The Complete Marked Series Box Set

by March McCarron

  “Of course. I’ve never had a clearer mind in my life,” Arlow said, his speech slurring lazily. “Besides, the horses know the way.”

  It appeared that this was true, as once they had all successfully climbed into the vehicle and Arlow twitched the leads, the horses trotted off in the direction of the Temple.

  The City of Cosanta was an interesting cultural blend. It had sprung up around the Temple, and as such catered to Dalish, Adourran, and Chaskuan customers alike. There were bars, restaurants, clothiers, and tea shops in all three styles. The architecture of the buildings that streamed past was also mixed—some had the curved roofs of a Chaskuan town, others the stark brick of Daland, and a few the bright-colored, simply cut design of Adourra.

  A bell struck midnight, signifying the moment of marking. It was now Da Un Marcu. Across the three kingdoms children, sleeping peacefully in their beds, were being branded Chisanta. How would they feel when they woke? Yarrow remembered well how panicked he had been that morning.

  “How many will there be, do you think?” Ko-Jin asked. The tone sobered.

  The year of their marking, one child had not been found. The next year, three went missing. The year after that, there were four less. Last year, only twenty-six children made it to the Temple—their number nearly halved. It was an unheard-of phenomenon, and utterly inexplicable. Some theorized that the Chisanta were being phased out of existence. That there was no longer a need for them in this new age of peace, and so fewer were marked. It was for this reason that Yarrow spent so many hours poring over the transcripts of the Fifth—he knew that the answer must be buried somewhere within that vat of information. How could an event so monumental as the dwindling of their kind not have been prophesied?

  “I suppose we shall find out soon enough,” Arlow said, bleakness dripping from each word.

  They rode on in silence. Despite the sense of foreboding, Yarrow was too sleepy and abuzz with alcohol to muster his usual level of concern. Mostly he felt tired and longed to reach the warmth and softness of his bed. He slouched deep into his seat.

  Yarrow jolted, throwing himself upright. His blood pulsed with extreme terror—with fear and dread. It was so strong an emotion that he called out.

  Ko-Jin jerked in his seat. “What’s wrong?”

  But it was not Yarrow’s own fear that coursed through his veins. It belonged to someone else. To a girl he had known long ago for a few brief weeks, but who had, ever since, shared a small part of his mind. Somewhere out in the world, at that very moment, Bray Marron was terribly afraid.

  “It was nothing; a shadow,” Yarrow said.

  But his heart continued to thud in his chest, beating with a panic that was not his own.

  Chapter Eleven

  Bray’s heart pounded like a ceremonial drum in her chest.

  “Adearre? Are you still with me?” she asked, failing to keep the fear from her voice.

  “Bray?” His golden eyes searched for her, finally locking onto her face with an effort.

  “Yes, it’s me. Peer went to town for the doctor. You’re going to be alright.”

  Adearre’s long form lay stretched on the forest floor, a gunshot wound in his upper chest seeping blood into the earth liberally. Several feet away sprawled the dead body of a middle-aged Dalishman, with straw-colored hair and unseeing blue eyes. The man’s pistol lay a few spans away from his outstretched hand, forgotten.

  Bray knelt beside Adearre and applied pressure to the wound, but his blood kept flowing, thick and red, up over her fingers and hands. Even with only moonlight overhead, she could see the deep brown skin of his face had lost much of its warmth, his complexion graying before her eyes. He was bleeding to death, and Peer, no matter how fast he flew on horseback, would not be back with the doctor for some time.

  Bray’s chest contracted; she couldn’t pull in air properly. Adearre could not die. He simply couldn’t.

  There had to be something she could do. She searched her mind for some medical tidbit. She had learned to tie a tourniquet years ago, but that would be no use with a chest wound. All she could remember was to apply pressure—but the bleeding would not slow. Her hands were slick and red. Tears of panic and desperation ran down the length of her nose.

  And then she remembered it, like seeing a snapshot from someone else’s life. A gray-eyed boy in a Dalish wood holding out a plant—a cluster of small white flowers surrounded by long, feather shaped leaves.

