Bonds of Brass (The Bloodright Trilogy #1) - Emily Skrutskie Page 0,110

my hand is shaky even at its slowest.

“Don’t laugh,” I mutter as Gal starts doing exactly that. I dip the brush back in and finish my work with haste, leaving the R overly dense and the “uttin’?” traced in brisk, inch-high strokes. I step out of the way in time to dodge Gal’s brush.

He writes his “Hell” with perfect balance, the letters so measured that it looks like he drew them with guidelines. Against my rough font, his hand is ridiculously smooth, each character carving a graceful, shimmering arc. I jab him in the ribs with my brush as he’s finishing the last l, and he jumps sideways, accidentally streaking paint from the base of his work all the way down to the heat shield.

“Heavens and hells, Ettian,” he groans, flicking his brush at me. Brass spatters across my nose, and I flinch, grinning. “Give me your hand.”

I hesitate, but he sets the paint can down and grabs my wrist, flipping it palm-up before I can get a word of protest out. Gal runs his brush over the pad of my index finger, then pulls me down so he can get more paint.

“This stuff had better be washable,” I grumble.

“Agreed,” he says, glancing at the damage I did to his shirt.

“And nontoxic.”

He hesitates, his eyes flicking to the paint can’s label.

I shake my head, chuckling. “Whatever. They have a medical ward here. Do your worst.”

Gal finishes painting my finger, then taps a spot on the hull beneath our unofficial christening. I catch his drift, raising my hand and pressing my fingerprint into the Ruttin’ Hell’s metal. My finger comes away still dripping paint, and I reach out and wipe it on Gal’s brow before he can stop me. “Seriously, Ettian?” he yelps, trying to rub it off. The brass is only a few shades shy of his natural skin tone, falling short of blending into his golden visage.

“My turn,” I say, dip my brush, and paint the finger he offers. Gal marks the hull to the left of me, his own print a bit smaller than mine. And then, because he can’t resist revenge, he smears the leftover paint on my cheek. “Oh come on,” I groan. “It stands out way more on my skin than on yours.”

“I know.”

“We’re going to have a hell of a time explaining why we look like this,” I say, shaking my head.

Gal beams. He lifts his hand and draws a defiant line across the rest of his forehead, crowning himself in the metal of his blood. “I’ve talked these people into hijacking dreadnoughts. A little paint is nothing.”

CHAPTER 23

THE NIGHT BEFORE Archon’s reckoning departs, Henrietta Base lets out a long, needed breath.

The first bonfire lights at sundown, and by the time night has settled over the base, hundreds of towering flames are scattered across the drill fields. Whatever air isn’t choked with smoke is washed with the sharp scent of raw polish. Palpable relief hangs over the thousands of soldiers, technicians, and other personnel swarming the fields, celebrating their last night on this planet. The fires are fueled by possessions accumulated over five years on Corinthian soil—everything that these people won’t be taking with them when the fleet launches tomorrow.

I slip through the thick of it, blunted and unsteady. I’d rather be back in the dark corner I just stumbled out of, tangled in a rumpled, desperate mess with Gal, but the combination of bonfires, polish, and an unsupervised Wen Iffan has enough potential for disaster that I’ve extracted myself and waded out into the fray.

And there’s a part of me that knows it’s time to come clean. Before the assault launches, before she gets snared in the trap we’ve laid. Tonight, with the remnants of the life we’ve built on Delos in flames, there’s no better time to do it.

It takes me nearly an hour to track her down. I find Wen seated at the edge of one of the largest fires, part of a captivated crowd watching as Colonel Esperza narrates a story with a bottle of polish tucked under one arm and nothing attached to the