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Chapter Text

If you asked Grayson Mathewson about cats he’d tell you they were the devils in disguise.

“There it is again,” said Grayson.

His voice cracked the night’s quiet like the snap of a match. He should’ve been down at the brothel with a cheap drink and cheaper company, not babysitting some halfwit rookie on night watch. His breath was frosting in the air and his boots were damp with water. And now he really, really, needed that drink.

“That blasted cursed cat.”

Cursed was right. The thing was a ghost in fur with its ribs showing through its skin, one eye scared, the other gleaming yellow in the gaslight. It sat at the mouth of the alley, tail twitching watching Grayson’s team. Grayson despised the way it looked at him. Then came the gunfire. Three short cracks. One of the bullets landed on the cat’s leg and with a strangled cry and it vanished into the grin of London’s bottomless fog and to whatever hellish spawn where they breed.

He turned to his partner. “Eh? Not bad.”

“Think it’s out to cover for us?” his rookie partner muttered with a nervous laugh.

“It’s been like this since the new deportation rounds.” Grayson said, shoving his pistol in the holster. “Outside our ledger now. You just want an excuse to complain. Or maybe you’re scared.”

“Don’t be daft,” the man said, though his voice rose with a little bit of strength he thought he had left. “Everyone’s on edge now, since well, since what happened.”

“You mean the Moriyamas.” said Grayson, and he laughed a harsh sound that made the lad flinch as though the name itself might summon something from the dark.

“Don’t talk about them out loud.” He scowled. Then in a whisper, “I heard they robbed a bank down by the Thames to their seller, and got payed a kid’s hand.”

Grayson rubbed a hand at the back of his neck. “You’ve been listening to the rookery gossip.” 

He tried to rub the neck pain that irked him. He could use a massager. One of the the lass’s preferably, she was good, especially when he could focus on the lovely set of pairs she had.

“I listen to what keeps me alive.”

“Then you’d best start listening to me and I know enough to tell you to keep your gob shut and your pistol clean.”

But he wasn’t done tormenting yet, If he was gonna be here all night.

“Oi, James,” Grayson called to another down the line. “You hear about the Moriyamas?” He seized his partner by the shoulder and watched him flinch again.  

“The King’s Court lot?” James shouted back. “Aye. John took the job. Came back with less than he left, an arm gone, a one eye swinging loose from the socket.”

“Bloody hell.” His partner gasped.

“Bah,” he said. “No one wants to hear that shit.”

Then a sound broke through the quiet that made the men jump stifflly. Grayson’s hand twitched toward his weapon until his panic vanished when he realized what he was.

“That cat again.”

“Then end it.”

The cry came louder, and more pitchier as Grayson and his partner argued. It clawed at the air, the meowing gradually increasing.

“Why’s it wailin’ like that?”

“Starvin’, most like.”

“Then feed it a bullet.”

Grayson raised his gun. For a heartbeat, it was just the shrieked cry and the sound of his own pulse hammering behind his eyes.
Then the shot rang out.

BANG

The cat twitched maybe once or twice, then lay still. Not a breath left in it. Grayson turned to sneer at his partner when something caught his eye inside the thickness of the fog.

One guard dropped. Then another.

“What the—”

Grayson never finished. A sharp pain bloomed in his side, bright and sudden. He fell hard, skull cracking against the cobbles. Hazy as his vision was blurred with the blood dripping in his eyes. The alley tilted and his breath was chocked up where he tasted blood and gunpowder. He tried to crawl, but his limbs wouldn’t listen. His vision swam red. Through the haze he saw boots, black and polished leather. Attached to a figure that stopped besides the cat’s still body.

Grayson prepared himself to reach for the pistol in the holster until the boot pressed his face into the stone. His lungs fought for air. And his chest contracted with fear which rose and rose until it was all he tasted.

He blinked through the blur and the last thing he saw before the boot clambered on him was the insignia etched into the sole.

A raven.

Then everything went black.

