Page 2 of The Shard and the Serpent (Shard Daughters #1)

Crime Royalty

Rayze

ONE HOUR.

A deep, static-fused voice echoes from fight pits to club fronts, speakers wired into Synlon’s jagged skyline. Lightning slams into The Dredge’s rooftop coils, and power surges through the tower with a deep, metallic hum.

Its balcony shudders beneath me.

Below, the city flickers.

Currents arc across wires and pipes bolted between buildings. Rain fractures the streets, neon bleeding across thousands of bobbing heads.

Citizens swarm toward the yawning, dark mouths of the Underground. They push through flooded alleys and into muddy trenches, desperate for a chance to sell themselves.

Wind claws at my hair, batters my coat, but I wait as the city vanishes into the labyrinth beneath the realm.

I peer through the windows of The Serpent’s penthouse. It’s empty. No cronies. No Chrome Guards. No Boss or Heir.

Good. My prey from last night didn’t lie.

I climb over the railing and brace, slicking my hair back with an inhale.

Then I jump.

The ground zips toward me, dozens of stories passing in a blur. My coat and weapons rattle, water wicking off my arms as I lift them wide. Starlight warms my palms, and my magic awakens.

“Slow,” I command, my power shifting among thunder.

Threads blear through the rain. I focus on those tied to gravity and yank .

A gasp rips from my throat. Dark spots cloud my vision.

Pleasure threads are easy. Internal. Emotional. A flick of my tongue, a hook of my finger— mine .

The external forces of Fate, unfortunately, can’t be seduced.

Not impossible to command.

It just fucking hurts.

I slam into a crouch on wet pavement, blood leaking from my nose and eyes. The metal plates built into the bottoms of my boots absorb the worst of the shock, but my bones ache.

I stagger into the shadows with a groan. Then I lean into the side of The Dredge, glaring at a flier plastered to the wall.

CAGED AND YOUNG: FULFILL YOUR DESIRES AT FANG’S EDGE , it reads.

I grit my teeth, my fists tight, and shake out my legs. Then I wipe my face, push my magic down to rest, and stalk around the corner into the alley.

Barred windows and glowing signs advertise pay-by-the-hour Skin, rates by fetish. A shop door jingles, and its owner steps into my path.

A Chrome Guard.

He locks up and puffs on a pipe. His Volt-ringed eyes glance my way before he marches toward the trench ahead, the Serpent blade at his waist clacking against his armored thigh.

In his window, Skin remain on display, their eyes glassy as they hang like puppets between velvet drapes.

Gods, I hate this city.

The other Bossdoms are worse. The Skin Trade’s tame by comparison.

Still.

I’ve tried to save those I can, but where one brothel falls, another takes its place. As long as flesh means wealth in Synlon, the cycle of abuse won’t end.

That changes tonight. It must.

Curly, orange hair and a tall silhouette vanishes into the Underground ahead.

Aleksi .

A silver whip flashes and another familiar figure joins her.

Sonya .

My fellow Shard Daughters are here.

I drop into the trench, mud splattering my shins, and wade into the crammed tunnel entrance. Voices echo off stone, sharp and layered as the crowd rushes forward.

Bosses don’t hand over power. They Yield. Sacrifice themselves so their Heir can rise.

Russell Ivor’s done nothing but bleed this city. No one will miss his death, sure, but my toys also said there’d be a Bid.

The frenzy proves them right.

The Serpent Heir will claim Synlon. Then he’ll recruit. New cronies. New paths to wealth.

Anyone can sell for a shot at power.

THIRTY MINUTES.

My attention snaps to the boom of a speaker. Clear tubes pulse along damp walls, veins of electric blue igniting with the burst of the announcement.

I pry through the crowd. Night Market stalls advertising Skin For Sale are shut down. Instead, the trafficked are led in manacled lines toward a domed arena carved among the tunnels, their eyes cast to their bleeding feet.

I crack my neck.

“You were prey, and you became.”

My fingers twitch along my arrows.

“Prey always becomes.”

I’ve waited for this. Ached for it in the deepest marrow of my bones. Planned every step. Took every life.

“Not yet,” Aleksi murmurs to my right.

A whiff of the sea drifts with each of her steps, matching my stride. She looks me over behind large, oval glasses, her freckled nose scrunching, and bumps her hip into mine with a soft smile. “Hey, Angeline.”

I grin. “Hey, Skarne.”

Sonya jams her elbows between us and centers herself, flashing a smile of metal fangs.

Her short dress sparkles, her green braids swishing and her whip wrapped like a scarf. She lifts her palms and scrunches her fingers in a ‘gimme’ motion.

Aleksi snorts, adjusting the weapons along her plaid skirt. “I saw you an hour ago, Bront. Get over yourself.”

You’re right , Sonya signs and pokes my side. It’s Sin who owes me face time. You never come home anymore.

I press a kiss to her cheek. After tonight, I’m yours, I sign in return. Though I’m surprised the Slayer of Mutants has time. I heard The Storm’s been busy.

But Sonya frowns at my shaking fingers. Don’t be nervous . She presses a hand to my back. We’re ready.

