Shadow Bound (Unbound)

by Rachel Vincent

  But I’d take boring over the basement any day.

  “What would I be doing?” he asked, as we turned another corner.

  “Whatever Jake needs done. Blinding the opposition. Punching holes in a defensive infrared grid, so his men can get in.”

  “But we’re talking about crime, right? Criminal enterprise?”

  I hesitated, trying to decide what he wanted to hear, and how best to merge that with the truth. “That sounds a little…”

  “True?”

  “Yeah.” I frowned. “That sounds a little true. Also, insufficient. Not all of the syndicate’s business is illegal. Some of it’s just highly discouraged by legal, spiritual and political authorities.”

  “Semantics.” He brushed off my reply with an ironic grin. “What are we talking about? What’s his bread and butter?”

  I hesitated, weighing my options.

  “What’s wrong?” Holt glanced at me as we stepped onto another crosswalk. The light changed before we were halfway across the street, but no one bothered walking faster.

  “I’m not sure I’m allowed to answer the kind of questions you’re asking now, but I’m supposed to do whatever it takes to keep you interested. Which means I’m walking the line between a couple of conflicting orders.” And if I actually got caught between them, my body would tear itself apart trying to obey both at once.

  “I’d never intentionally put you in that position,” Ian said. “So if I ask something you can’t answer, just tell me and I’ll withdraw the question.”

  I frowned up at him, trying to decide whether or not he was serious. Nice guys didn’t usually last long in syndicate life. Neither did nice girls, which was why I’d signed on to protect Kenley.

  “Have you ever been bound?” I asked, and his sudden, startled look darkened quickly into something I couldn’t interpret.

  “No. So, no, I’ve never felt resistance pain, if that’s what you’re getting at. Nor have I been caught between conflicting orders. Have you?” he asked, watching me carefully, and I nodded. “What’s it like?”

  “It’s like dying, in slow motion. One piece of you at a time…” But my words faded into silence when a pair of unfamiliar eyes caught my gaze from several feet ahead on the sidewalk. I pretended not to notice, but it took real effort to keep tension from showing in my step. The stranger had glanced at me, but his gaze lingered on Ian, and his casual stance was as false as my grandmother’s teeth.

  The would-be poacher was young, which hopefully meant he was inexperienced, but I was unarmed, which automatically put me at a disadvantage.

  I prattled on for several more steps without really listening to myself. Waiting. Hoping Holt wouldn’t freak out when the shit hit the fan. You never can tell with civilians. And finally, as we stepped even with a narrow alley, a hand grabbed my right arm from behind and something sharp poked me to the left of my spine, through the thin cotton of my blouse.

  “Scream, and I’ll cut you,” a young voice whispered into my ear, and I rolled my eyes as he pulled me into the alley. Ian didn’t even get a chance to look surprised before a second man—this one bald—shoved him after us.

  “You okay?” Ian asked me, his voice soft and taut with caution as he backed away from the bald man, who carried a knife no one on the street would be able to see. If anyone noticed us at all. With any luck, no one would.

  “I’m good,” I said, stepping carefully as I was tugged steadily backward. “They don’t want me. You feel like being abducted today?”

  “Wasn’t on the agenda, no.” Ian stopped with his back to the brick wall, halfway between the bald man and the one holding his knife at my back.

  “Plans change,” Baldy said. “Come with us quietly, or he’ll gut your girlfriend.”

  I rolled my eyes again. This was a farce of an abduction at best. “First of all, I’m not his girlfriend. Second, it’s kind of hard to gut someone from behind, dumb ass.”

  The hand around my arm tightened, and the first fiery threads of anger blazed up my spine. “Anyone ever tell you your mouth is going to get you in trouble one day?”

  “Only hourly,” I said, and Ian laughed without taking his attention from the bald man’s knife.

  “Last chance,” Baldy said.

  Ian glanced at me, brows raised in question. “What do you think?”

  I shrugged, in spite of the knife at my back. “Well, they’re not total morons. Knives instead of guns, so no one will hear gunshots. And they’ve got balls, coming after you in broad daylight. That one’s a Traveler,” I said, nodding at the bald man. “I’d bet my last drop of vodka on it.”

  Ian frowned. “How do you know?”

  “Because the other one can’t drag you through the shadows while he’s threatening my life.”

  Baldy scowled, and I gloated silently.

  “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.

  “No.” I stopped to lean against the wall of a dry cleaner’s storefront and Ian stood in front of me, blocking me from view without being asked. If I hadn’t been in so much pain, I would have questioned that kind of instinct, coming from a systems analyst.

  I slid my hand back into my pocket and felt the smooth edges of the pocketknife, amazed by how calm the feel of the weapon made me, even as pain threatened to split my skull in two.

  I’d been forbidden to arm myself, a fact I’d forgotten in the afterglow of the scuffle in the alley—even that little bit of expended energy had helped release some of my bottled-up rage. Carrying John’s knife was an ongoing breach of the oath of obedience I’d sworn to Jake Tower, and I would hurt for the length of the breach—until I got rid of the knife, or my body shut itself down in protest.

  Yet even knowing my life could end right there on the street, my undignified death witnessed by an endless parade of strangers—not to mention Ian Holt—I didn’t want to give up the knife. I’d won it in a fair fight. The knife was mine, and so were the skills needed to use it better than its original owner could ever have managed. Weapons were freedom. Power. Autonomy. And by denying me the right to arm myself, Jake had denied me all of those things, too. Intentionally.

  I was still being punished.

  While my head threatened to crack open like a pistachio seed, my hands began to tremble and my stomach started to cramp, and the pain was too severe to be hidden.

  “Kori? What’s wrong?” Ian’s voice was tense with concern, and he glanced back and forth between me and the people passing us on the sidewalk, to see if anyone had noticed my weakened state. And that was all I could take, not physically, but logically.

  Resistance pain weakened me and made me vulnerable, which made him vulnerable by extension. There were people—even my fellow syndicate members—who wouldn’t hesitate to take advantage of that weakness, for any of a dozen reasons. And if I let Holt get hurt, Jake would kill me.

  “Here. Take this.” I pulled the knife from my pocket, my grip shaky, and Ian only hesitated for a moment before taking it from me. The instant the metal left my hand, the shaking stopped. The stomach cramps eased, and slowly, the pain in my head began to recede.

  Ian glanced at the knife, then slid it into his own pocket. Then he met my gaze, silently demanding an explanation. When that produced no results, he tried again, verbally. “What’s going on, Kori? Why can’t you hold the knife?”

  I exhaled slowly, not surprised that he recognized resistance pain for what it was. Then I braced myself for more. “I’m not allowed to carry a weapon. At the moment.”

  Another bolt of pain shot through my skull and into my brain—I wasn’t allowed to tell him that, either.

  I squeezed my eyes shut as my hands curled into fists at my sides, like I could actually fight the agony. But I couldn’t. This pain was much stronger than the previous bout—literally blinding, for a moment—but shorter in duration, because telling Ian something I wasn’t supposed to tell him was a terminal breach of my oath to Jake. Over and done with quickly, as opposed to an ongoing breach, like carrying a weapon would have been.

  Ian’s frown deepened. “Why not? What moment? This moment? Saturday morning specifically?”

  “It’s less a Saturday-morning thing than an until-further-notice thing.” That one came with no additional pain—the breach was in the admission, not the details.