  “It’s the leaves you want if you’re bleeding,” his ghost whispered in her ear.

  Yarrow leaves.

  “I won’t be gone a moment,” she told Adearre’s now inert form.

  She leapt to her feet and raced to the tree line, hunted the undergrowth for any speck of white. She assaulted the greenery, shifted through the plants carelessly with her bare, red hands. It did not take long. A speck of white, not far from the clearing where Adearre lay, snagged at her vision. She grabbed it, tugged the entire plant up by the roots, then dashed back to the clearing.

  Bray reached for her water canteen and hastily cleaned the dirt from the leaves, ripped them away from the stem. She thrust the whole handful on Adearre’s oozing wound, ripped the remaining sleeve from her shirt, used it to hold the leaves in place, and continued to apply pressure.

  The moments passed with agonizing slowness. Adearre did not stir again. The mournful hooting of an owl broke the otherwise absolute silence.

  At long last, the thunder of hooves sounded. Peer, hunkered low over the neck of a black steed, broke through the brush, his face white and determined. He swung his massive form from the saddle and ran to Adearre, sliding onto his knees.

  “Doctor and the constable are minutes behind,” he said, breathing heavily. “How is he?”

  Bray pressed her ear to Adearre’s chest and heard the sluggish thrusting of his heart. “Alive.”

  Peer closed his eyes, his lips forming a silent prayer.

  Several painful minutes later, a plain black carriage appeared between the trees. Two shapes emerged. A handsome dark-haired man with a medical bag hurried to Adearre, pushing Bray and Peer aside. A second man, thin and with hair as orange as a Chaskuan persimmon, stepped out more slowly and gave his attention to the dead man. Both looked as though they had dressed hastily after being shaken from their beds.

  The doctor lifted Adearre’s shoulder from the ground. “An exit wound—that is a blessing. No bullet to extract,” he muttered to himself.

  He pulled away Bray’s blood-soaked shirt sleeve to look closer at the wound.

  “Yarrow leaves.” He glanced at Bray. “Clever girl.”

  They watched as the doctor cleaned the wound and wrapped it in snowy white bandages.

  “We’d better take him back to the inn to sew him up—best to do such things in a clean space,” the doctor said. He then gestured for Peer to take Adearre’s legs as he gently lifted the torso.

  “Will he be alright?” Bray asked, voice cracking.

  “I expect so, but I need to get him back quickly.”

  There was room in the carriage for the doctor, Peer, and Adearre only. Peer’s eyes fixed so intently on Adearre that he did not even glance her way.

  “Send a telegram to Dolla,” she called, as the carriage launched into motion.

  Bray, now alone with the dead man and the constable of Dalyson, let out a long, shuddering sigh. The events of the last hour had left her utterly drained. She longed to be done with the whole matter.

  “I presume this is the man you were seeking?” the constable asked. He crouched on the ground, examining the dead man’s body. “Of what did he perish?”

  “Broken neck,” Bray said. She had intended to take the man alive—she’d needed to take him alive, the location of the children he’d abducted still being unknown. Though he had admitted, before she dispatched him, that they were dead. She had done what was necessary to keep her brothers safe. It was not the first time she had killed in the line of duty. She would shed no tears over the incident.r />
  “What led you to conclude he was the culprit?” the constable asked.

  She expected this attitude. While the Chisanta were respected and feared by all, no constable enjoyed having his job usurped by an outsider—especially an outsider who also happened to be a young woman. That she was better equipped to do the job—she had spent more years in study, examined more crime scenes—would not matter to this man. That she, as a Chisanta, was not impeded by city, county, or national borders, and was therefore better able to pursue a criminal, would also make little difference to him. His opinion did not concern Bray. If he had any sense at all, he would keep a civil tongue. She would hardly let murderers go free to appease the pride of local law enforcers.

  “He matched the description, he fled upon seeing me, he confessed and attacked when he was cornered,” Bray said. “Look around his neck.”

  The constable extracted a pouch from beneath the dead man’s shirt. Within he found five locks of hair, varying in shade from dark brown to pale gold.

