Oath Bound (An Unbound Novel)

by Rachel Vincent

  “I haven’t.”

  “Then how do you know all that?”

  Her brows rose and she looked just cocky enough to be intriguing. “I researched it while you were in the bathroom. Gran’s desktop should really be password protected.”

  It would be, if she could remember a password from one day to the next.

  “You read fast,” I said, and she grinned.

  “I learn faster.”

  “We’ll see. Using a gun is a little different from reading about them. Let’s start you on the 9 mm. It has less recoil.”

  “Nuh-uh.” She shook her head firmly, her long, dark ponytail swishing against the back of her shirt. “Kori says you get to keep any gun you take from someone else, and I took this one from Mitch, fair and square. Which means it’s mine now. I want to learn on my own gun.”

  “Fine.” Why are girls always so stubborn? “Your clip’s loaded, and there’s one round in the chamber. How many shots can you fire before you have to reload?”

  She stared at the gun on the table, as if she might actually be able to see through the grip. “Um...fifteen in the clip, right? And one in the chamber. So that’s sixteen.”

  “Close. Your clip actually holds seventeen.” A cloud passed overhead, and our shadows melted into the grass. “Plus one in the chamber makes eighteen.”

  “Damn.” Sera frowned at the extended clip, and she looked so disappointed by her mistake that I had to stop myself from patting her on the back. “Okay, so what do I do?”

  “Pick it up, but don’t put your finger on the trigger yet.”

  Sera picked up her gun, and suddenly every bit of confidence her research had lent her drained, along with the blood from her face.

  “Okay, first of all, respect the gun, but don’t be scared of it.” The only person I’d ever taught to shoot was Kori, back when we were still just kids. And nothing had ever scared Kori, least of all guns and the power they lent her. “Fear undermines your confidence and ruins your concentration. The gun isn’t going to do anything you don’t make it do.”

  “Okay, but what about the rules?” Sera still looked nervous. “Aren’t there some rules?”

  “Several. At the gun range—ours is homemade, but it still counts—you always keep your gun pointed downrange. At the target. If you never aim it at anything else, you can never shoot anything else. And you’ll notice that downrange for us also means ‘away from the house.’ That’s very important.” Behind our target trees was a small hill, perfect for catching stray bullets before they could hit anything else.

  Sera nodded, still holding her gun, elbows locked, lower lip between her teeth.

  I took the gun from her and set it down. She needed to relax. “Outside of the gun range, there are two kinds of rules. The first kind is the law, which tells us not to shoot people. Or even threaten to shoot people. Those rules are optional, depending on the situation and how many witnesses are likely to testify against you.”

  Her eyes widened, and when the cloud retreated, she squinted at me. “You’re serious?”

  “You’re not learning for sport, Sera. You’re learning to shoot because you understand that at some point—probably soon—you may have to kill someone. I don’t think you’d ever do that unless you had to, but you need to be aware, before you pull the trigger, that witnesses may not always understand that necessity. Sometimes that’s reason to hesitate. Sometimes it’s not.”

  She nodded, obviously thinking it over. “And the other kind of rules?”

  “Common sense. Draw first, or die. To do that, you have to keep your weapons—not just your gun—accessible at all times. Don’t button a jacket over your holster.”

  “I don’t have a holster. Or a jacket.” Because she was still borrowing clothes.

  “We’ll get you both. Next, never let anyone else see your thoughts on your face or in your bearing. If you’re obviously scared to fire, your opponent won’t take you seriously. In fact, he’ll probably just shoot you.”

  “Okay...”

  “The rest of the rules are easy. Never shoot the good guys, unless they become bad guys. Never shoot until you have clear line of sight, unless you have no other choice. If someone fires at you or someone you care about, shoot to kill. Don’t hesitate.”

  “Shoot to kill. Got it.” But she didn’t look like she had that. Not yet. “Anything else?”

