The Complete Marked Series Box Set

by March McCarron

“So soon, Captain Gelson?”

  Peer would recognize that velvet voice anywhere. Fear surged through him, rising into his throat like vomit. “Run!”

  He pressed Whythe to his chest and took off at a sprint.

  “A little cover,” Roldon sang out, head tipped to the sky. “A little cover, little friends.”

  The thundering sound above intensified, and then birds—flocks and flocks of them, more birds than Peer had ever seen in his life—swooped down below the forest ceiling. Suddenly they were surrounded by countless flapping wings, a multitude of colored feathers. Peer ran blindly, clutching his love to his chest with fearful hands. He heard his companions around him, but could not see them. There was nothing to see beyond the batter and flap of wings.

  A sharp pop sounded on his right, and a hand clamped down on his wrist. His feet caught on something, and he and Whythe pitched to the ground. His knee scraped against roots, and he tasted mud.

  “Do not run,” a beautiful voice said in his ear.

  His mind swirled—heart demanding he rise, legs unwilling to do so. He seized his revolver, rolled onto his back, and fired. Quade disappeared before he’d pulled the trigger. A raven cried out and hit the dirt.

  Peer pushed to his feet and loaded Whythe into his arms once more. The bird cover had outstripped him, and he feared being left behind. He sprinted onward, searching the shadows for Quade.

  Ahead, Roldon whistled, and the swirling host of birds veered—their wings tucked, and they swooped—countless beaks sweeping towards a single target like a shower of arrows.

  Quade screamed and then was gone. A moment later Peer crashed through the edge of the forest, dashing out into the sweep of grass surrounding the walls. He pushed his legs onward, his ribs searing and his arms on fire. Just a little farther. If they could only get within range of the ramparts, they wouldn’t be followed. Quade wouldn’t risk exposing himself to the archers above.

  He heard the burst of teleportation again. He shifted Whythe’s weight to one arm and reached for his pistol. But before he could fire, a surge of water shot through the air like a streak of light. Quade disappeared again, and Peer readied his firearm.

  The shrill pop sounded to Peer’s left. He swept his revolver and squeezed the trigger. Quade hissed, either in irritation or pain; Peer wasn’t certain. He searched for the man, but couldn’t spy Asher anywhere in sight. The wall rose before them, and he urged his legs to carry him home. His lungs were screaming, but he didn’t slow his pace.

  They reached the perimeter at last, and he steadied himself against the wall. Touching those stones put him in mind of childhood games, of reaching ‘home base.’

  Everyone was heaving for breath, streaming sweat and blood. Peer counted his companions. Eight. All eight. He couldn’t believe they’d all made it away. Though, as a group, they looked considerably the worse for wear.

  “Think it’s safe to signal?” Malc panted. He still had their captive slung over one shoulder, and Peer was glad of it. At least the night had not been a total failure. He hoped this bearded gentleman would be grateful for their efforts, once Fernie removed Quade’s influence from his mind.

  “Should be,” Peer said, “but keep a lookout.”

  Roldon appeared ready to keel over, his face beet red. He whistled, sending one of his feathered friends up the wall to signal their arrival. When the rope swung down to greet them, Peer nearly cried in relief.

  “Peer?” Whythe asked, voice groggy.

  He pushed the hair from Whythe’s eyes. “I’m here.”

  “What happened?”

  “We survived.” But it was a near thing.

  Chapter Four

  Fernie drummed his boots and frowned at the clock.

  He hated waiting.

  This was meant to be his night off. No General Sung to boss him around, no training, no anything in particular. He had the vague notion he might head into the city and find some trouble. He’d even set aside some rations to gamble.

  And he’d been planning to try a new pickup line on the first pretty girl who seemed amenable. Something Ko-Jin had said that morning had given him inspiration. Chae-Na had complained that the new chestpiece he’d commissioned was too reflective and would draw the eye.

  To which the all-charming General Sung had replied, “You draw the eye no matter what you wear; might as well keep your vitals protected.” The queen had lit up for half a second, before blushing and hurrying away. Ko-Jin had stared after her, miserable.