  “Trophies,” Bray said, kneeling beside the constable for a closer inspection. “Looks as though there is still one more missing child not yet reported. You’ll want to check with the local orphanages.”

  Bray said this with a heavy heart and spared a disgusted look for the dead man. The abduction of young teens had been a disconcerting trend for the past decade.

  “You will need to telegram the constables of Westport, Morse, and Benteen to let them know the murderer has been dealt with…” She stood. “And to notify the foster families. Much comfort may it give them.”

  Bray made to rub her tired eyes but halted her hand, remembering in time that her fingers were coated in drying blood.

  “I will be back in town if you have any further questions,” she said and moved towards her horse.

  “Wait,” the constable called. “You’ll need to explain why he was not apprehended alive.”

  “I cornered him, told him to stand down,” Bray recited in a bored voice. “He pulled out a pistol. If I had known he had loaded it before we arrived, I would have handled it differently. But as it was, he pulled the weapon on me. I ordered him to drop the pistol. He said something coarse and fired directly at my chest.”

  The constable looked at her for a moment, as if expecting her to suddenly succumb to a bloody chest wound.

  “Unfortunately for him, I am not an easy target to hit. But with my brother down and requiring medical attention, I did what needed to be done. If you will excuse me.”

  Bray swung atop her horse and adjusted the reins in her hands.

  “How did you break his neck?” the constable asked, though he looked as though he didn’t much want to hear the answer.

  “The usual way. With my hands.” Bray clicked her tongue and prodded the steed with her heels. She galloped away, leaving the constable staring after her.

  Bray rode as fast as she dared up the cobblestone street of Dalyson. It was a city like most others in Daland—it had its fashionable district, lined with clothiers and tea rooms, as well as its seedier areas where the poor lived, usually with more pickpockets than un-empty pockets to pick. Dalyson stretched on, dirty, overcrowded, and stifling. Bray didn’t much like cities. But, given her profession, she spent a great deal of time in them. The more people you crammed into a small space, the more likely they were to start killing each other.

  She noticed the open-mouthed stares she attracted from the wealthy bystanders, as they milled aimlessly on the sidewalks. She wondered for a moment why they were out so late at night, then remembered it was Da Un Marcu. A group of young women to her left went so far as to point. Bray was used to this. Her features and figure were too obviously feminine to be mistaken for a man, and a woman with no hair, bedecked in men’s clothing, and riding astride a horse, made for an astonishing sight. Bray wished that the Chisanta as a whole spent more time out in the world, and less at their respective Temples with noses in books. If people saw Chisanta now and again, they might get over their shock at her appearance and mind their own blighted business.

  Bray entered the inn. It was a good bit rowdier than usual, given the holiday.

  “Happy Da Un Marcu.” An inebriated man hiccupped and raised his mug to her. “Have a drink on me.”

  She wondered if his nose was always as red as an Adourran sunset, or only when he drank.

  “I thank you,” she said, inclining her head, “but I have affairs to attend to.”

  Her foot was on the second step when she heard him say to his neighbor, “Wish I was the affair she was attending to.”

  Bray frowned but kept moving. Drunken louts did not rank highly on her list of concerns.

  She ran up the remaining steps two at a time and thrust open the door to Peer and Adearre’s room.

  Adearre sat propped on a pile of pillows, his eyes open and alert. His shoulder was wrapped in gauze, which shone starkly white against the darkness of his skin. The handsome doctor had his ear pressed to Adearre’s chest, listening to his heartbeat.

  “I apologize,” he said. “My stethoscope appears to have walked away again.”

  Adearre’s mouth quirked. “You may lay your head upon my chest anytime you like, good doctor.”

  The man looked confused, then turned an appealing shade of pink. He cleared his throat. “You appear to be in good order. I’ll check on you in the morning.”

  As he made his way out he put a hand on Bray’s shoulder. “You may well have saved his life with those yarrow leaves. I’m impressed.” He smiled disarmingly.

  Peer glowered at the doctor’s back, but Bray returned the smile and inclined her head. He departed.

