The Cost of Blood and Bonds (The Costbound #1)

1. Gemira

Gemira

Idrop from the roof into the alley, landing softly on the balls of my feet, just as the patrol rounds the corner. Their laughter fades into the night as they disappear from view.

The Davrik warehouse has more guards than the briefing suggested. Four instead of two, which means either Fletcher’s information is old or someone got nervous. Either way, it’s annoying but manageable.

The other two linger at the front entrance, arguing over last night’s dice game and who’s buying first round. They’re laughing and not watching, but not watching isn’t the same as not there.

I toss a few coppers from my pocket, and they skitter down the alley, clattering loudly against the cobblestone.

Both guards turn, and I’m already moving, slipping through the front door while they’re still chasing coins.

The air inside is thick with dust and grain, heavy enough to taste. Rows of grain sacks stretch into the dark, stacked twice my height on wooden pallets.

This isn’t storage. It’s a chokehold, waiting for hunger to make it worth more.

Windows line both walls. They’re high but reachable from the top of the stacks, with a short jump to the sill.

It would be so easy to take half the grain stock in one night, maybe more. It’d be enough to keep the north fed through winter. In and out, clean and fast.

But not tonight. Tonight, I’m here for the girls.

I keep to the wall, outside the lantern’s reach, quiet and invisible.

Grain rows give way to the loading dock, with a tall silo beside it. And tucked back in the corner is an office.

They have to be there. The lock all but confirms it with six pins, a false gate, and a warded keyhole. This is the kind of security you don’t waste on grain.

The first pin gives and the ward hums, irritated but harmless. I ease past the false gate and work through the next four in quick succession. The sixth resists stubbornly, but then the whole thing gives with a click.

I push the door open and light spills in. The two girls are so young. They sit on the floor, tied to a chair. They’re pressed so close together they could be one person, like they’re trying to disappear into each other.

My stomach twists, making my vision narrow and the edges going dark the way they always do when I see something that reminds me of—

I force my vision wide again; I can panic later. Right now, there’s only the girls.

“Shh.” I press a finger to my lips and crouch in front of them. I pull a blade from my belt, and one of them jerks at the sight of it and squeezes her sister’s hand hard enough to blanch the knuckles.

“I’m cutting you loose. It’s going to feel close, but don’t scream.”

She whimpers as I cut, but the sound barely escapes her throat.

“Breathe. I’ve got you.”

I finish and step back. They have similar coloring, with the same brown hair and green eyes, but one’s clearly older by a year or two. They’re close enough to be sisters, but definitely not twins.

The king won’t buy this. So why take them?

“Listen…” I keep my voice low. “If anything goes wrong or if we get separated, go to the boarding house on Miller’s Row, by The Mossy Barrel. Say Fletcher sent you.”

They nod, and we start to move low and quiet. The guards haven’t budged, still oblivious.

I lead them to the nearest stack of grain sacks.

“You first.” I crouch and lace my fingers together. She plants her foot in my hands, and I boost her up onto the grain sacks.

I boost the smaller one next, and between my lift and her sister’s grip from above, she makes it. I pull myself up after them, and the cold spring air from the open window bites at my skin.

Between the grain sacks and the windowsill, there’s a gap. Not far, but far enough to need a jump. The smaller one peers over the edge and freezes.

“I can’t,” she says.

“You can.” I crouch and meet her eyes. “I’ll go first and I’ll catch you.”

I jump first, landing on the narrow sill and bracing myself against the frame. Then I turn and hold out my hand.

She jumps. I catch her, pulling her close to steady her against the wall. For a moment, she clings to me, breathing hard, before I guide her through the window.

She drops to the alley below, stumbles on the landing but catches herself, then looks back up at us, wide-eyed and waiting.

The taller one is about to jump when I hear footsteps. Every sense I have snaps to attention.

These aren’t the shuffle of bored guards; these are purposeful, accompanied by voices approaching from the front. We freeze and our eyes meet. She understands without a word and drops flat against the grain sacks.

Torchlight spills across the warehouse floor. Three figures step into view: two guards in Davrik colors, and a man in fine clothes, who moves like the place belongs to him. Because it does.

Lord Davrik.

I recognize him from the markets with his sharp jaw and skin too smooth for his age. Magic keeps nobles like him polished while the rest of us just wear the years.

What is he doing here? This is grunt work; it’s beneath him.

“I’m not sure they look similar enough to pass as twins, my lord.” The guard’s voice wavers.

