Bonds of Brass (The Bloodright Trilogy #1) - Emily Skrutskie Page 0,123

“Ruttin’ junker girl,” Arso mutters, craning her neck toward the cockpit as our feet settle under us. “Hey, kid!” she barks, pounding a frustrated beat on the bulkhead. “We’re off course! Fix it!”

The Beamer flies level, unhurried, unbothered.

Arso’s eyes narrow beneath her goggles. “Ettian, tell your pet project to get this ship on track,” she snarls.

I don’t meet her gaze. “Trust her. Focus on the jump.”

The intercom crackles overhead. “Communications check go,” Gal shouts. A burst of static rings in my ear, and the voices of the other soldiers drop from shouts to normal levels as our comms start filtering the noise.

“Testing, Red One,” Arso says. “Sound off. Make it snappy.”

Call signs ring out one after another, moving around the cargo bay in a circle until I announce, “Red Eleven,” with as much conviction as I can manage.

“Communications clear,” Arso declares, though I don’t miss the look she sneaks at her watch. We’re still off course, and it’s eating at her.

“Communications clear,” Gal echoes. “Opening the cargo door.”

The low rumble of the engines gives way to the howling wind as the ramp thunders down. The Ruttin’ Hell sways in the air, our nose listing dangerously upward, and I grip the handhold tighter to keep from sliding out the rear. Someone’s jacket whips past my head, and laughter snaps through the comm as the soldiers scold whoever failed to pack their gear right.

The ground is close. Horrifically close. We’re well under a thousand yards, and even though part of my brain knows that jumps have been made from as low as two hundred feet, there’s nothing I can do about the survival instinct screaming at me to never let go.

“Ten seconds to drop. Wait—” Wen’s voice cuts off abruptly as the Beamer swerves.

Spins.

And then, even worse, flips.

Pain shrieks through my wrists as my hands twist in the canvas. The comm fills with confused shouts as every soldier in the bay goes ass over head. I find myself staring down at the ceiling of the cargo hold, trying to decide whether to let go and try for a better grip or let the canvas straps slowly wring the life out of my fingers.

“Get this ship—” Arso starts, but another vicious twist of the Beamer’s controls chokes her silent.

“Ettian,” I hear Gal whisper.

It’s time. Gal’s scrambled the navigation, tricking Wen into flying a mile off from the communications tower we’re targeting, positioning us squarely over a patrol that the Archon soldiers won’t see coming until it’s too late. My gaze fixes on the bay door, the open ramp, the welcoming sight of the prairie below.

“On me!” I shout, and let go.

Gravity steals me, pulling me hard into the floor as Wen rights the ship. I tuck into an awkward roll, spreading my wings, and tumble clean off the ramp. The world spins wildly, and I struggle against the buffeting winds. My suit catches me, yanking my arms back as I level my chest against the horizon. The comm in my ear buzzes with the confusion of the soldiers behind me, but when I twist my head, I catch ten shadows in my periphery as the Ruttin’ Hell’s engines scream into a rapid ascent.

I let go. All animal. All instinct. In a Viper, you retain a little of your humanity. In free fall, you’re a missile. But there’s an uncanny moment when the air pushes hard against my wings—a moment where I’m not clad in silk but in the lightweight, impenetrable armor of a knight’s powersuit.

A moment when I’m invincible. A moment I feel right.

“Ettian,” Arso’s razor-edged voice warns in my ear. She’s spotted the communications tower—so far from our current position that there’s no chance we’ll make it.

“Trust me,” I shout over the wind.

And for once, my words ring true. I shift our course with an abrupt dip of one arm, veering us away from the tower, away from the patrol, away from anywhere anyone expected us to end up. I wait for the objection, but none comes. Another glance over my shoulder