Bonds of Brass (The Bloodright Trilogy #1) - Emily Skrutskie Page 0,21

more than ever. Someone who has his back without question. Someone with the street sense to keep him from stumbling into all the traps ahead. Someone who can fly him where he needs to go. And somehow—whether by fate, coincidence, or the hands of the gods themselves—I’m the best guy for the job. Maybe the only one.

I pull on my jacket, still not looking at him. Outside, the halls are quiet, but it won’t be long until the streakers and their ruckus get herded back into the dorms. “We need to get moving.” I sling his bag at him, and he catches it, tucking it under his arm.

His breath hitches, hesitant.

Gal sets a hand on my shoulder, his fingers curving lightly along the ridge of my bones. I can’t look at him. We’ve been in this room together for so long. These narrow walls are the closest I’ve felt to home since the war. He knows how much it means for me to leave them behind. As Gal’s thumb runs a gentle line up my neck, my thoughts stray. There were notions I had before my roommate turned out to be a prince. Notions we never got a chance to explore—not the way we might have wanted to.

Now I’m not sure what’s left for us. I meet his eyes at last, and we both jolt like we’ve been hit by a stunner round. It’s too much—all of it. Gal takes a step back.

“A ship,” I whisper.

“Time to go,” he agrees.

* * *

—

It dawns on me somewhere between the barracks and the main hangar that I’m not mentally “all here.” Between the sleep deprivation, the stress, and the polish I couldn’t avoid drinking, I’m deteriorating fast.

Gal’s sharp, at least, driven by the tension of being out in the open for the first time since the assassination attempt. He keeps us clear of the frazzled patrols that sweep through the academy compound, chasing down our inebriated friends. More than once, we’re forced to duck into the shadows as yet another naked cadet gets marched past us.

“Gods, how many of them were there?” Gal says, impressed and slightly miffed. We’re crammed against a stack of cargo by the main hangar, but he’s craning his neck around it to watch the scene unfolding on a distant drill field, where six people are doing their best to herd a determined streaker back toward the barracks. I think it might be Hanji.

“Focus, Gal,” I remind him, though if it’s Hanji, I don’t blame him for staring. I glance back and forth, but no other patrols seem to be in the area. The distant lights are all focused on the roads, gates, and fences—the obvious exits from the academy compound.

But we’re not heading out by land. Not if I can help it. I grab Gal by the collar, and together we make a run for the hangar’s side door. Locked, as expected. Stealth has gotten us this far, but it won’t get us through a bolt. I pull the blaster from my belt and hand it to Gal. “Want to do the honors?”

“Thought you’d never ask.” Gal pummels three quick shots into the door, one at each of the hinges. Smoke whispers out of the holes, and I throw my shoulder against the door, smashing clear through.

Alarms wail, and lights snap on across the hangar floor, obliterating my vision. There’s a slight pressure at my waist as Gal slips my blaster back into its holster. I blink away the spots in my eyes, following the guidance of Gal’s hand on my back as we take off at a run.

When I see what we’re running for, I balk.

“A Beamer? Seriously, Gal?”

Gal glances between me and the ship. “Problem?”

Even with the panic coursing through me, begging me to take the ship and get out of here before the alarms bring trouble down hard on our asses, I can think of a host of problems. Beamers are cheerfully wide and squat things, meant to do little more than travel in straight lines. They’re built outlandishly heavy, a design made possible only by Archon metal flowing into Umber-held shipyards,