edda

(fanfic) writer | history lover | requests open

[eddathepoet]

hi! just wanted to say from one fic writer to another, that I’m really enjoying your Jack Barak fic 

Hi! I am so glad that you like it! I hope I get to post the next chapter soon! 💖

Messages like this really motivate me to keep writing. I haven’t written anything creative in so long before starting the fic and I was pretty anxious to upload it. Thank you so much everyone who reads and interacts with what I post!

Happy New Year’s to you as well! 🥰

Edda ✨

[eddathepoet]

To Hunt a Banshee: chapter II 'Nice Face'

Tags: Jack Barak x fem (assassin!) reader, 16th century London, cat-and-mouse, slow burn TW: murder (mentions and vague descriptions) Summary: You follow a new target as Barak follows a lead, unsurprisingly, you end up in the same place, at the same time. And you are not making each other's jobs easier.

The Docks were so lonely in the evening. That was why you were meeting her there. It smelled of fish and seaweed, and a few kids ran past the dock yelling. They reminded you of your brother, the one you had not seen in years now. He could be anywhere now. You stood watching the way the sun drowned in the dark water, red. The colour that seemed to follow you everywhere since you were taken from that orphanage.

Past the rotten  fishermen’s houses, you noticed the familiar cat-like strut of your handler, Eleanor.

You exchanged a brief hug, a gesture of trust both of you knew was never there. Suddenly, her expression turned cold, disappointed.

"You made it too obvious".

You shrugged. "That kind of death was realistic for him. Let them think it was one of the prostitutes."

"And the witness?" Eleanor’s eyes narrowed.

You had told Leah to run. Perhaps you had made a mistake. For a moment there you wonder if she would end up in the same dirt as you did.

"Dealt with," you answered, unbothered. No suspicion.

"It must have been difficult for you," Eleanor pretended to care again. "I worry about you, you know. Do you eat well? Do you need a break?"

She was testing you.

You chuckled bitterly. "Give me my target."

"Need a new hairpin?" Eleanor mimicked you, masterfully, her voice just as sharp as yours now. What a psycho, you thought. Just like you.

You laughed. Your eyes narrowed, you loved pushing others' buttons, especially of those who never seemed to show any true faces. "Are you flirting?"

Eleanor dug an envelope out of the tiny velvet pocket tied to her belt. She handed it to you, at last.

"I heard this one was a charity man," the handler threw over her shoulder as she stepped off the dock.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Those glassy eyes, piercing through him underneath the black thin veil, haunted Barak in his sleep. The cold fingertips against his throat. In his dreams, he could feel her hand wrap around his neck, travelling higher, burying itself in his hair, scratching on the sensitive skin on the back of his head… Her mouth, so intriguingly curving into a slight smile, like a child that is trying to keep a secret from you. 

That is when the dream would turn into a nightmare. 

The chilling giggle that would make her face light up like a lonely star in a well, her all-absorbing, teasing glare, it all would make him admit to himself – she was laughing at him. And as he would take her hand into his, begging her to stop, the same word would run around in his mind. Banshee.

Barak and Shardlake were going over potential murderers of Highwick. At first it was assumed that he became a victim to one of the women who would visit the manor at night, as a result of jealousy or hatred, but yet,. there was something masterful about the act itself. Whoever did this, was skilled. They had done it before.

Soon after Shardlake and Barak visited the crime scene, they received various documents signed under Highwick’s name from the local clergy. The most recent one caught Shardlake’s eye.

As it turned out, Highwick had signed a contract with another merchant, William Duval, to share each other’s profits and, in case of death, inherit the other’s existing network of clients. What an odd thing to agree to, Barak thought. The stamp on the contract seemed to have a dragonfly on it.

“You think Duval could have ordered the murder?” Barak asked Shardlake, as he laid back in the armchair, his voice gruff and hair messy from such restless sleep last night.

