Oath Bound (Unbound) - By Rachel Vincent Page 0,73
your ass?”
“I’m not making fun of you. I’m just enjoying a little humor at your expense.” He knelt next to the guard’s arm and pulled a folding knife from his own pocket. Before I could object to the cold-blooded murder of an unconscious man, Kris pulled the guard’s sleeve away from his upper arm and sliced through the material.
I blinked in surprise as he folded the knife, then returned it to his pocket and ripped the man’s sleeve open wider, revealing two interlocking rust-colored rings.
“Binding marks?” My mother had taught me that much, but she hadn’t known the specifics, for good reason—she’d kept us too far away from the Tower syndicate to glean more than could be learned by watching the news and scouring the internet to make sure there was never any mention of Jake’s older, illegitimate child. “What does the color mean?”
Kris’s brows rose in surprise. “You really did just fall off the turnip truck, huh?” I frowned, but before I could come up with an insult of my own, he continued, “You truly don’t know?”
“I told you, I don’t work for the Towers. I never met any of them until two days ago.” Two unbelievably long days ago.
“I’m actually starting to believe that.” He let go of the man’s sleeve, but left it gaping over the tattoos. “Okay, here’s your Skilled syndicate primer. A term is five years long, and for each term you commit to, you get one ring, up front. The ink is usually mixed with the blood of either the Binder or the head of the syndicate—in this case, Jake Tower—to bind it in blood. This guy has two rings, so he’s served his first five years and is somewhere in the middle of his second enlistment. When that term’s over—or his binding is broken by other means—the marks will fade instantly to a dull gray. We call those dead marks.”
“And the color?” I repeated, pleased to realize I’d followed his explanation with no trouble.
“Rust-colored rings, like this one, mean unSkilled labor, no matter what job the bearer holds. Secretaries, bodyguards, tech, clerks, lawyers, whatever. If you have no Skill, your mark is rust-colored. Except for those in the...um...oldest profession.”
“Assassins?” I guessed, and he laughed out loud.
“Forget the turnip truck. You were born yesterday. I’m talking about prostitutes.”
“Why on earth would prostitution be the oldest profession?”
His grin widened. “I don’t know. That’s just what they say. I guess sex is the universal currency. But my point is that those in the skin trade are all unSkilled also, but they have red marks. This guy—” he tossed an openhanded gesture at the guard “—is just a hired gun. No Skill.”
“I can’t believe I’m about to ask this, but...why didn’t you just kill him? Because he didn’t actually take a shot at you?”
Kris pulled a zip tie from the pocket of his jeans, then hauled the unconscious man toward the refrigerator by one arm. “That, and because dead men are notoriously difficult to interrogate.” He propped the guard in a sitting position against the front of the fridge, then zip-tied the man’s right hand to the refrigerator door handle, so that his arm stuck up at an odd angle. Then Kris patted him down until he found a cell phone, which he tossed into the drawer two down from the fridge—within reach, if the guard stretched far enough to strain his shoulder.
“Hand me a cup of water.” Kris gestured toward a plastic cup sitting on the edge of the sink.
“What’s the magic word?”
“Abracadabra. But I fail to see the relevance.”
I crossed both arms over my chest. “Please. The magic word is please. Didn’t your mother ever teach you that?”
“All my mother ever taught me was how to die in a car wreck. Gran taught me quite a few interesting words, but please was not among them. And, for the record, please is not a magic word. It has no supernatural properties at all that I can think of.” He came one step closer, staring straight into my eyes with such intensity that I couldn’t have looked away if I’d tried, and again, I was hyperaware that he was half-naked. And that I wanted to know what that half felt like....
“Tequila’s the magic drink. Everyone over the age of twenty-one and south of the Mason-Dixon line is familiar with its magical properties.” Kris took another step, and I held my ground as my heart beat harder, wondering how close he would come. Or when I’d stop him.