eyes. The pressure of the pistol moves a little.
“Shit.” The second man says. “Boss, what do we do?”
Wylan can hear Kaz’s cane clatter against the arm of the desk. “Jesper, hold the boy. We’re going to ransom him.”
Wylan feels faint as he’s dragged up off the chair and held firmly against a strong body, an arm tight around his neck. The gun is pulled away, briefly, before being placed immediately back against his ear.
He can hear Jesper breathing heavily behind him. Wylan isn’t breathing at all.
The door finally opens with a click.
Jan Van Eck stands in the doorway. His eyes widen with shock, and his gaze darts to Kaz at the safe before landing on where Wylan is being held up.
His hands immediately raise in the air. He’s breathing heavily. “Dirtyhands.”
“Open the safe or I will shoot your son.” Kaz demands, bluntly.
Wylan’s legs give out. Jesper just tightens his grip.
A bead of sweat makes its way down Jan’s flushed face. His eyes are wild. “Now, men, I- I’m sure we can sort this whole thing out. No need for any of this, this shooting, yes?” The floorboards creak as he walks over, trepidatiously. His hands are still in the air. “We can come to an agreement, I’m sure.”
Wylan doubts his father has even noticed Inej’s presence in the room.
Kaz doesn’t move. “You have a million Kruge that belongs to me. Your son is on the line. Open the safe.”
Jan still doesn’t concede, but he’s nervous. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The arm around Wylan’s neck is removed, and he almost falls to the floor as his support is removed. Until something presses on the tender flesh underneath his chin.
The second gun.
Wylan thought it was still on the table.
His neck has to strain upwards at the angle. His feet are on their toes. It digs into his throat like a noose.
Wylan sobs out, “Dad, please, please.” He’s terrified. He knows he’s going to die. He can picture his blood splattered over the room, shot twice from a gun at his ear and a gun at his jaw.
Jesper breathes heavily.
“Wylan, you can get rid of all of this by telling us the code. Come on” He says, into the ear not covered by the barrel of the first gun, as if he’s not the one holding them there.
Wylan shakes his head, desperate.
His father scoffs, quietly, looking to the side. As if he cannot bear to look at his own son.
The room snaps to look at him.
Jan looks more confident now, dropping his arms to rest behind his back. “Him? You think Wylan knows the code to my safe? I thought you knew better than this, dirtyhands. Clearly, your… research into my personal life isn’t as thorough as you thought it was.”
Kaz has paused. Both of his hands are resting on the silver head of his cane. He meets Jan’s eyes from behind the desk. “He’s your only heir, is he not?” Kaz sounds self-assured, but Wylan can tell he’s second-guessing himself underneath.
“Gods, no. That brat isn’t inheriting a single Kruge. I wouldn’t trust him to go to the shops by himself, let alone run my business.” Jan is awfully secure for someone whose son is currently being held at gunpoint.
Wylan’s sobs are turning into quiet pleas. “Dad, please, they’re going to kill me, please!”
His feet are scrabbling against the floor, trying to relieve the strain on his neck. Nobody in the room seems to be listening to him.
“And why is that?” Kaz responds to Wylan’s father.
Jan sneers. “Why doesn’t he show you?” He directs his next words to his son, but continues to face the man standing behind his desk. “Wylan, why don’t you read the inscription on the safe for me?”
Oh Gods, this is the worst possible scenario. It’s like his father wants him to be shot.
Wylan looks over at the revealed panel through blurry eyes.
He prays for a miracle, that finally, finally, his brain would comply, that he’d be able to prove his worth. Of course, all he sees is a jumbled mess of lines and shapes that don’t form any particular pattern. Of course. He’s still stupid.
Wylan desperately begs, his face a mess of tears and snot and sweat. Jesper’s guns remain tight, a threat. “Dad, stop, I- you know I can’t, I can’t do it-”
“See?” Jan says, smugly, as if he’s won any sort of battle. “The boy cannot read. Nineteen years old and unable to read.”
“So you won’t mind if my man here puts two bullets through his skull.” Kaz nods to Jesper across the room.
Wylan gasps, chest heaving as he struggles to bring in any air to his terrified brain. His eyes fly wide open, wild and wet. His legs give out completely.
“Oh, Gods, no no, please, no, Dad!” He cries, frantic, pleading to his father.
Jesper’s thumb grips Wylan’s chin and pries his jaw open. He shoves a gun into his mouth.
The metal tastes like blood on his tongue. It clicks on his teeth as it’s forced in.
The safety is flicked off.
Wylan distantly thinks he’s pissed his pajama trousers. His vision blurs completely. His lungs feel like they’re about to collapse.
Oh, Gods, he’s going to be shot dead.
He chokes on the gun and the fear. Warm spit starts to leak out of his mouth and down his chin.
Wylan thinks the conversation might be continuing but he can’t hear anything over the loud rushing in his ears. He closes his eyes, lashes dark and clumpy with tears, and waits for death.
It doesn’t come.
Instead, the gun is taken out of between his teeth after an indeterminate amount of time and Wylan can actually breathe properly.
The strong body from behind him remains steady, but the suffocating grip of the guns is pulled away entirely. He feels himself gently being lowered to the floor, as if in a dream. The rushing in his ears is still persistent.