“A well-known charity man taking down his ally over money?” Shardlake shook his head. “Nothing I haven’t heard of before.”

Barak smirked. He sat up, looking down at the contract again. “That’s not all. There’s a third person.”

Under Highwick’s and Duval’s signatures, three tiny silver letters read: A. N. V.

As they arrived to Duval’s office, from inside the stables, they saw a couple of peasants leaving the building, a woman aged around forty, and a little boy, his head hanging, holding an apple to his chest. Shardlake pointed out that those must be beggars, as they got off of their horses.

“They come here to beg him for money? And he lets them in?” Barak asked, still watching the beggars’ backs as they hurried down the stony road. The woman hurried the boy as if she wanted to be away from here as soon as possible.

“Yes, if Duval’s in a good mood, he gives them a coin or two, I heard.” Shardlake shakes his head. “But they say he always asks for a reason. And if he doesn’t like it…”

The man must enjoy the power he has over the ones in need, Barak thought.

By the front door, a young woman, appearing out of nowhere, dressed in dusty ropes and a scarlet scarf wrapped around her head, excused yourself in front of them and entered first. It was clear she was another beggar. 

On the stairs towards the office door, in the dimmed candle light, she turned her head to glance at Barak over her shoulder. She gave him a thankful smile and Barak nodded. 

There was something so innocent about the look on her face, and Barak could not help but wonder what kind of troule she could be in. 

“Good luck in there, miss.” Barak said with a charming, empathetic smile on his face, the one that almost made Shardlake scoff out loud.

And then, the woman laughed.

Softly, only to herself.

The laughter caused goosebumps crawl up the back of Barak’s neck. The next moment, the woman was gone behind the door.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You stood in his office now, disguised as a beggar, with a respectful yet pained look in your eyes. Duval sat behind his desk, bending over some papers as he read. He was a quite large, pink-faced man with a thin grey mustache, his eyes surprisingly kind as he looked up at you.

You introduced yourself as Mary from Hackney village, a peasant farmer, the oldest sister of six.

“Our mother, sir.” You said, hesitantly settling down onto the chair Duval kindly gestured you to. “She is ill.”

“Was she seen by a local physician?”

“A midwife, sir.” You watched him closely. If he was a kind man that he was, you could push the right button to distabilize him. Then, you could make your move. “She says she needs assistance of a surgeon. Her last child… Left her tied to the bed…”

You sniffled and brought a hacherchief to your trembling mouth.

“Mhm.” Duval nodded. His eyes squint. “And you need money for the said surgeon?”

“At least nine pence for the road”. You said, shifting on your seat. It did not seem like your story had an effect on him. 

The investigators were right behind that door. The time was slipping past your fingers.

Duval sighed and sat there, as if considering it. His eyes were on you the whole time. As if waiting for you to cry.

“I am afraid there is nothing I can do,” Duval says, his tone kind at the same time.

“An apple, child?”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Barak leaned against the wall as they waited, his arms crossed. He yawned, feeling unrested from the night of bad dreams, when suddenly, a thought raised within his mind. The laughter, he thought of it again. It made his heart raise anxiously. What if…

A banging sound came through the door, alerting them.

When the investigators came in, Duval seemed to had fallen from his chair. Barak rushed towards him. He cursed to himself when he saw what happened to the man.

The merchant’s throat was cut and he had an apple shoved inside his mouth. Like a pig ready to be cooked.

Shardlake rubbed his face, probably embarrassed that he did not realize the murderer was in front of them.

“Where in the hell is that girl?” Barak groaned when he noticed some shutters being wide open.

He glanced outside and that was when he saw the familiar dirty robes hide around a corner of a nearby house.

Holding onto his sword, Barak stormed out the building and towards the backstreet where he supposed the killer must have ran off to. And as he was running, a tingling feeling rose in his chest. It felt like, and he rejected that idea, that he was bringing himself into a trap.