  Wind rustled leaves on the trees behind our paper target, as if the woods had advice for her, too, and it might be better than mine. “Yeah. Personal weapons have a hierarchy. Guns trump knives every time, no matter how fast you can throw, slash or stab. Kori will tell you otherwise, but she’s wrong.” Unproven, at least. “Knives trump fists, unless you know someone who can punch through solid flesh. But Julia Tower’s weapon of choice trumps them all.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The truth.”

  Sera frowned. “Are you being melodramatic? Or is that a joke? I don’t know you well enough to tell the difference.”

  I wanted to change that. But it wasn’t the time.

  “It’s neither. Julia has information you want. I know, because she always has information someone wants. That’s her thing. And it’ll be worse for you, because she knows more about the people you come from than you ever will. But if you let her start talking, you’re screwed from the start. She can make you cry with the truth faster than I can make her bleed with a bullet.”

  “Good to know.” Though she didn’t look like she really believed me, and if that was the case—if no one had ever said anything to her that had ripped her heart right out of her chest—then I envied her.

  “You ready to try that now?” I glanced at her gun.

  She nodded, and this time she looked more sure.

  “Okay. Pick it up, finger off the trigger.”

  Sera blew a strand of hair out of her face, then picked up her gun. Her grip was nervous, but steady.

  “Two hands. Like this.” I stepped behind her and lifted her left hand, showing her how to cradle the grip of her gun to steady her aim. I could have demonstrated with Kori’s 9 mm, but...I wanted to touch her.

  “Don’t lock your elbows, or the recoil will throw your arms up. Let them absorb some of the force.” I slid my hands over her arms, testing her stance, glad she wore short sleeves, so I could feel her skin.

  “Like this?” she whispered. I was so close I could feel her body heat through my clothes. Through hers.

  “Just like that.” I whispered, too, then took that final step so that her back was pressed against my chest. I had no reason to still be touching her, but she made no objection and I couldn’t resist. “Now click off the safety. It’s that switch by your thumb.”

  She started to turn the gun around to look for the switch, but I stopped her with a little pressure against her hand. “Always aim downrange, remember? Just feel for the switch. It’s there.”

  Sera found the switch and pushed it with her thumb. “It’s off,” she whispered, and that time there was an exhalation on the end, smooth and soft, and I inhaled with her, breathing in the scent of her soap and shampoo, and beneath that, her skin.

  “Now line up the notch on the back of the gun with the guide on the front of the barrel,” I said, and she made a minute adjustment. “Got it?”

  She nodded. “What should I aim for? What...part?”

  “The first time? Aim to kill.”

  Her aim rose. She was going for the target’s head, like I’d known she would.

  “Now, when you fire, it’s going to recoil. Don’t drop the gun.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Take a breath. Then squeeze the trigger.”

  Sera inhaled again, and that time I held my breath. She squeezed the trigger. The gun fired, the casing ejected over her shoulder and her arms flew up from the recoil. She gasped and would have stumbled back, but I was behind her.

  Her grip on the gun loosened in surprise, and I put my hand over hers, so she couldn’t drop it.

 
“Sorry.” She was breathless, and I loved the sound. I wanted to hear it again—in another context. “I almost dropped it.”

  “That’s okay.” I let her go and stepped back reluctantly, then squinted at the target. “Looks like you got a hit.”

  “How can you tell?” She set the gun down and shielded her eyes from the sun while she frowned at the target.

  “I have good eyes.” I picked up the binoculars on the table and handed them to her.

  “That’s not a hit!” she said, peering through the goggles. “The hole’s several inches right of his head.”

  I chuckled. “You hit the target. Not bad for your first try.”

  “Is that...” Sera turned to grin at me, and my chest felt suddenly warm. “Did you draw a goofy face on my target guy?”

  “You put a marshmallow Peep in my hot chocolate. I thought I’d reciprocate.”

  She laughed out loud, and I couldn’t resist a smile of my own. “Try it again, and this time spread your feet a little. That’ll help with your balance.”

