Bonds of Brass (The Bloodright Trilogy #1) - Emily Skrutskie Page 0,52

see us. You’ve gotta—”

I start running. I don’t “gotta” anything. I didn’t sign up for this—I need to get as far away from it as possible, before it blows up in my face. Or, more accurately, before Wen blows something else up in my face.

Two hundred pounds of black-clad muscle has something to say about that. The man comes out of nowhere, wrapping an arm around my neck and throwing me down into the dirt. The breath explodes from my lungs as my cheek rakes across the ground, and I choke down dust.

Indignation burns through me, fury on its heels. I lash out with one leg, finding purchase in a soft inner thigh, and my attacker reels back. Not today. Not ever. No one throws me back in the dirt I crawled out of. I push to my feet, my teeth bared.

The Cutter draws his gun. A shiver runs up my spine. No deflector armor to protect me now.

Instead I get Wen Iffan, a rainbow umbrella, and a swing so mean the man’s head snaps back like an elastic band. She doesn’t wait to see if that blow alone does the trick. The umbrella’s wickedly sharp tip flashes in the afternoon sun as she spins it around, but before she can slash it over the Cutter’s throat, he rolls to the side, reaching for the gun he dropped.

I lunge forward and kick it away, then dive after it. My fingers close around the grip, sliding into the trigger, squeezing so desperately tight that it fires, kicking in my hand. The bolt goes stray, slamming into the hull of one of the sun-sailers, and I hear a distant, indignant shriek—no doubt its dealer. I whirl to find Wen and the Cutter locked together, the man trying to wrestle the umbrella away from her as she clings to it ferociously. He’s easily twice her size. Overpowering her. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot more figures in black sprinting toward us.

My heartbeat pounds in my ears. The urge to run bites at my heels. They’re after her, not me. But Wen rushed in and saved my ass—the least I can do is this one small thing. I check the setting, lift the blaster, and pull the trigger.

The Cutter goes limp, and Wen jumps back, dropping the umbrella and shaking her hands where the bolt’s charge leapt into her. She seems confused. Maybe no one’s stepped in for her like this. Maybe never in her life.

Her hesitation breaks. She slips her toes under the umbrella’s handle, flips it up, and snatches it out of the air. Then she turns tail and dives into one of the lots.

I sprint after her. There’s only one reason someone as reckless and impulsive as her has survived this long. Wen is whip-smart and slippery as all hells. My best shot of getting out of this is on her heels. I keep my grip locked tight around my stolen blaster, my feet skidding on the loose gravel as I track her shadow through the hulking ships. Boltfire chases me, slamming into hulls, kicking up dirt, whistling past my ears.

I miss the certainty of a Viper’s controls. My own legs don’t feel anywhere near as sure. Somewhere in the distance, sirens howl. The local police are closing in. It doesn’t faze the Cutters on our tail.

Wen’s slight form dives headfirst under one of the massive ships’ bellies, disappearing into a dark hole in the dirt. I pause, but only for a second. Moving keeps you alive. Doubt gets you dead. It’s like I never left the back alleys of Trost.

I stick the gun’s grip in my teeth and crawl after her. The darkness closes around me, my elbows scraping awkwardly against the tunnel walls. Ahead, I catch a flash of light and Wen’s shoes disappearing. I try to wriggle faster, cursing the length of my limbs and praying that the heavily armored Cutters behind us will be even slower.

By the time I squirm out of the tunnel’s other end, Wen’s ducking around the corner of a building. I haul myself to my feet and glance back. We’ve burrowed out of the dealers’ alley entirely, coming out on