  Fernie was jealous, of course. He was always jealous when it came to Chae-Na. But still, it was a good line. And a good line shouldn’t go to waste. Girls were weirdly anxious about the quality and state of their clothing. Next chance he got, he’d say, “You draw the eye no matter what you wear.”

  His boots struck the wall with greater force, drumming to the beat of his impatience. He could be out on the town right now, charming the locals, collecting on the cachet of being Chisanta. But instead he was waiting around for Peer-and-gang to deliver him a fresh bit of Quade. Stupid Peer.

  When the door finally opened, Fernie was prepared with a list of complaints. But it was not Peer who entered. Instead, the giant Chiona bloke Malc sidled in, an unconscious figure draped over his shoulder. Behind him came his bevolder Wynn, whom Fernie had always found rather stuck up. She’d been a rich girl before Quade, and her amplifying gift had made her one of Quade’s precious five. Then she’d been one of the first to find her bevolder, and joined Peer’s elite little group. Didn’t anyone realize she was just lucky, not special?

  “Hey, Fern,” she said, her voice weary.

  “Hey,” he echoed.

  Malc lowered his burden to the ground. A man with a black beard and a cruel face twitched on the floor, and Fernie jerked away. Wynn pushed aside her hair, revealing a nasty bruise on one side of her face.

  “Had some trouble?”

  “Could say that,” Malc grumbled. “A few injuries. We’re lucky we all made it back.”

  “Quade?” Fernie asked in a whisper. His entire body stilled, even his impatient feet.

  Malc narrowed his eyes, searching Fernie’s face. A lot of people looked at him that way, with distrust or revulsion—like maybe he was on Asher’s side. It made him want to rage and scream, because—blighter!—what did he have to do to prove himself if this wasn’t enough?

  But he never reacted. Because deep down he often asked himself the same question. If Quade Asher was his spirit-mate, what did that say about him? Was he…evil?

  Wynn nodded, her face pale. “Yes, Quade. He nearly got us. I kept hearing him teleport all around as we were running…” She shivered, and Malc kissed her temple. She tucked her head against his broad chest, wrapping her arms around his waist.

  Fernie felt his face twist as he watched them. The way these bevolder pairs carried on only multiplied his doubts and fears. Didn’t they care what it did to him? To see all these goopy-eyed spirit-mates, when his own bevolder was the object of all their fear. When his own spirit’s mate was responsible for the murder of his mother and baby sister. They were, all of them, totally inconsiderate.

  They also had him asking a second, more uncomfortable question. This one had been plaguing him for months. Ever since he’d wandered into the wrong shadowy alcove, and found Whythe Livington apparently trying to suck the lips right off Peer Gelson’s face. If his bevolder was a man, did that mean he was gay?

  He was pretty sure he wasn’t. He didn’t feel gay, at any rate, and presumably he would know one way or the other. Still, he didn’t appreciate the looks. He had enough on his plate without staying up at nights wondering if he was homosexual, evil, or both.

  “Let’s get you to bed,” Malc said to Wynn in a lover’s voice. She nodded against his chest.

  “Hold up,” Fernie said, hopping down from the desk. “You can’t leave me alone with him.”

  “Why not?”

  Fernie sputtered, gesturing to the oversized Chiona sprawled on the floor. “Becaus
e it takes me a minute to remove Quade’s influence, and Jorren could snap me in half by then.”

  Malc frowned, and Fernie lifted his chin and crossed his arms. He was tired of being treated like a child. It was high time they all realized how important he was—they needed him and his connection to Quade. The least they could do was help him out, particularly when it was supposed to be his night off, for Spirits’ sake!

  The big Chiona stroked Wynn’s curling hair. “You go on. I’ll meet you.”

  Wynn bid them goodnight and slipped out of the office. Fernie and Malc set to waiting in uncomfortable silence, watching the unconscious man for signs of rousing.

  “So, you know this guy, then?” Malc eventually asked.

  “Yeah, I know him,” Fernie said grimly. “He’s Quade’s torturer.”

  “Huh,” Malc said, eying the man with dislike. “Glad we took him away. Maybe he’ll have useful intel.”

  “Maybe.”

  It took another twenty minutes for Jorren to wake. After being drugged, people typically woke slowly, groggily. But this oversized Chiona woke like a man doused in cold water, jerking violently to life.