  Sera set the binoculars down and picked up the gun again. She took her time, finding a comfortable grip, taking a wider stance and lining up her target. Then she took a deep breath and squeezed the trigger.

  Again, the recoil knocked her aim up, but she didn’t let go and there was no gasp of surprise. And this time, before she set the gun on the table, barrel pointed downrange, she remembered to reengage the safety.

  “Did I hit him?”

  I looked through the binoculars to make sure, because it didn’t seem possible. “Yup. Left half of his handlebar mustache.” I set the binoculars down and grinned at her. “Nice. Now do it again.”

  It took her two more tries to get another head shot, but the one she missed went right through the paper man’s neck. When she’d hit him in the head five more times, obliterating his nose and forehead, then nicking the corner of his right eye, I gave her a new goal. “Now aim for his heart.” Where I’d sketched a drawing of the organ, complete with valves, in Wite-Out, over the black silhouette. “And this time, fire three rounds without stopping.

  Sera frowned and took aim with singular concentration, and I knew she wasn’t hearing the birds overhead or the tractor mowing the field to our west. Then she fired.

  The first bullet went through the paper man’s left aorta. A second later, her second bullet hit the other side of his chest. The third bullet, a second and a half after that, hit the poor man’s chin.

  “Well, he’s definitely dead,” I said when she reengaged the safety and set the gun down.

  “It’s harder like that.” She swept stray strands of hair from her face. “There’s no time to aim between shots.”

  “That’s why you have to get the recoil under control. Try it again. In sets of three.”

  She did, with similar results. The first shot was a hit, but the second and third went wide.

  “Sorry.”

  “Are you kidding? You fired your first shot twenty minutes ago, and he’s more than dead.” I smiled, because she looked disappointed with herself. “But here’s the hard part. How many rounds do you have left?”

  She squinted, staring at the ground in thought.

  “Don’t try to count the casings!” I said, when I realized what she was really doing.

  “I’m not.” But that’s exactly what she’d been doing. “Two,” she said, after another second of thought. “One in the clip, one in the chamber.

  “Close. Three,” I said, and she frowned. “Two in the clip, and one in the chamber. Now, eject the clip and reload.”

  “How do I...”

  I took the gun from her, letting my fingers brush her hand a little longer than necessary, and ejected the clip in demonstration. Then I slid it back into place and gave her the gun.

  Sera checked the safety, then ejected the clip.

  I showed her how to load the first round, then I stood back and left her to it.

  A minute and a half later, she set the clip down in frustration. She’d only loaded two rounds. “I can’t do it. It’s too tight.”

  I shrugged. “If you can’t load the clip, you don’t get to shoot the gun.”

  Sera scowled.

  “You wanna try Van’s .22?”

  Her scowl deepened, and she picked up the clip again, determination clear in the line of her jaw.

  It took her another ten minutes, but she got it done—all seventeen rounds. Then she slid the clip into place and fired four rounds with no prompting.

  I couldn’t find any holes, so I picked up the binoculars. She’d shredded the paper man’s groin.

  “Classy.” I set the binoculars on the table, and she laughed.

  “Now try that on a moving target, and I’ll be impressed,” Kori said, and we turned to find her leaning against the door to the shed we used to Travel into the house.

  “You couldn’t hit a moving target when you first started,” I reminded her.

  “Yeah. I was also twelve.” Kori glanced from me to Sera, then back to me, her left brow arched in amusement. “Isn’t this a little cliché? You wanna teach her to hit a golf ball next?”

  “Watch out, or I’ll teach her to hit you.”

  “No lessons necessary,” Sera mumbled, and I couldn’t hide a grin.

  Kori laughed out loud. “So, is she ready to be thrown to the wolves?”

  “She’s getting there.” But I wasn’t going to throw her to the wolves. Everyone else may have been willing to let Sera march into Tower territory on her own, to find our Kenley, but I wasn’t. I was going with her. Whether she agreed or not.