His eyes are open, though. They’re sticky and cloudy from tears, but he can make out the scene in front of him.
The safe is open. A gaping mouth in the wall. A leather bag sits on the desk, presumably full of the million kruge.
His father sits on the chair Wylan had been sat in a few minutes prior. Kaz is still standing on the other side. Inej is still a ghost by the window.
Jan Van Eck had surrendered. To Kaz. Dirtyhands.
For Wylan? Really?
Wylan blearily looks up at his father’s figure, who is ramrod straight and refusing to look defeated. Still proud. He shouldn’t be. Cornered in his own home. Insulting his only son to a group of criminals.
Still. A trickle of warmth drips into Wylan’s heart at the thought that his father thinks he is worth more than a million kruge, no matter who it technically belongs to.
“Right then,” Kaz says, picking up his cane and the bag. He dusts off his gloves as if they had ever been dirty. “I guess you two gentlemen can go back to your beds. We will show ourselves out.”
Wylan can hear Jan exhale hotly. His body is tense, beady eyes trained on the man facing him.
“You’d better keep your half of the deal, Brekker. I don’t want any word of any family of mine anywhere in Ketterdam. I have no son, alright?” Kaz simply looks down at him. Jan seems to take it as confirmation.
Wylan’s heart immediately shutters cold again.
Fuck. Of course.
His father hadn’t paid a million kruge to save Wylan.
He’d paid a million kruge to keep Wylan a secret. Keep him away. Keep him here, at the mansion, alone.
And oh, gods, the thought of his father’s reaction to all this makes Wylan want to hurl. He’s going to be so angry.
And the fact that someone figured out that Wylan exists – his father is going to become even more paranoid. Wylan probably won’t be allowed outside again. Or to have a tutor.
And if Wylan doesn’t have a tutor–
If Wylan doesn’t have a tutor then there’s no use for him.
He can’t read. And this whole thing means his father won’t even try anymore. It’s too risky. There’s never been any use, anyway.
But shit, this time might do it. This time might really be it. This time might be when his father decides Wylan is more trouble than he’s worth. He’s already done it once before.
Now Wylan’s thinking about it, he’s unsure why he didn’t just let Jesper put the bullets in him. It would save him some work, surely.
Maybe he doesn’t want blood on the carpet.
Wylan feels dizzy. He’s missed the conversation that happened, but now everyone has left the room except Kaz, who is standing at the doorway. And Jan Van Eck, who is staring at Wylan.
Fuck. Yeah, Wylan knows this is going to be it. He won’t make it to the end of the week, he’s sure. He knows that look in his father’s eyes – weighing up the pros and cons, calculating the best method to murder his own son. Wylan wonders how he’ll do it. Maybe he’ll be drowned in the canal at the end of the garden, or suffocated in his sleep. Those two are the least messy. But drowning hadn’t worked before. He might get creative this time.
Wylan doesn’t know why he’s so terrified at the thought of being shot by criminals but so detached at the prospect of his father killing him.
He slumps to the ground, worn out.
Kaz hesitates by the door. His dark eyes haven’t left Jan.
The bag has disappeared from his arm. Inej probably took it.
His gaze seems to recognise something in Jan’s look. Like he knows what he’s planning. What he’s planning for Wylan.
Wylan’s heartbeat speeds up.
“Wait!” He calls out. He doesn’t know what’s come over him. Maybe it's the adrenaline wearing off. His arms shake from where he’s holding himself up off the floor.
Kaz’s eyes snap to him. Wylan looks back, trying to avoid the gradually more furious stare of his father. His eyes are pleading with Kaz. “Please, I think he’s going to kill me.”
Wylan doesn’t know why he is begging with the very man who had also been going to kill Wylan a few minutes prior, but it was either going to be a loud death with Kaz or a quiet death from his father. And Wylan is tired of being quiet.
His father immediately rises from the chair, face red and fists clenched. “Wylan! You–” He is interrupted.
Whack! Jan’s head snaps back, and he stumbles back into the desk, clutching at his nose. His face is furious. A few pens and trinkets clatter onto the floor from the disruption.
Kaz has punched him, and is shaking out his hand. “I’ve been wanting to do that for quite a while now.” Wylan gapes. He doesn’t know how to react. Is that fear or relief in his stomach?
“I think you may be right, about being in danger.” Kaz concludes.
“Now, what do you–!” Whack! Another punch. This time it sends him scrabbling to the floor.
“Shut up, Jan.” Kaz wipes his glove on his waistcoat. He looks Wylan up and down. Wylan holds his breath.
“I’ve not really got much use for an illiterate boy who’s never left the Geldstraat.” His heart falls. Jan makes a muffled smug aha from the floor.
Wylan scrambles. This is his chance. He can’t afford to lose it. “I– I can work a chemistry set! You’re a criminal, right? You need, you need bombs? I can make them!”
Kaz considers. Finally, he nods, very slowly. “Big ones?”
“Very big! If– if I had the right materials. Please?”
“Alright. I could do that.” Kaz taps his cane. “Get up. Jan, your son is coming with me.”
They leave Jan Van Eck in his office. Wylan hopes he never sees it again.