Chapter Text

Nathaniel Josten layed on the roof of the boarding school, his arm flung behind his head, ring balanced on the knuckle of this thumb.

Neil could not remember if there was a time when he hadn’t loved the ring. It had belonged to his Mother once, and she was wearing it when she died. After that it had been Neil’s companion. Itching his skin with the amount of times, he’d rough out the metal even though it was nothing but hollow metal.

The city beyond’s Cardiff’s gutter was a watercolor of dirty pewter and misty air; proved to be great cover for him, to hide behind the bell in the tower as he came up here to toss up the ring up and down while his racing thoughts came up to one singular point, that he liked being alone for a kid of seven and ten years.

He gazed down at the other schoolchildren congregating in groups. He had thought of making friends with them the first time he was dropped here. His father would have murdered him.

“Where’s Nathaniel?” The headmaster yelled down the schoolyard.

A clamor of feet shuffling as the students filed into a single line at the response of his presence. Then the mumbling came between the other students, and the headmaster grabbed a kid from the crown of his head.

“Go find him.” The man barked at him.

“Ow.” He said but the headmaster didn’t let go. “Ow- I don’t know, he probably ran off again.”

Go.” He said again that Neil could feel his revolting breath from all the way up on the roof. “Grab him.”

William Baxter- the son of a a mechanic who apparently made the first steam train-tried searching and found the roof Neil was currently on, cursing how he’d murder Neil with his own hands- if he got his hands on him that is.

Neil observed how William struggled to climb the pipe connecting to the wall, that lead to the roof. William jerked back, holding his hands in front of the pipe to steady him, but it was too late, he stepped on a faulty brick and fell into the puddle of pungid smell of sewage water that had already begun to eat away at the boy’s cashmere sweater that Neil liked. What a shame, he could’ve stolen it.

William swore and tried rubbing his eyes in frustration and childish anger.

“Neil!” William called, turning around. “Where are you, you little get.”

Neil smirked to himself as the kid ran off to the other direction from where Neil was.

He tossed the ring once more, caught it, and rolled off the slate roof and eased into the loft behind the chapel bell, his beloved sanctuary that smelled of dust and wax.

He headed towards the door and found the place looked as it always did, hymnals stacked and a cupboard scarred with a single stub of candle that hadn’t been touched. If anyone walked in here, It be noted off as abandoned , that no one spent part of their life here. But Neil knew that his clothes were under a floorboard, some quills and paper, letters from his father which were known crumpled from the amount of times Neil held them at night, thinking of if he held them close, someone would be here.

In the dark corner hung a coat rack, plain and wooden. Turn it sideways to the left and the carved hollow behind it revealed his knives. Slim and secrets, gifted by his father. Of course they were his birthday gifts. Not the sort a boy dreams of like building blocks or maybe a good jam scone.

Everything in the room was the same.

However, Neil moved to the back of the room, behind a cupboard where he stashed a few hardbacks and a brass candleholder where he quickly got ready to hit the person he knew was creeping up behind Neil.

His hand closed on the candleholder and he pivoted fast, but the intruder was faster and his calloused hand caught Neil’s upper arm, pried the holder free with his other hand. Neil bristled as the man, hard and rough held his upper bicep, not hard to leave a bruise, but to hold him in place so that he wouldn’t escape.

Then a clamor of huffs and breaths appeared as the door opened and the priest that took pity on Neil as he was the only one without freinds, and who slipped him extra food when he was being starved, as grabbing onto the mantle of the door.

“Someone is here to meet you, Nathaniel,” the priest wheezed from the doorway. “Oh good, you found him.” He said getting a handkerchief to rub the sweat probably from running up the stairs here.

“Tell them I’m not here.” Neil flatly said, looking directly in the newcomer’s eyes.

The stranger tuned back and made a gesture so the priest left them in private.

“Too late.” The newcomers voice was low, and competent. “I have eyes.”