Aleksi nods and unhooks a silver pin from her petticoat’s breast pocket. “All Kraken shipments were rerouted out of Synlon.”

Take a man’s weapons , Sonya starts.

“And he’s just a man,” Aleksi continues with a shrug. “A small—”

Insignificant—

“Killable—”

I smile.

Man , Sonya finishes. She knocks a knuckle under my chin. Stick to the plan. Finish the job. Then we drink our worries away.

Aleksi raises her flask. “We could start now?”

Thank fuck.

I tear the flask from her palm, pop the cork, and throw it back. Ale burns my throat, but my gut calms.

We pass it around, each taking a swig.

Aleksi squeezes my elbow, then slides her thumb over the latch of her silver pin. It snaps into a long spear, its metal frame humming with magic.

“Fuck ‘em up, Angel of Sin,” she mutters.

I rip my bow from its harness. “See you on the other side, Ender of Voids.”

Best of Fate. Sonya uncoils her whip. It drags behind her as she saunters away, its poisonous fangs a match for the ones lining her mouth.

“Best of Fate,” I whisper as they weave in opposite directions toward the arena’s stage.

TWENTY MINUTES.

The Serpent slumps on his iron throne, sweat streaking his hollow cheeks. His eyes flick across the crowd, erratic. He pivots his buzzed head, fingers twitching around the handle of his Serpent blade.

Russell Ivor talks and talks.

To himself.

I grin.

His throne rests among three more on a raised portion of the stage, the other Bosses of the realm all in attendance: The Storm, The Kraken, and The Vile.

Below them, are the Heirs. The Bosses’ three sons and daughter watch behind masks, sitting in smaller thrones on the main platform.

Crime royalty.

Monsters.

“Choose your prey, Rayze Angeline.”

My gut flutters, and my focus tugs from The Serpent to his son.

Warrick Ivor sits with his legs spread wide. He taps the serrated edge of his Serpent blade against his knee in slow, deliberate beats. Beneath his open, snakeskin vest, ink winds over his body, disappearing beneath his diamond-studded mask.

His other hand toys with the heavy chains secured at his hip. His stance is casual. Bored.

But his eyes—

My mouth dries.

His eyes lock with mine.

I hesitate and shift to my left.

He straightens. The steady tick of his blade halts, and his steel-blue gaze follows the movement.

Every nerve-ending alights with his awareness, my heart in my throat.

His head tilts. Like he’s studying me.

I duck and hide behind a tall group of men.

FIFTEEN MINUTES.

Chrome Guards ring the stage, but only a few crackle with Volt. Blue sparks flicker beneath their helmets.

The Serpent puffs on a pipe, smoke fanning around his gaunt face. He leans into the arms of his throne, his pupils pulsing blue with the drug.

I double-check Warrick’s eyes, surprised to find them without Volt’s presence.

Cronies form the next blockade, inked flesh marking Boss loyalties. Snake tattoos carve those who belong to Synlon and The Serpent. The other Bosses brought entourages, but they’re playing nice thanks to The Accords.

The treaty’s clear.

The Boss who plans to Yield must provide adequate protection for Witnesses. Any harm against the other Bosses or their Heirs would be a direct violation.

Retaliation wouldn’t just be sanctioned—it would be demanded.

Blood for blood.

Territory for territory.

TEN MINUTES.

Anticipation rolls down my spine.

I elbow forward, my gaze set on a centuries-old pillar tucked in a dark alcove, a remnant from a time of monarchies and kingdoms. It’s broken in half, its bottom cracked and caked in grime.

I climb it, careful to lean into the shadows, but again my focus shifts and pulls.

I freeze.

Warrick yanks off his mask.

He runs painted nails through his black, white-streaked hair, the strands wet. Silver studs and hoops glitter across his handsome face. Fanged snakes adorn his cheeks, their split tongues licking pierced dimples.

He lifts.

Swivels his blade.

Pins his gaze on his father as The Serpent descends.

FIVE MINUTES.

“The Bid is simple,” a Chrome Guard barks over the noise of the crowd.

My attention jerks toward the woman. I knead my stomach and sink into the shadows.

Why would they start with a Bid? There’s no point in a Boss choosing new cronies only to Yield to his Heir.

Warrick’s brow furrows, too.

His knuckles whiten around the hilt of his blade. He moves to take a step toward his father, but The Storm Heir, Satori Halix, grabs the corner of his vest and pulls him back.

“Those who offer The Serpent the best Bids will be allowed to join his ranks. If you’re chosen, you and your family will be given immunity to becoming Skin.” She points her blade at the empty cages lining the outskirts of the crowd. “ Anything of value may be offered as your Bid.”

SIXTY SECONDS.

Parents shove their children toward the cages, most bred for this moment.

I tear an arrow from my coat.

THREE.

Sonya peels from the shadows near the stage, the silver fangs of her whip glinting as she lets it unfurl to the floor.

TWO.

In the center of the crowd, Aleksi swivels her spear.

ONE.

I release, and steel pierces flesh.