There she was, by a nearby shed, as if waiting. And as Barak got closer, his breathing heavy, curse words slipping off his lips, she continued her fleeing, looking over her shoulder at him. 

She giggled again. It was driving him insane, that sound.

Barak went around the house, an old abandoned shop, and caught her off guard.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

“That’s a little awkward,” you said with your voice still breathy from the chase. “Not my best clothes”.

You knew you have an effect on him. You noticed it the last time, when you pretending to be Highwick’s maid. What was his name, Jack Barak?

He only frowned at that. You could tell he was new to this, unsure of what to do or say.

Barak had you pinned to the wall, with both your hands held against it. You could almost feel his chest touch yours, and his ragged breath grazed your skin with pleasant warmth.

“You know you have me like this only because I let you,” You lifted your head, gazing right into his eyes. You smirked. “Nice face”.

“Who do you work for?” He tightened his grip around your wrists.

“Do you know who you work for?” You chuckled. “I wouldn’t be surprised if we worked for the same people”.

You saw it in his eyes. The realization that both of you are just pawns in someone else’s game.

“You don’t want this.” He voice softened and your heart skipped a beat at that. He was being kind to you? A murderer? “Come with me. I can help you.”

Right. Another man who thinks that a woman needs to be saved by him.

“I don’t need your help, sir.” You teased him now, faking the same innocent voice as at that manor. The same voice that haunted him at night.

And you could tell, he recognized it. His eyes blown wide, his mouth twitching.

“Ts, ts, ts.” You shook your head. “Your collar again…” Your gaze drifted down towards his neck.

Completely intuitively at this point, one of Barak’s hands traveled to touch his collar, leaving your wrist free from his grip.

Immediately, you took out your dagger, the same one you just took out your target with. The dagger that now faced Barak himself. 

“It’s worse if I push it in slowly”. You warned.

He stepped back, a glimpse of fear in his gaze, clenching onto his sword but hesitating to pull it out.

“Let me take you to-”

The swing of your knee right in between his legs made him groan and bend in pain. From around the corner, the lively voices of some townsfolk were approaching.

And just like that, the next moment, you disappeared behind the gates of an old warehouse and further onto the lively street, blending with the people, leaving him behind.

[eddathepoet]

Just finished my week-long exam, now I can finish the second chapter of Banshee in peace. It’s almost done so I hope to post it soon! ☕️🧙🏻‍♀️

[eddathepoet]

To Hunt a Banshee: fic introduction

Fandom: Shardlake Pairing: Jack Barak x fem (assassin!) reader Tags: 16th century England, secret criminal plots and organizations, slow burn, cat-and-mouse, secret relationship, enemies to lovers?

Synopsis: When a sudden avalanche of deaths strikes a powerful merchant guild, Jack Barak finds himself chasing a sharp, highly-skilled assassin. As the city is flooded with blood and conspiracies, the two form a strange bond.

A/N: Hello! I am so excited to keep sharing my work with you guys. Thank you to everyone who showed love for my previous post! I hope this fic will be as fun for you all to read as it is for me to write. Currently working on the next chapter. Please remember that it is a slow burn, so there won't be much contact between Barak and the reader in the first few chapters (I promise every chapter will have some of it), but there will be a build up. Also, feel free to send any comments, questions or suggestions!

Read first chapter here!

[eddathepoet]

To Hunt a Banshee

Chapter I. Play Pretend

Tags: jack barak x (assassin!) female reader, cat-and-mouse, first meeting, slow burn

Trigger warnings: murder (mentions)

Summary: Jack Barak joins Matthew Shardlake on a new investigation, a cold yet elegant murder of an influential trader Jonathan Highwick. You, a skilled assassin, return to the crime scene to finish up your business.

The trail through the grey sand had grown colder since you last walked it. The Highwick manor stood lonesome right above a cliff, as if ready to slip off. It became a home of death, you thought. Death by your hands.

It was not your first mission. Not the second one and not even the third one.