“Let me have a look,” Davrik says. “If they don’t look enough alike, we’ll rough them up a bit. It’s hard to tell the difference with swollen faces.”

So that’s it. They don’t care if they’re twins or not, as long as they can collect their fucking money.

I catch her eye. She’s shaking, but there’s no time for comfort. I tilt my head toward the window. She jumps, and her foot clips the sill. She’s gone before my fingers can close around anything but air.

The impact comes first, a dull thud, followed by a cry, sharp and bitten off. Silence follows, then a breathless whisper and movement that’s far too slow.

“What was that?” one of the guards says as he turns toward us.

Fuck.

I scan the warehouse. I spot the silo with its wooden locking bar, bowed tight.

Perfect.

I pull the blade from my thigh, letting the hilt settle into my palm before I send it flying.

The locking bar gives, and grain floods across the stone as golden dust blooms into the air.

“What the—” one of the guards yells as they break for the noise.

I check the window. Below, the taller one is limping badly, with her sister’s arm is wrapped around her waist as she drags her toward the street. They’re almost there, but they’re not close enough. They need more time.

I push off the ledge and hit the sacks running. My boots pound against grain, and a sack teeters at the edge under my foot. I drive my heel into it as I pass, sending it tumbling. The thud below lands hard, and dust billows up in its wake.

That gets them.

“Up there!” a guard yells, clearly spotting me.

Then I feel it, a tremor running under my feet. The sack beneath me rips free like it’s yanked sideways by an invisible hand.

The boom that follows shakes the warehouse, but I don’t look back. Grain stings my skin, and dust chokes the air around me. I stumble but catch myself and keep moving.

Another sack tears loose. Crash. Another, then another.

Davrik. Of course, anything from the ground answers him, grain included.

Fuck.

I don’t stop. My left foot lands just as the sack jerks free before I can settle. My right foot scrapes the edge of the next one, as it’s already sliding out from under me. I push off before it disappears entirely.

Balance isn’t stillness. Balance is recovery. Mom’s voice echoes in my head, steadying me.

The window’s right there; it’s so close.

“Impressive,” Davrik says, sounding bored. “But it won’t be enough.”

The window ahead slams shut, and the wooden bolt slides into place on its own.

He thinks that’ll stop me. Adorable.

My hand finds the blade strapped to my thigh mid-stride, and I let it fly in answer. The bolt splinters under the impact, sending wood shards scattering.

There’s no slowing now. I drop my shoulder, and wood bursts around me, momentum carrying me through until there’s nothing under me but air.

A boom cracks overhead, and the force slams through me like a fist to the back.

What the—

Grain pours down around me, kernels pelting my back like hail.

A sack. He threw a fucking sack at me.

I tuck a half-beat too late, and the stone hits hard. Pain lances through my leg as I roll through it, but I force it down and run.

Behind me, Davrik’s voice carries through the broken window, unhurried. “Find her.”

Boots scatter across the stone, and everything in me sharpens. I don’t think. I cut left into the narrow gap between buildings, one of three exits I mapped before the job.

I run shadow to shadow through the alleys. I don’t stop until the warehouse district fades behind me and the outskirts swallow me up.

Thank fuck for trial season. It’s the only time of year the streets are this packed with drunks, merchants, and fools singing about glory in the Weeping Woods. And tonight, I’m grateful for every one of them.

I slow to a walk and force my breath to steady, matching the rhythm of the crowd around me.

The familiar sign catches my eye, a barrel crusted with peeling green moss. The bell over the door chimes as I push inside The Mossy Barrel. The smell of ale and smoke is thick and hot. The place is packed from trial season in full force, with shouted bets on who walks out of the Woods alive.

Charming.

I cut through the press and slide into my corner spot at the bar. The wall is solid at my back, and I let my weight settle. The floor finally starts to feel steady again.

Fletcher’s behind the bar, pouring drinks for a pack of millers, with his charm on full blast. He looks up mid-pour, and his grin dies.

He abandons his customers and strides to me, with a bottle already in hand.

“They’re safe,” he says as he pours and slides a whiskey to me. “You okay?”

I down it in one go, relishing the burn.

I can’t help but think that they’re only safe, for now. That’s all we ever have in this realm.

“Gemma.”

I open my eyes. Fletcher’s watching me, his usual flirtation stripped clean from his face.

“You’re making it very hard to enjoy this whiskey, Fletcher.”

He doesn’t take the bait. Doesn’t even smile. I must look worse than I thought.