Neil flicked his gaze at his figure. True, he did have eyes. He also had pounds of muscle that strained beneath his white shirt, below Neil could barely see the black ink adorned on his slightly darker skin.

“Not much of brain though,” Neil drawled. “If you came here all the way from Paris for me and expected something.”

“How did you-”

“Chocolate stain on your upper lapel,” Nathaniel interrupted, his gaze flicking to the mark. “And I saw the wrapper in your pocket. Only one confectioner in the world sells that kind. Rue de Sucre, Paris.”

A muscle jumped in the man’s jaw. “So you’ve got eyes as well. Good. Makes this easier.”

“Have nuttin’n to say to you.”

“A message from your father.

Neil laughed a humorless laugh. “Nice try My father would’ve come himself.”

“Funny,” said the man, “he told his men he’d leave you here to rot. Junior.”

The name his father only used was thrown at his face so fast that Neil physically flinched. Not caring whether he did it infront of this stranger. Neil hadn’t remembered much of his childhood where it was just him and his father and his mother, though the last time he did, his head ached so violently that he had vomitted and passed out. When he woken up, he’d been lying on of the nurses office who told him he was just sick and told him not to think to hard on what’s gone in the past. Neil had taught himself to memorize each detail, each step, the way a blind person might memorize the number of paces in takes to walk from their bed to the door of their room.

Now the same feeling came again as the name hit like a thrown knife. Nathaniel froze. He hadn’t heard it spoken aloud since… No. He didn’t think about since. Thinking hurt.

Neil straightened. And when the man now noticed he was ready to listen he took out his hand to shake it.

“David Wymack.”

Neil froze again. He didn’t need to ask anymore questions; the answer was already there, echoing in his memory.

He knew that name. We’ll only what he’d heard whispered in the servants corridor of the Moriyams estate when he was just a little boy, his fathers shadow of a tailors apprentice. His father would come home from those nights working with a few Pennies and bedtime stories of rumors and things Neil knew at that age shouldn’t be repeated.

Among those stories were The foxes. A small division beneath the Raven gang. Neil didn’t hear much more until years later where they were supposedly dead. Or rumored to be murdered by the Moriyama’s leader- Ichirou Moriyama

And yet here one of them stood in front of Neil, breathing and alive.

“So that’s it then,” Neil said. “You’ve come to kill me.”

He knew he wasn’t but if Neil made to look he was a scared little kid maybe he’d have some heart and back off.

Womack gave him a hard look. “We don’t kill.” He said that his voice reminded him of other voices that made him shudder. “But to answer you question. No. We’re here to borrow you, just for a little while. We need your particular expertise.”

“We?”

If David Wymack was here then surely that meant that-

The word barely left his mouth before he heard a noise and Neil turned but the cabinet door to his left swung out and struck his shoulder. Pain flared; he hissed and turned, and another man stepped through the shadowed doorway.

He was all elegant, lean, with green kind eyes, but Neil knew the murder count behind them. Knew the type of assignments he took on, knew he didn’t blink an eye when it came to bloody work.

“Did you hurt him.” His gaze swept over Neil, assessing him. His tone suggested concern, but the sort reserved for that of a close possession than a human.

Neil started at the ghost. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

“Evidently not,” the man replied.

Kevin Day. The King’s Court prodigy. The strategist. The one who “vanished” after the Moriyama affair. Some said he’d burned the estate himself, lit the match with his own teeth. Some were more personal, in that when you sat next to him at a gambling table in the cities of Berlin or Rome, the devil himself was dealing cards beside him.

Talks mentioned The Glass Prince; a man of two sides, the other side being Riko Moriyama. But he was gears and riddles where Riko was power. It was Kevin day who could take apart a city plan the way others took apart a pistol.
The man in front of him didn’t look like a prince now: with a plain black coat, clean line collar, fingers resting near the hilt of a knife at his belt.

“But I don’t get it. You were there at that night. You were in that fire, burned alive. Dead.”

“So were you.”

“What?”

