Rachel Vincent - Shadow Bound

“So should I go with them?” Ian asked, and I could hear the amusement in his voice. He was neither scared nor rattled, and I was pleasantly surprised.

“Nah.” I twisted away from the knife at my back and pulled the man holding my arm off balance. He stumbled, and I jerked my arm from his grip, then faced off against him with my feet spread for balance. “I’d hold out for a better offer.”

Knife guy reached for me, and I kicked his kneecap from the side. He crashed to the concrete on one hip and swung his blade at my leg. I kicked the knife from his grip, then stomped on his hand, satisfied by the crunch of several bones, and even more satisfied by his howl of pain.

Something scuffed against concrete behind me, and I twisted to see Baldy lunge for Ian.

Shit! I started toward them, but stopped, surprised when Ian simply stepped out of his path, then slammed Baldy’s wrist into the corner of the Dumpster. The knife clattered to the concrete at his feet, and Ian kicked it beneath the Dumpster. His motions were smooth and fast, and he hadn’t come close to breaking a sweat.

The man on the ground in front of me pushed himself up with his good hand, and I squatted to snatch his lost knife. When he stood, I stepped up behind him and held his own blade at his throat. He stiffened, good leg holding most of his weight, arms out at his sides, and I almost laughed. “I take it back. You are a complete moron.”

“Who are you?” he asked, in spite of the blade I held.

“Kori Daniels. Why? Were you expecting Little Miss Muffet?”

“Daniels? No shit? That’s just my fuckin’ luck,” he said, and his voice shook, in spite of false bravado. “I bet two hundred dollars they’d find you facedown in the river.”

I shook my head, though I’d had similar thoughts, myself. “So now you’re stupid and poor.”

The bald man grunted, and I looked up to see Ian’s left fist crash into his face. Again. His head slammed into the brick wall—hard—and a cut appeared on his right cheek. Then his eyes closed and he slid down the wall to slump on the ground, unconscious.

Ian stepped out of reach in case the bald man woke up. A hint of a grin rode one corner of his mouth when he saw me gaping at him. “Why do you look so surprised?”

“Because I’m so surprised.” Jake didn’t know Ian could fight; if he had, he would have told me.

I considered that new information for a second, trying to decide how long I could get away with silence on the matter, while the man in front of me breathed shallowly in concession to the knife at his throat. “What’s your name?”

“John Smith,” he spat. And that was exactly the alias I’d expected—a generic fuck-you to the question no one with half a brain would ever voluntarily answer.

I slid the knife beneath the short left sleeve of John’s shirt and he flinched when I split the material with one upward stroke. The cotton flaps parted to reveal a single iron-colored ring. No surprise there. “How much is Cavazos offering for Holt?”

“Hundred grand, unharmed. Seventy-five, if he’s bruised or bleeding.”

I glanced at Ian over John’s shoulder, brows raised in appreciation. “Not bad. But he’ll go higher.” I stepped back from John and shoved him hard enough that he fell to his knees in front of me, facing Ian.

“What are you doing, Kori?” Ian said.

“Showing you what it feels like to suffer conflicting orders.” I squatted and slid the knife across the concrete, and Ian caught it beneath the sole of his boot. “And John’s going to help.” I circled John slowly, and he turned with me to keep me in sight. “To break an oath, you have to first be sealed into one. You give your word, and a Binder like Kenley seals it, with ink, blood or spoken promise. Or some combination of those. A verbal promise is the weakest. A blood binding is the strongest, whether sealed on paper, flesh or any other surface. John, here, has a blood binding sealed in his flesh by Ruben Cavazos.” I glanced pointedly at his exposed biceps. “He’s unSkilled muscle. And I mean unSkilled in every sense of the word,” I said, backing out of reach when John lunged for me.

“Bitch!” he snapped, as I started circling him again, and I could see his bad leg shake.

“Kori, I know what a binding is,” Ian said. “I grew up in the suburbs, not on Mars.”

“But your understanding is theoretical, right? Like how I understand that the better part of valor is discretion, but I can’t truly know what that feels like, since I’ve never tried it.”

“You’ve never tried valor?” Ian’s brows rose.

“No, discretion,” I said, and he looked like he wanted to laugh. “My point is that you can’t truly understand what you’ve never felt. But sometimes a good visual helps.” That, and I really needed to hit something and I wasn’t sure when I’d get another chance. “So watch closely.”

I turned back to John, who still favored his right leg and was edging toward the Dumpster, probably in search of something to use as a weapon.

“When you break your word, you send your body into self-destruct mode. And when you’re given conflicting orders, there’s no way to obey them both, thus there’s no way to avoid pain. First comes a real bitch of a headache.”

I feinted to the right, then slammed a left hook into John’s temple. He grunted and stumbled backward, and I followed while he was still off balance. “Next comes uncontrollable shaking and cramps. Then the loss of bowel and bladder control.” I kicked John low in the gut for emphasis. He hunched over the pain in his stomach and I was already circling again before he stood.

“Then your body begins to shut itself down one organ at a time. Starting with the kidneys, and everything else housed in your gut.” John lurched toward me, fists clenched, and I danced away from him on the balls of my feet. Before he could follow, I twisted into a midlevel kick, and my boot slammed into his right kidney.

John moaned, an inarticulate sound of pain, then fell to his knees.

“And in the case of conflicting orders, if one of them isn’t withdrawn, the breakdown of your body continues until you die in a pool of your own evacuated fluids.”

“Kori,” Ian said, with a glance at the man curled up on the ground. “That’s enough.”

“Is it?” I grabbed a handful of John’s hair and pulled his head back, one knee pressed into his spine. “What were you gonna do after you took me down?” I demanded. “How were you going to stop me from coming after you? Knife to the chest?”

John shook his head, and several of his hairs popped loose in my hand. “Across the throat,” he gasped. “Then I was gonna throw your corpse facedown in the river and cash in on my bet.”

Ian scowled, but didn’t press his position.

I shoved John facedown on the concrete and put one foot on the back of his neck. “Tell Cavazos I consider this a personal insult. If he doesn’t make a serious effort next time, I’m shipping his men back in a series of small boxes.”

Then I stomped on John’s good hand, and his screams followed us as I knelt to pick up the knife I’d taken from them, then followed Ian onto the sidewalk.

The first of the resistance pain hit me as I folded the knife closed and slid it into my pocket—a flash of agony behind my eyes, accompanied by the glare of white light in the center of my field of vision. An instant migraine. And that was only the beginning.

“You okay?” Ian asked, when I staggered on the sidewalk, one hand pressed to my forehead, as if that could stop the pain.

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