Blood Metal Bone: An epic new fantasy novel, perfect for fans of Leigh Bardugo

by Lindsay Cummings

  This Gazer was new, without markings or crude scribbles of anatomy from those who’d caught them and let them go. New Gazers hadn’t arrived in years.

  Sonara leaned, focusing as best she could until she could read clearly the two words inscribed on the side: GEISINGER CORP.

  Something new, indeed.

  Sonara couldn’t quite be sure what it meant.

  She’d been obsessed with the strange metal orbs for years, dragging Jaxon all over the Deadlands in hope of gaining information on them.

  The sight of it would have given any Dohrsaran pause; perhaps even filled them with terror, thinking of the strange Wanderers that had arrived, years ago, to announce their presence and demand a treaty of peace with the Dohrsarans.

  The Gazers remained, a sign that Dohrsar was being watched, being measured up by them, at all times.

  Civilians did not know exactly when the Wanderers would show, but those who saw them had a hard time ever forgetting.

  Like their ships that ventured down from the skies, the Wanderers themselves were encased in metal. Gleaming armor molded to their bodies as if forged in fire. It had no breaks, no folds, no weak spots in which to drive a spear or sword. Some of the Wanderer armor was as black as Sonara’s blood. Other sets were ice-white, or ember gold. But one thing was always the same: none had ever seen the faces of the creatures hidden within.

  The ones who’d removed their helmets had burned to piles of oozing, steaming waste within minutes. As if the very air on Dohrsar was poisonous to them.

  As the Gazer bobbed closer now, a flash of a memory suddenly slammed into Sonara.

  A beam of blue light split the darkness, chasing her down as she sprinted across the sand, her hair yanked loose from its braid. She dove into the shadows just as Soahm’s ragged scream split the night.

  “Sonara!”

  She turned to face him.

  But he was already gone.

  A flash of anger rippled through Sonara, threatened to pull her under to a place she kept hidden, dark and deep. It was there, always, beside that ember of Duran’s soul, beside the cage she kept her curse locked in.

  Settle, Sonara told herself. For if she fell into that place, if she tumbled headlong into the abyss, she feared she’d never be able to climb back out again.

  Duran’s ears suddenly pricked up as he sensed the shift in her soul.

  He slid to a stop, nearly throwing Sonara from his back.

  “No!” she shouted. She dug her heels in deep. “It’s getting away!”

  But the beast would not move, so focused on relieving the tension he surely felt surging between the two of them, at the presence of the Gazer.

  Perhaps he remembered, too, that night in Soreia.

  Perhaps he still felt the fear of the events afterwards, when they’d been forced to perform the Leaping.

  When their bodies had been broken on the rocks, and the current called them home.

  Sonara sighed deeply as the Gazer bobbed away.

  “It’s alright, beast,” she said, as Duran glanced backwards, peering at her with one big, dark side-eye. “I’m alright.” He nickered as she ran her hand across his neck, that ever-gentle sound softening her anger.

  It helped her to think clearer, to push aside the emotions so she could focus on the facts.

  All her second life, she’d dug for information about the Wanderers, always seeking them out in hope of finding answers to what happened to Soahm. But she’d never discovered who had taken her brother, or why.

  Sonara sat there, following the Gazer with her eyes until it was a speck in the distance. She stared until her eyes watered from the effort not to blink. Until the desert horizon swallowed it whole, and whisked it away as easily as Soahm had been that fateful night.

  “I will find you,” Sonara whispered to the horizon. She dug her fingers deep into Duran’s mane. “Until it kills me, Soahm, I will find you, and bring you home.”

  Duran’s hooves thundered across the sand as the day bore on, and Sonara held fast to his braided mane as she tried to catch back up with the others.

  She was all body, no mind, just the beat of hooves and the flap of Razor’s wings in the distance as she circled every so often, allowing Duran to follow her trail. Even as they came into view, Sonara kept her distance from the female riders on the pale steed, unwilling to get too close. Unwilling to trust them yet.

