Page 4 of The Shard and the Serpent (Shard Daughters #1)

Raw Iron

Warrick

My gut aches with each pound of my boots through the Underground. I push my hair back, the city a dizzy blur of neon and violence ahead.

A Bond .

Energy shifts through me. A power awakens and pulls .

I feel her. How far she is.

I crash out of the tunnel. Rain slashes my face as I slip through a muddied trench. Blood washes from my wounds, but my fingers skim the puncture above my heart.

Rayze .

Her name is like a cliff edge. If I say it aloud, I’ll fall.

A fire pulses deep inside me, and I can do nothing but bow to its brightness. I feel strummed like a chord, my skin a thin barrier for the vibrating tension beneath.

Magic .

It’s not possible.

It’s the only explanation.

I drag myself up the rungs of the trench’s ladder. Pain bursts across my vision in dark spots, my ribs bruised from her kick.

I make it one step on solid ground before I cave to a knee with a groan.

This won’t be the last time I kneel. Not when it comes to her. One moment in her presence, and everything in me yields.

Fate .

The bitch abandoned the realm centuries ago. Took her magic and left us to die.

Now she’s—what— back ? Has fucking assassins?

I slam a fist against pavement.

I’ve spent my life controlled by The Accords, only able to make minuscule moves without breaking the treaty between Bossdoms. I’m too close to getting rid of Russell and taking control of Synlon to deal with this, but her fucking mouth . Gods, I don’t know if I can go without at least one taste.

My dick throbs, and I glare down at it, the selfish bastard.

Bright white cuts through the chaos of the streets, and I lift from the ground with a grunt.

Stormrig engines rev between torrents of rain. Blue plumes of smoke hiss from the bikes’ hulking metal frames, sparks snapping across raw iron.

The Storm Heir and her cronies skid to a halt, crudely welded helmets pivoting left and right.

“Halix,” I bark and muscle through my injuries, fists tight.

Satori’s dark visor snaps up with a quick swipe of her gloved hand. Volt-ringed eyes pin mine, cheeks carved with steel plates. “Ivor,” she returns.

“We had a deal. You don’t ride in my city,” I shout over thunder.

Her lips press into a thin line before she shuts her visor and wrenches a second helmet from its clipped perch behind her. She chucks it through the air, and I catch it with a scowl. “Get on, snake. We’ve got business to attend to.”

Teeth gritted, I stalk toward her bike and swing a leg over the back, jamming the helmet over my head. “You’re breaking a whole lot of rules driving your tech on Serpent streets, Heir.”

Static pricks my cheeks. The vertebrae of vents along her helmet hiss with thin puffs of steam.

“Don’t fucking bleed on my suit.” Her voice crackles through a speaker beside my ear. “And if I were you, I’d shut the fuck up about The Accords and answer my questions when I ask.”

Tiny bolts of lightning arc between the metal nodes atop our helmets, each clipped syllable of her threat surging blue.

“Where did you go?” Satori demands. “We thought those assassins took you hostage.”

There’s a dark edge to her words, a hidden accusation, but the stormrig rockets away from the Underground, and my gut swells with insatiable need.

Rayze Rayze Rayze—

I’m seconds from screaming. Minutes from grabbing the nearest thing and fucking it to oblivion.

This is dangerous.

More than dangerous.

The most I know about Bonds is what all Heirs are made aware of should magic ever resurface. They’re anchors between souls. A way to interlink two mortals. Bind them.

Forever.

I brace against Satori as the bike skids into an alley.

Rayze —Gods. Blood on her lips. Makeup smeared. Wild green eyes and a vicious smile.

I grip the edge of the seat, shoulders heaving.

What is happening to me?

I focus on my city. On anything else.

Lightning crackles across metal wires above, the street’s chaos lit between flashes. Windows shatter. Skin break from restraints and cronies tackle them. Civilians stab Serpents and steal their vests, tattoo parlors flooded, everyone grasping at opportunity.

Fuck. Me.

I tear my Heir mask from my waist, lifting it as we zoom past. The city needs to know I’m alive.

Satori slams into the next gear and lurches into a trench on the outskirts of Synlon. Metal grinds, and the gang of her cronies on our tail whip around, leaving us.