It was concerning how you almost felt no guilt this time. Something in the way that man smirked at you before dying, it told you he deserved it. Or you could not tell the difference anymore.

You clenched the dagger tightly in the pocket of your coat. A maid, they said. She saw what she was not supposed to. Investigators are coming now, of course they are, shoving their noses in other's business. You had to finish the job.

And you better make it quick.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Jack Barak was severely hungover. The neighing of the horses certainly did not help.

"We're here", Shardlake patted Barak on his knee which made him groan again.

The investigator stepped out the carriage and Jack followed him, somehow maintaining a not-so-wobbly walk. He felt like the ground beneath him suddenly went soft. Am I this drunk? He thought when he looked down and, to his sudden comfort, found out it was, in fact, just sand.

"Why would anyone kill him?" Barak frowned. He remembered the city tales of the old sir Highwick who left London to live in solitude after his dear wife died of some illness. "The man's practically a hermit."

"I wouldn't say that," Shardlake shook the sand off his boot. "It is rumored he had recently started building a new trading house up north. Leather and silk."

"Dangerous industry." Barak nodded, not because he knew it, but to agree. It sounded right. His head was killing him.

The investigators reached the gates of the manor. It seemed old, brooding. Here, in the middle of nowhere, the manor almost seemed like an anomaly. A chill went up Jack Barak's spine.

At the gate, they were met by the guard, a young man, pale and thin, and the housekeeper, an elderly woman with her face covered in black laced veil.

"Finally," the housekeeper exhaled as if she held the breath in for hours, "Come with me."

The men followed her inside the manor. It was awfully quiet inside. No signs of any other servants.

"Any maids in the house?" Jack asked the housekeeper on the way up the stairs and noticed an annoyed strike in his partner's gaze. "I mean, is the witness in the manor now?"

"We need to speak with her," Shardlake chimed in.

The housekeeper wrapped her hand around a doorknob. She stood still, bracing herself. This must be sir Highwicks's bedroom, Jack thought. "Yes. Leah will be in the dining room later. Hope you like mushroom stew. Although I doubt you will have any appetite left after what you'll witness, dear investigators."

Jonathan Highwick was sat in an armchair by the tall window of stained glass. The colors, made alive by the rare autumn sun, painted the room in purple, red and green. The owner of the manor looked as if he casually laid back in the chair after a day of work. Although, as Barak and his parter got closer to the body, they could see not only that he was dead, but also the way he was murdered.

It stuck right out of the man's left eye.

The sight sobered Barak up immediately. He had to swallow. At first, Barak was confused. "The hell is this?"

"A hair pin, Barak" Shardlake turned the armshair to take a better look at the body.

The housekeeper prayed quietly in the corner. The guard stood by the door awkwardly.

"Were there not any women entering that night?" Matthew asked the guard while continuing to examine the body.

Barak watched the young man's reaction. His brows furrowed.

"I-" The floor creaked slightly underneath him. "I can not say, sir. I was... asleep".

Barak could not help but chuckle at that.

"Great." Shardlake concluded, his gaze still focused on the hair pin.

Barak knew what was going on through his partner's head. It was a woman. Something new.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You knew a thing or two about the life of a servant from the years you spent making your earnings as a maid. Just the memory of your previous masters made you sick. You could tell, here, it was not a big difference. All manors were the same. Maybe you did them a favor, you think.

The kitchen was right around the corner, it smelled of mushrooms and potatoes. You glance inside a tiny round window, the girl's chamber. You see her getting ready, putting a black veil on. A stupid formality. You sneaked your way towards the backdoor. It was so small you had to bend to get in.

Once you were inside the girl's room, you did not wait. The worst thing you could do is cause any noise. Quick and efficient. You had your dagger by her neck now, she was on the floor, your hand over her mouth. She bit you. You held in a scream.

"It's you," the girl muttered, a look in her eyes that was almost thankful, "you killed him".