  They shouldn’t have paired with Markam in the first place, to steal the king’s ring. It had been months since they’d seen him last, and only desperation had brought them to accept a job with the Trickster.

  Now, whatever Jaxon had agreed to had extended that partnership with Markam.

  Again.

  That thought plagued Sonara all day, until the suns grew tired and tucked themselves away behind the Bloodhorns, in a natural valley that spanned a mile wide before stretching directly upward into mountains again. Despite the unknown, a weary smile widened Sonara’s lips as she saw the telltale form of Sandbank in the distance, the trading post at the bottom of a sandy hill that stood like a lone sentry in the desert.

  The trading post was old and dusty but, bless the blasted place, it had a saloon. The days were hot, but the drinks inside the saloon were cool. And the rumors that spread about guts and glory were plenty.

  Sonara leaned back, and Duran slowed to a stop, his hooves squeaking in the windswept sand. Sweat dripped from his neck and belly, his sides heaving with heavy breaths. Foam had gathered on his chest, the mark of a steed who’d done his best to carry her, hardly stopping all day.

  “You wonderful, beautiful beast,” Sonara said, patting his neck and wrapping her arms around him, despite the fact that he smelled more like a wet steed than he ever had. He huffed, his heavy heartbeat pounding beneath her ear as his soul-ember heated with pride. A steed was never one to balk at a compliment. Especially not one as proud as Duran. She glanced at Sandbank in the distance as she pulled away. “You always know the way home.”

  Home.

  There was a traitorous pang in her heart, the moment she thought the word.

  Home was in Soreia, the southern kingdom. She thought of the red Sand Caves, and the scalding Demon’s Dunes, guarded by spiraling rock monuments that stretched into the sky, carved with sigils of queens long ago cast to the stars. She ached for the bustling trade days by the water’s edge, the crash of waves collapsing on shore, the distant cries of feral sea beasts as they gathered on the rocks and screeched at the twin moons. She ached for the summer season, with Soahm laughing beside her as they practiced with sticks for swords, then raced into the waves to cool off.

  She’d never go home again. But Sandbank was as close as it got to something familiar; something safe.

  “Alright, Sonara?” Jaxon called down as Razor landed upon the sand. The great wyvern blew out a hot breath, rustling Duran’s mane and tail.

  He whinnied a greeting to the other pale steed, who continued down the hillside with the ladies upon its back. The strange Shadowblood had yet to remove her hood, concealing her true identity. Sonara watched as they slid down from the beast, tying it up outside the saloon with the rest of the steeds.

  Sonara sighed as she looked at the line of others stamping their hooves, many with saddles still on. Sonara rode bareback only, and she didn’t like to keep Duran tied up outside, waiting on her beck and call. He was prisoner to no rope, no saddle, no Dohrsaran rider’s command.

  “Go on, then,” she whispered to him. “Enjoy some freedom.” He trotted away, off to find a watering hole and some much needed saltgrass on its banks.

  “Evening, Sunny.”

  Sonara’s whole body seized at the sound of that voice.

  Markam’s deep timbre was painstakingly similar to Jaxon’s, but it held an air of superiority beneath it that Jaxon’s never did. His pride was as strong as his scent as he dismounted and marched across the sand towards her.

  Sour and sweet all at once, like the coolness of spring colliding with the heat of summ
er.

  Sonara rolled back her shoulders and forced herself to greet him. “Hello, Markam,” she said.

  Then she spun around and, with all the strength left in her, slammed her fist into his face.

  Chapter 5

  Sonara

  Sonara hated having history with people. History meant roots, and roots were things that could be tugged and pulled on, like heartstrings.

  Roots meant weaknesses, and Markam was more than a root.

  He was a weed.

  Markam was the biggest high-roller in all of the Deadlands. He knew every secret that passed from every set of lips, every little detail of who would be where and when. Bankers’ carriages, boats on the Briyne, noblemen and women journeying from one fortress to another. None of their routes were secret or safe. Markam held the keys to his own sort of kingdom, and it was why Sonara had first been drawn to him, in hope of discovering something about Soahm and the ship that whisked him away ten years ago.