  “Gran says if you don’t come eat, she’s going to throw your dinner down the drain.”

  I huffed. “If by drain, she means her own gullet.”

  “We’ll be in in a minute,” Sera said, and Kori must have been feeling generous, because she took the hint and retreated indoors.

  “Thank you.” Sera ejected the chambered round from her gun, just like I’d shown her.

  “No problem. I like guns.”

  “That’s not what I meant. Thanks for helping me, beyond the guns.”

  I concentrated really hard on putting the unspent .40 rounds back into the box. “I like you, too.”

  “Now you’re just messing with me.”

  “I’m really not.” I met her gaze, letting her see the truth. “And I don’t want you to get killed trying to find my sister.”

  She held up the gun, safety engaged, aiming downrange. “Thanks to you, I just may walk out of there alive.”

  But the gun was no guarantee. The fact that she didn’t seem to understand that scared the living shit out of me. I couldn’t lose her. I didn’t even have her, but I already knew that I couldn’t survive losing her, and that was the scariest thought I’d had since the day I’d decided my life was worth living, even without Noelle in it.

  Eighteen

  Sera

  After dinner on my third night in the House of Crazy, Kori and Van started their anti-Julia viral campaign, jokingly referred to as “Off With Her Head.” Though I truly hoped no one actually planned to decapitate Julia Tower. A bullet through her brain was enough for me.

  Ian held the master list of names and phone numbers they’d compiled—an act worthy of punishment within the syndicate itself, where writing criminal details down was highly...discouraged. Kori and Van each took half of the list and texted every number with a prepared statement, declaring that Julia was actually Tower’s regent, not his heir, and naming me as the oldest of my biological father’s children.

  No one texted back with a response, and I was tempted to see that as the failure of our scheme, but they all assured me that the opposite was true. There would be doubters, of course, but if no one believed the text so many people were getting, there would definitely have been a response.

  After that, while all phones remained conspicuously silent, we went out back to Kris’s homemade gun range again, but this time the entire household came with us. We drew faces o
n our black silhouetted targets with neon markers and Wite-Out pens, then tacked them to trees on the edge of the woods behind the house.

  Since there were so many of us shooting at once, Kori brought out a plastic tub full of mismatched sets of headphones she’d evidently taken one at a time from every gun range she’d ever visited. I didn’t want to know how she’d gotten out the door without turning them in.

  Then I realized she probably hadn’t gone out through the door at all.

  On the third try, I shot the button nose off the demented teddy bear Kris had drawn on my new target—he was pretty damn good with a marker—and I was feeling pretty good about my new skill, until Kris and Kori pulled down everyone’s first target and handed them out.

  Neither Daniels sibling had missed a single mark. In fact, Kori had hit the center of her target’s forehead so many times that there was only one big hole where his poor paper brains had once been.

  Kris went for the heart. And he hit it every single time.

  For our second round, I drew shaggy white facial hair on Kris’s target man, and when I turned to hand it to him, I found him bent over the card table with a sparkly sliver pen—I have no idea where he got it—drawing on my target as if the rest of the world didn’t exist.

  I took one look and wanted to hide the one I’d done before he saw it. His soon-to-be-destroyed art was incredible. “Holy shit,” I breathed, and Kris chuckled. I recognized Julia’s sparkly scowl staring out at me from the face of my target guy with a single glance.

  He held the paper up. “I thought you might like the inspiration.”

  “That’s incredible. I’d say it’s beautiful, but...it’s Julia.” My biological aunt was not unattractive in real life, but I would never think of her as pretty, because I would always know what lay behind the blessings genetics had given her. But Kris had drawn her so well I almost hated to shoot her.

  “Show off.” Kori had already demonstrated the fact that she’d rather decorate her target with 9 mm piercings, and I wasn’t sure whether that was because she was obviously violent in nature or because she had no other talents that I could tell.

  Ian glanced at the drawing, then at me, then at Kris. Then he gave us both a quiet smile that made me blush.