  Bray came to Adearre’s side and sat on the bed, its springs creaking beneath her. “How do you feel?”

  “Tremendous,” he said. His coloring was still off, but his eyes did appear sharp.

  “I suppose you must be,” Bray said, “if you already have the energy to flirt with straight men.”

  “How am I meant to know they are straight, if I do not flirt?”

  Peer plopped down in a chair beside the bed. “Don’t understand how you can’t tell. That’s your thing.”

  “Believe it or not, gay men, unlike Chisanta, are not marked.”

  Bray forced a laugh, then sighed. “I’m so sorry.”

  “For what?” Adearre asked.

  “For getting you shot, of course. I was an idiot,” she said.

  He shook his head and smiled. “You? I am the one who stood behind The Amazing Intangible Woman. Remind me not to repeat that error, will you love?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Because for those of you who are counting,” Adearre went on in his deep, musical voice. “I have now been shot twice. Two times.” He held up two fingers

  “Oh, that other time hardly counts,” Peer said. “It was just a graze.”

  Bray hit Peer on the shoulder. “How many times have you been shot?”

  “Zero. I know where to stand,” he said. Despite his levity, his face was still pale, concerned eyes darting towards Adearre at intervals.

  “I should be more aware of what’s behind me,” Bray said, turning serious again. “You remember how that bloke in Bentall lamed my horse with an arrow?”

  “Oh, and what are you going to do?” Peer challenged. “Not phase and take the wound? Don’t be daft.”

  “No,” Bray said, frustrated. Why wouldn’t they just let her take a share of the blame if she wanted it? “But I can position myself better.”

  “I will recover,” Adearre said through a yawn. “And you took the man into custody. Is he in a holding cell?”

  Bray’s heart dropped. She exchanged a look with Peer. “No…”

  Adearre’s head shot up. “He escaped?”

  “No. He’s been taken care of.”

  Bray braced herself. She wished this conversation could have waited until morning.

  Adearre grew very still, his honey eyes slitted like a suspicious cat. “Taken care of?”
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  “I know, it is not ideal. I hoped to interrogate—”

  “He deserved a trial!” Adearre bellowed. He made to sit up straighter but winced and slumped back on the pillows.

  “He shot you,” Bray said, her voice rising defensively. “You needed medical care. There was no time.”

  “Bellretha,” Adearre swore in Adourran. His accent always grew thicker when he was upset. “You are perfectly capable of rendering a man unconscious. This is not justice, it is your own personal vendetta.”

  Peer shrank deeper into his chair and remained mute. Bray knew not to hope for his help. He always insisted on staying neutral when she and Adearre disagreed.

  Bray jumped up from the bed, her blood pumping and her face red. “My personal vendetta? And what of you, Adearre? Your obsession with coddling these murderous bastards? That isn’t personal for you?”

  Adearre’s jaw set and a pained look—one that had nothing to do with his shoulder—crossed his face. Bray’s anger deflated slightly.

  “You go too far, Bray,” Peer’s cool voice said from the corner.

  She took a deep breath and tried to calm herself. “He confessed. You heard him.”

  “Excellent. Bray Marron: judge, jury, and executioner. Only one problem, love. He was lying.”

  She froze. “What do you mean?”

  “As he confessed, he looked up at the sky, as if he were trying to remember, or invent, his supposed crimes. His face was freshly shaven, his clothes clean, his shoes polished, and he smelt of soap. That man had been in civilization, not residing in the forest.”

  “He had locks of hair in a bag around his neck,” Bray insisted, trying to convince herself as well as him. She turned to Peer. “There’s a fifth victim.”

  Now it was Peer’s turn to swear, which he did loudly and crudely. He rubbed his face and said wearily, “I’ll stop by the Dalyson orphanage tomorrow. See if anyone’s missing.”

  It was either a sinister syndicate of kidnappers, or a string of copy-cats, but all of the guilty had been found with locks of hair. And all of the victims were boys and girls ranging from twelve to sixteen. None of their bodies had been found. Most were orphans or in foster homes—children who would not be missed, children who lacked a champion. Except for Peer Gelson, of course.