“The raven court was meant to take your father in after the incident. You were supposed to be a mercy killing. But it’s strange?” Kevin’s tone was dissecting. “Instead he left you here.”

Neil’s jaw tightened. “He hid me. To keep me alive.”

“No. To keep you accessible,” Kevin corrected. “To know where you were when it suited him. And we want to help you Nathaniel. We just need your cooperation in return.”

“so what, you pick me up from here and you expect me to help you.”

“Yes. This business is important and you’re the only person who knows about Riko Miriamyama.”

“But you don’t know me.”

“We know enough,” Kevin said. “British mother. American father who was raised in New York’s back alleys. Tailor for ten years. Apprentice only to the Moriyamas for two years before he took you and your mother and vanished.”

Neil stared at Kevin not correcting him, watching him paint Neil’s story.

“Your mother is dead.”

“Kevin.” Wymack said defensively but Kevin only looked rueful.

“I apologize, I’ve been told I was a bit forward.”

Neil only shook his head. Not giving away anymore, or letting Kevin get his hands on any of Neil’s information. “It doesn’t matter. You’re right she is dead.”

“The Moriyimas might use that. You know their ledgers, their codes and their habits that could be trouble.”

Neil folded his arms. “What do you want from me?”

A pause exchanged between them, uncomfortable for both.

“We have a job.”

He knows their type of job. Steal from the rich give to the poor. But the poor were themselves. They didn’t care about anyone. In fact the Foxes were only ones without protection. The only crime group of the shadowy streets who have no name. No reputation. The only reason Neil has heard about them was under Riko Moriyama himself.

“What is this job exactly.”

Kevin exchanged a glance with Wymack, who nodded in return.

“There was a shipment bound for the De Guire warehouse, from the property of Bank of England. A Han-Dynasty emerald and a pendant forged in the China imperial palace. But there was a shootout in front of the warehouse. Riko’s men intercepted the transfer. We intend to reclaim it before they move it out of Paris.”

Neil leaned back, studying them. They were thieves. He shouldn’t trust the lot of them. What would be the difference between captured by the foxes or by the ravens. Only that the foxes were asking him nicely and making him feel he had a choice.

“We mean to hide you from Riko and the Moriyama men until we’ve got what we’re here to do.” Kevin said, continuing slowly. “Then we’ll sell the pieces, we’ve a buyer lined up who pays more than the crown itself. Divide the spoils, and afterward you’re free to run as far as the Himalayas, no debts and no one after you.”

“Also we pay better than the dead.” Wymack added.

Nathaniel’s smile was thin. “You plan to steal from Riko Moriyama? You’d best start digging your graves.”

Kevin’s reply came without hesitation. “Your grave is already arranged. Riko’s hunters are already in the city. Stay here and they’ll find you before the week’s out. Come with us, and you might yet choose your own grave.”

He then was struck by the smell of his mothers grave, the ashy had of his fathers hand on his shoulder. This is for your mother Nathaniel. We’ll do it for her. You must hide for her.

If Neil escapes from all of this, maybe he’d search for his father himself. He’ll get his own answers.

“Fine,” he said. “But when this goes wrong, and it will, you’ll wish you’d left me rot in Cardiff.”

Kevin’s mouth twitched. “Wouldn’t be the first time we made a deal with the devil.”

Neil didn’t reply. Kevin and Wymack left him to quickly pack his essentials. He stepped aside and followed Kevin and Wymack towards the stairs. Kevin reached into his breast coat pocket, drew out a small brown packet, and tossed it to the priest lingering in the doorway

Bastard. He should’ve never taken those extra rations of loaves from him. Neil scowled at him furiously for giving him away and mentally hoped he’d choke on the stale loaves.

Before leaving, Neil slipped the ring from his pocket onto a cord and tied it round his throat. The metal was cool against his skin and he could hear the screams warning that everything about this was a bad idea. Neil gently touched the cool metal, taking comfort in its steady shape as warning, or maybe even luck as he followed Kevin and Wymack in the street that began pouring rain.