  It was also why Sonara had later grown to mistrust Markam’s every word.

  He was a Trickster, after all, the only other Shadowblood she and Jaxon knew. Markam’s curse manifested in illusions. They were some of the best Sonara had ever seen. He made bets with Fool’s Coin of his own making and was a skilled liar, to boot.

  Blast you, Sonara. Why did you ever fall for him? she thought, as she shook out her throbbing fist, satisfied at how hard she’d punched him.

  “You always did like to play rough, Sunny,” Markam said as he rubbed his nose. He laughed, and blast, it was molasses-sweet. She hated the way her curse shivered at the sound of that laugh, how it longed to dive deep into his soul and have a taste of what was once hers.

  Don’t look at him. Don’t look at him.

  Sonara lifted her chin anyway.

  Damn him, Markam was a sight for desert-sore eyes. He was only a year older than Jaxon, and made of muscle, but not the king’s Guard type. Markam was lean and mean, with cropped night-black hair. His eyes were dark to match, his blood roiling with the very same shadows as hers.

  Handsome on the outside. But Markam was downright rotten to his bones.

  “We agreed to one job,” Sonara said as she spun away from Markam. “Get the ring in Stonegrave, get out once we split the profit three ways. And of course you’ve roped us into more. That’s what you always do.”

  “Circumstances change, Sunny.” Markam stepped forward, his duster waving past his ankles. He wore the finest clothes, gold buttons on the leather, diamond links on his cuffs. “And you did not get the king’s ring. One third of payment for the ring: that’s what I was owed. Therefore, our agreement is not done. Thanks to me, I’ve extended an invitation for you to join me on one of my own escapades. And it pays far more handsomely than any you’ve ever faced before. When we complete it, you can give me one third of your prize.”

  “I’m going to rip out your insides, Markam, and fashion you a pretty little necklace from them,” Sonara growled.

  Jaxon jumped in between the two, just in time. “What’s done is done. The job in Stonegrave went south, but we got out alive, and now we’ve got to honor our deal with Markam.”

  “We don’t owe him anything,” Sonara said. “The ring he made wasn’t even real.”

  “And yet,” Markam said, lifting his right hand with a flourish. Out of thin air, a black-banded ring materialized onto his thumb, the fat diamond near-identical to the one he’d fashioned to give to Jira for the swap. “The ring I made was worth a barrel full of coin at market.”

  He shook his hand and with a poof, the ring was gone again.

  Sonara glared down the hill towards the saloon. It was steep and sweeping. If she could only get her foot behind Markam’s ankle, perhaps she could send him rolling. Perhaps there’d be a happy accident, and he’d break his neck on the way down.

  Sonara crossed her arms. “You lost out on nothing but time.”

  “But the pain it caused me to create it,” Markam said with a dramatic sigh, “along with the loss of what would have been true profit once we sold the king’s actual ring, was real enough. Now… the ladies are eager to get started, and you wouldn’t want to keep a client waiting, would you?”

  Sonara and Jaxon used to work for Markam, for years. He’d been their trusted informant, a laughable thought, because he’d damned them far too many times for Sonara to count on both hands, and there was hardly a shred of trust left between them. They’d had a falling out, when Sonara and Markam’s relationship crashed and burned… and kept burning. They’d only contacted him again for the job in Stonegrave because they’d been desperate for coin, practically starving with a lack of jobs to be found.

  With his curse, Markam had a way of sneaking into the most secret of places, of gathering information from the most private of conversations. He caught wind of the greatest catches in town, wagons hauling coin that were an easy snag, a shipment of steeds from the southern kingdom that could be captured and sold off. A group of rich merchants whose caravans could be blocked, cleared out, and sent on their way.

  With his intel, Sonara and Jaxon stepped in and got the job done. They got coin and more wanted posters placed across the Deadlands, and Markam kept his name clean. No matter the job, no matter how interested Markam seemed in helping, the moment he smelled danger, he’d push down anyone in his path in order to save his own skin.

  Even family.