  Malc flew into action, and the two huge men grappled. Fernie skittered out of the way, eyes wide. They looked like wrestling bears.

  But Malc soon gained the upper hand and pinned Jorren to the ground. The torturer hissed and tried to dig his nails into Malc’s forearms—but as the man’s skin could withstand bullets, fingernails weren’t going to draw blood.

  “Any time, now,” Malc grunted.

  Fernie forced himself to shuffle forward. No matter how often Peer brought him new captives, Fernie struggled. To remove Quade’s compulsion, Fernie had to reach out and touch these contaminated minds. It made his bevolder feel far too near. Like he might be watching Fernie, studying him through the eyes of his minions.

  Quade’s gift clung to the minds of others like a smear of oil suspended in clear water, like black roots worming into clean soil, like a parasite slithering into an intestine. It gave Fernie a hot, tight feeling at the back of his throat. As if he might retch…or cry.

  “Hold him still,” Fernie said.

  He was ashamed that his hands trembled as they reached for Jorren. The black-haired man snapped his teeth, and Fernie fell back, his heart skittering in his chest.

  Jorren laughed at him. “You should be afraid. He’s coming for you, Fernard. Quade Asher has his thoughts on you. Go to him. He wants you.”

  Fernie watched the shadow of influence spread from Jorren—filigrees of blackness, reaching out for himself and Malc. This was Quade, this darkness that moved from host to host. Fernie hardened his heart and narrowed his focus to a knife point. You will not, he told it—this piece of Quade, which was like a mirror of himself, the shadowed side of a moon—this is wrong, and I will stop you.

  The tendrils of Quade died in the air before ever latching onto Malc or himself, and the shadow leaked from Jorren’s mind. His struggle lessened, and eventually his body went limp. He blinked several times, but he did not weep. Which was unusual. They always broke down at this point.

  “Guess I should be thanking you,” Jorren grumbled.

  Malc released the man and stood back. “Right you should. We took injuries, getting you out.” Malc cleared his throat, making an effort to soften his features. “Through no fault of your own, we know. Come on, I’ll show you to a bed. Tomorrow Gelson’ll want to interview you.”

  Malc hefted Jorren to his feet. The bearded man turned briefly to Fernie. “Thanks, Fern,” he said.

  Fortunately, Jorren didn’t wait for a reply. Fernie would have had difficulty peeling the disgust from his face. He remembered too well the sound of the screams that would come from Jorren’s so-called office at Easterly Point. They filled his ears all over again, just as if he were hearing them for the first time.

  This was the heart of Fernie’s curse: he remembered everything. He suspected other people forgave more easily because they forgot more easily. Their minds were like sieves—all the details of memory filtering away bit by bit, until they recalled only the broad strokes of what had happened, but had lost all the color and feel of the moment. They thought they remembered, but mostly they forgot.

  Fernie was incapable of forgetting.

  When he was a boy, his mother would always chide his absentmindedness. “You’d leave your own head behind if it weren’t attached,” she’d say.

  No longer. Now, when a memory surged to the fore, it surrounded him in a perfect recreation of the moment—not just sight and sound, but touch and sentiment.

  His gift compelled him to remember all his sins. He could still feel the syringe in his hand as it pierced through skin, could still smell the fumes of the fires…

  Fernie shook these thoughts away. The memories in his mind might be complete and immersive, but he could choose not to think of them. This was not as good as forgetting. It was putting a box away in a closet, rather than taking it to the incinerator. But it was a tactic he had long since perfected.

  Fernie peeked out the window. The palace grounds were washed in moonlight, and all was still. It was late enough that he should probably go right to bed. But, no, blight it. This was his night off, and he had earned himself a bit of fun.

  His stride was long and brisk as he set off across the palace grounds, and then cut east towards the university. He needed to pop into his bunk for ration slips, otherwise he’d have nothing to gamble.

  Fernie was drawing near to his dormitory when he heard the rumble of voices—a crowd shouting somewhere nearby. He cocked his head, considered his options, and then followed the noise. Perhaps he wouldn’t have to walk all the way to town for a little adventure after all.

  He loped down the hill behind the library, following the hum of voices without trouble. They led him to a sapball court, cleared of its bases and filled with a mob of shouting Chisanta. He caught the sound of fist meeting flesh.