"I had to," you whispered back.

"Thank you, f- for killing him," the girl managed to utter. You felt your chest tighten. Annoyance, pity, you refused to name it. Yet, in that moment, you understood her perfectly. You knew what he did to her. Your hand jerked, you did not dare to do it.

Strange.

"Why his eye?" The maid whispered. As if she herself had thought of ending her master's life.

"I did not like the way he looked at me".

The maid nodded at that.

A sudden knock on the door behind you. A woman's voice:

"Leah, the investigators are here, they want to speak to you about last night."

You cursed under your breath. You glanced at the window, maybe you could fit through it. Breaking it would cause too much noise, though. The doorknob started turning. Act. Now.

"Uh, I am changing, Mistress," The maid called out, her tone simple, unshaken by the way you have the dagger against her heart now.

"Hurry up then. They will be in the dining room".

The footsteps faded inside the hallway. You could breathe again.

"Give me your clothes," you urged her.

You got up from the floor, holding onto the veil you took off the maid's head. A new plan.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The dining room. The housekeeper was right. No one even touched the stew. Jack stares at one of the portraits, young sir Highwick with a smug confidence on his face. He surely did not look like a hermit back then.

"Were there any regular visitors in this manor?" Shardlake questioned the guard.

"Women?" Barak specified.

The guard inhaled. He hesitated. "S-sometimes. Never the same."

"Huh," Barak smirked, knowingly. "So the rumors about him grieving his late wife were false."

"People grieve in different ways," the housekeeper commented as she entered the room.

Barak turned. The girl was here. Poor thing, he thought. She is shaking.

"Leah?" He stretched out his hand to shake hers. He squeezed it gently, as if it could scare her. "My name is Jack Barak. This is Matthew Shardlake. We are investigating the murder of your master."

"Terrible," she muttered.

He froze. Is it blood on her hand? She took it away quickly. She was the one who found the body, he remembered.

"Yes. It is, we are very sorry." Shardlake interrupted.

"Did you enjoy your supper, sir?" The maid asked, her tone polite, yet something in her voice felt off. Is it an accent?

"What did you see, Leah?" Barak tried to gaze into her eyes through the veil. They reminded him of the fog he saw over the lake. Secretive. A mystery even to herself.

He saw her gaze linger down his face, down to his neck.

"A banshee."

The girl answered in low murmur. As if the word excited her. The housekeeper gasped.

Their gazes met again. Barak nodded, briefly. Only for her to see. He heard the stories when he was a kid, the girl must be so scared that she thought the stranger in the night was a real monster. But he saw no fear in her eyes now. He noticed the curve of her lips. Was she smiling now?

No, she can not be.

"A banshee? Do you believe in fairy tales, child? How old are you?" Shardlake approached her, Barak stopped him from getting too close.

"She brought death. I saw her in the hallway." The girl continued. "This house is full of death now."

"What did she look like?" Barak tilted his head, his brows furrowed at that.

Her eyes kept searching him. Every twitch of his muscles. Every blink. It felt like, suddenly, she knew everything about him.

"You need to fix your collar, sir." She said softly. "Let me."

Barak's heart froze as her hands straightened one of the ends of his collar. Her fingertips brushed against his throat. They were cold. Deliberate. Yet somehow caring.

"What did you see, Leah?" Shardlake asked her now, banging his palm against the table.

The girl shook her head rapidly.

"Excuse me, sir."

The maid stormed into the hallway.

Shardlake followed her but Barak held his arm, keeping him from leaving.

"Give her some time".

The housekeeper went to check on the maid. As men sat down at the table, Barak's fingers lingered on his collar, slowly tracing it. He shifted in his seat. Shardlake glanced at him, confused.

They waited.

The housekeeper came in, her veil skewed.

"She's gone".

Outside, the wind howled against the manor walls. Somewhere beyond the open gate, the ghost fled.