  At the base of the hill, the saloon doors swung open, and music filtered out. The sad twang mixed with the setting suns as daylight grew tired and weary. Sonara’s own weariness tugged at her. She wanted to fall onto a bar stool and drink until her daylights went out. But first, she’d have to learn whatever hellish deal Jaxon had roped them into.

  Sonara simply raised her chin a bit higher as she turned to Markam. “What if we refuse? What if I break the deal?”

  Markam picked at a loose thread on his duster. “I’ll turn you in for your crimes against the king. Now… shall we? Drinks are on me, as a token of my good will.”

  With a wink, he started down the hillside, leaving Sonara and Jaxon alone with the wind.

  Chapter 6

  Sonara

  The swinging doors of the saloon slammed against Sonara’s back as she and Jaxon entered.

  The place was near empty as usual, the road-weary patrons already several drinks in. Everyone’s aura was bright and scrambled together, too many emotions dancing across the room for her curse to devour. She settled it with a wince, her head already spinning. She’d given it too much freedom lately. Too long of a leash.

  The town sherriff was there, a man with his buttons threatening to explode from his worn brown uniform. Across from him, a young blonde woman sharpened her dagger and glared at anyone who passed by. In the corner of the room, beneath the stuffed head of a desert pig mounted to the wall, a wrinkled storyteller sat, telling her tales. Laughter erupted from the patrons listening in.

  Music played from a small stage to their right. Suzie Quick and the Lightning Girls, who were never on key enough to make it in the king’s Traveling Troubadours, were still the main act.

  Sonara hated music. It made her feel things, made her think of memories she’d rather keep long forgotten.

  A hand reaching out.

  A scream that split the sky in two.

  She couldn’t block the memories of Soahm, but she could try to drown them. So she headed towards the only sanctuary in Sandbank.

  The bar.

  It was a place where secrets were spilled as often as drinks. And there just beside it, seated furthest from the rest of the patrons, was Markam, along with the two ladies who’d joined their troupe. They sat at a table near-covered in shadows, moth-bitten curtains drawn to conceal the window behind them. Holes littered the surface of the fabric, enough to shed sunlight in strange patterns across the room.

  “Ah,” Markam said, standing like the gentleman he pretended to be. He already had a bottle of oil in his hand, the dark liquid sloshing out as he bowed. “Lad
ies, may I present, better late than never… the Devil of the Deadlands.”

  The woman in deep red robes was seated in her chair with such impeccable posture that she may as well have been sitting on a throne. Of noble class, certainly. Her dark hair hung from the shadows of that large hood, which still concealed her face. Her hands, covered in smooth silk gloves, were folded before her on the table.

  Those hands held the power of the storms. Sonara’s curse hissed as she watched the woman, as if it knew it was in the presence of a power unprecedented. Reluctantly, she eased it out of its cage, the tether lengthening as she breathed in the woman’s aura. Dark, robust. The promise of life and death all at once.

  Again, Sonara’s rules for the world were changing. Shaping themselves anew, for where once there were only three Shadowbloods on Dohrsar that she knew including herself, now there were four.

  The second woman was perhaps more puzzling than the first.

  She was small, a head shorter than Sonara, her shoulders thin beneath her dark robes. Her hair, a palest white as the northern snows, was bound into two long ropy braids that hung to her waist, woven through with ice-blue beads and bits of white that looked like bone. Her face was entirely covered by a skull fashioned into a mask, tied tight.

  The Canis, Sonara noted now, a beast dreaded in the White Wastes for how its midnight howls resembled a lost child screaming out in distress. When one ventured too far into the snowy woods to save the child, the Canis attacked, and devoured only their flesh, leaving the rest of the body behind.

  The girl’s mouth was barely visible behind the Canis’ jawbones, the jagged teeth still intact at the end of a long snout.

  “My lady does not like to be kept waiting,” she said. Her voice was as sweet as a fairy’s. She folded her hands upon the table, tapping her fingertips on the worn wood. They, too, were covered in bone; carved gauntlets that peeked out from her long sleeves, the knuckles intricately designed to move with her own.

  Sonara pushed her curse towards the girl.

  She nearly choked on her aura.