  Fernie elbowed his way through the crowd until he could see the pair fighting at the center. He’d heard about these cash fights—or rather, ration fights—but he hadn’t been to one himself. They’d begun months ago, when people still hoped of finding bevolders. Now it was just a diversion, clearly. The two men in the center were both Chiona; no chance they were spirit-mates.

  The pair hit the ground and began to grapple. Fernie saw several openings for submissions that the fighters missed. “Don’t let him flatten you out,” Fernie shouted, his voice lost in the commotion. His advice went unheeded, and the match ended with an elbow crunching down on a nose.

  The crowd roared, a clash of boos and cheers. The winner helped the loser to his feet, and they slapped backs. All around, people traded ration slips. “Half don’t mean none of the meat and all the potato,” someone said from behind Fernie. “Don’t try to pull one over on me.”

  If Ko-Jin were here, he would no doubt have much to say. The old Ko-Jin would have had a laugh and critiqued their performance, but he suspected General Sung would be more concerned with people sacrificing food rations. He wouldn’t want hungry men on patrol duty.

  “Hey, Fern, when did you get here?”

  He perked up at the sound of Clea’s voice and wondered if his hair was cooperating. Her hair was perfect, looking all the more silver in the moonlight.

  Before Fernie had ever set eyes on Chae-Na, he’d been convinced that Clea was the most beautiful girl in the world. But second place wasn’t too bad.

  “Hi. Um, not long. You?” he asked, his voice cracking.

  But her attention had already drifted past him. She waved to someone else, and his shoulders sagged.

  A new contender entered the ring, and Fernie’s eyes narrowed in contempt. Kelarre, tall and swaggering and an utter ass, in Fernie’s not-so-secret opinion, grinned out at the crowd. “Who’s it gonna be, lads and ladies?”

  Someone shoved Fernie from behind, and he staggered into the empty center of the mob. He glowered over his shoulder, and Kelarre’s neckless f
riend Eton smirked back from the place where Fernie had stood.

  The tenor of the room changed. Until that moment, Fernie had been one anonymous member of a crowd, overlooked. But now they were seeing him. There came a moment of charged quiet, and then more urgent whisperings all around. Fernie spun, taking in the distrustful stares of his peers. All of his blood surged to his face.

  They loathed him because he was Quade’s bevolder. That’s all he was to these people, never mind all he did to help them. The indignity of it made his lip curl in anger, left a bitter taste on his tongue. He glared defiantly back at anyone who would meet his gaze.

  “Sure you want to fight me, Fern?” Kelarre asked, his tone a taunt. “I don’t seem to remember that ever going well for you.”

  Fernie’s fists clenched at his side. He and Kelarre had never fought; Kelarre and his friends had cornered him whenever they could, back when the Elevated all lived at the Point. And he remembered each of those beatings perfectly.

  But Fernie was not that boy any more. He had spent the last year training with Ko-Jin, the greatest fighter alive, often receiving one-on-one tutelage. And Fernie could recall every word of every lesson.

  “Being cocky’s just gonna make it more embarrassing when you hit the dirt, Kelarre.”

  The Adourran grinned wolfishly at him, but he addressed the crowd. “This’ll be a gifts-in-play fight, people, since Fern here can’t turn his off.”

  He heard the buzz of conversation as bets were placed. Fernie wouldn’t be favored, not while Kelarre was taller, broader, and could teleport. It gave him a savage pleasure to think of everyone who would soon lose their stake.

  “Pity, that,” the boy said in a softer voice, for Fernie alone. “You’ll have to remember this ass-kicking forever, right?” He stepped closer, and his mocking expression transfigured into one of pure hate. He whispered into Fernie’s ear, “Your boyfriend strangled Vendra in their bed, and I was the one who found her body. And buried it. Don’t think we don’t know what you are.”

  Fernie squeezed his eyes shut. This was not the first time the sins of Quade Asher had been laid at his feet, and it wouldn’t be the last. He wanted to gnash his teeth and rage—and cry, the hot pressure at the back of his eyes was definitely tears—because it was so tremendously unfair. He had never asked to share this connection with Quade. It was not his fault, blight it all!