Muddied water drenches my pants as we weave through the barricade marking the end of the city and rumble into a cavernous entrance of the Underground.

The stormrig’s headlight brightens our path, and Satori cranks into a downshift.

The rig groans, the pipes at its base shudder, and she leans into turn after turn, bolts of blue licking from the bike’s steel to the tight curve of the walls.

“The others,” I ask. “Were they killed?”

“The Bosses are at Fang’s Edge,” her voice vibrates against my ear. “Ruel and Deimos wait at our old meeting place.”

I run my tongue over my teeth, my fingers skimming my chains at the mention of the other Heirs. “For?”

Beneath the padding of her spiked suit jacket, her shoulders lift with tension. “I’m only going to ask this once more, Warrick.” She takes the next turn hard. “Where the fuck were you when those assassins chased us?”

My head pounds.

Satori speeds up an incline toward an exit.

“They let Russell go,” she says. “They let him run while they cornered us.”

Dread grips me.

“We barely got away.”

“Tori,” I try, “are you hurt?”

She leans away from me, but I don’t miss the hitch in her breath through the speaker.

We breech the exit, and cold rain pellets us. The bike launches up a ramp and onto a muddy road. Loose gravel flings from the wheels, the Estal Mountains ahead.

A black flag whips between jagged, obsidian peaks. Dark clouds flash above, a blue skull rippling, orange tentacles coiled through its sockets.

The Kraken’s crest.

Saltmaw .

Thirty years of life and there still hasn’t been a piece of tech that leaves me as breathless as that fucking ship.

It floats between mountains as if cradled by frozen waves, its bronze hull gleaming. The undercarriage churns with gears, engines fueled by steam and storm. Arcs of lightning writhe beneath, cracking in rapid succession.

Satori plows up the mountain pass, and my eyes lock on Saltmaw’s deck.

Shadows leer over the bulwark. The hulking frame of Ruel and the tall, black leather draped silhouette of Deimos.

Beside them—The Kraken, The Vile, and The Storm.

Every Boss except Synlon’s.

“I thought you said they were at Fang’s Edge?” I ask.

Silence.

Rayze . This is her fault.

They think I hired her to kill them.

I look over my shoulder, my city a mess of lights in the distance.

I’ve no blade. No backup.

“Tori,” I spit.

A sigh rattles the speakers.

“Where’s Russell?”

“He ran when Ezma wanted him to take responsibility for tonight’s events,” she says.

First names. Never father or mother.

“This wasn’t me,” I growl.

Her stormrig skids to a stop. Sparks crack from the wheels, Saltmaw towering before us. Bosses and Heirs disembark, weapons ready.

“Satori.” I rip off my helmet. “Why would I break The Accords? This should’ve been it. The Serpent title should be mine. Russell was going to Yield. He swore it.”

She shuts off the engine.

Then she twists.

Her elbow jams into my gut, and the air knocks from my lungs.

The helmet tumbles. I tip from our shared seat, my hand flying to the chains hooked at my waist, and my shoulder slams into hard slate.

Satori dismounts with grace. Her jacket swings open, revealing puckered flesh and black sutures. Steel plates stitch into muscle, and leather binds her chest.

She frees a black rod from its place at her waist. A harsh flick of her wrist, and it lengthens with a snap , two metal prongs at its end jolting with electricity.

“At least take your helmet off,” I snarl. “Have some pride if you plan to take the coward’s way out.”

She stiffens.

Then she slides her visor up.

My chest squeezes, grief dulling the rings of Volt in her eyes.

I fist my chains. “Tori—”

“I have my orders,” her voice spills from an outer speaker, grainy with static. Blue and white voltage bursts from the nodes at her helmet’s chin, bounding down the metal kissing old scars and new.

Satori blinks. Once. Hard. A message I remember from our childhood.

She can’t stop.

Even if she wants to.

I release my chains. “It’s okay,” I murmur, and her hand shakes around her baton. “I’ll be fine.”

She grits her teeth.

Then she moves.

Burning prongs stab into my chest.

I fall back, seizing. My eyes roll, my gut twists—

And the Bond wails .