The Complete Marked Series Box Set

by March McCarron

  Peer choked out a laugh. “Always was a slow learner.”

  “I love you,” Whythe said. “I wish you could see yourself clearly. I’ve never known a spirit with a truer heart than yours, Peer. I can’t imagine what I did, for the Spirits to have given me you.” He sniffed and swallowed. “And so, until I find joy in the Company of the Spirits, I bind myself to you, Peer Gelson.”

  They kissed. Peer had meant it to be a quick thing, given they had an audience, but one of them—he couldn’t say who—deepened the embrace. His brow furrowed and his hands flew to his bevolder’s neck. His lips burned against Whythe’s.

  When they broke apart, he blushed. Bray and Ko-Jin were clapping. He pulled Bray into a too-tight hug, and she nuzzled his chest with the top of her head. “I’m happy for you,” she said.

  “Thank you,” he answered, with more earnestness than the comment might seem to warrant. But he knew firsthand how hard it was to feel happy for someone else, while mired in grief.

  Ko-Jin tugged him into an embrace, slapping his back. His eyes were misty.

  “Are you crying, General?” Whythe asked with a chuckle.

  Ko-Jin gave a manly sniff. “What can I say? The two of you give me hope. We’ve got something to fight for, don’t we?”

  “We’ve got everything to fight for,” Peer said. His husband leaned his cheek to Peer’s chest, then began tapping the rhythm of their shared heartbeat. Peer wrapped him in a loose embrace.

  Long after Ko-Jin and Bray had gone to sleep, they remained with their heads pressed together, and the stars shining overhead.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The secret passages were so dusty that Fernie’s clothes had turned gray. He shook cobwebs and filth from his white-blond mane, the debris falling like snow. His nose wrinkled.

  His hair deserved better.

  Fernie scrambled forward, climbed up a pole hand over hand, and clambered to the second floor. He had lost track of Quade an hour ago, and was beginning to wonder if the man was still in the building. Perhaps he was out in the city, throwing himself a second parade.

  The passages were almost completely dark. There were small vents to the main rooms, disguised along the frames of paintings and hidden in closets. He could usually overhear conversations in the chamber nearest, so long as no one was whispering.

  Fernie felt his way around a corner. After several days of exploration, he was now confident even in total darkness. He climbed three more poles, ascending to the top of the highest tower. Yarrow’s room was Quade’s favorite haunt. He would return here eventually, so it was a good place to wait. Fernie just wished the Fifth’s quarters were on ground level. His biceps were killing him, and his palms had blistered.

  He reached the topmost level out of breath. Dust clung to the sweat sheathing his body. Disgusting.

  Fernie inclined his ear towards the vent, and he caught the emotionless tone of Yarrow’s voice. Everything else was quiet. He pressed his back to the wall and slid down onto his bottom. He wanted to knock the back of his skull against the hard surface a few times, but worried someone might hear.

  Even if he couldn’t see them, he could feel the people on the other side of the wall—or rather, he could feel the pieces of Quade that lived inside them.

  Fernie’s bevolder was everywhere now. He was so thick upon the city, Fernie could practically taste him on the air.

  How did this happen?

  He scrubbed his eyes and swallowed against a swollen throat. Just allergies, he told himself. He bit down on his lip, collapsing his face into his hands.

  He wished the general were here. Ko-Jin would know what to do.

  But Fernie was alone. Aloner than alone. Apart from Quade himself, Fernie was the only person in the city—perhaps in all of Trinitas—still in possession of free will. He was humanity’s last hope.

  What a horrendous joke the Spirits were playing on him, on all of them. He had only just turned seventeen years old. The fate of mankind was in his hands, and he didn’t even trust himself to carry fragile objects. His ma used to say he had a talent for mishap, before Quade had her killed.

  Something brushed against his neck. Based on extensive recent experience, he recognized the darting legs of a spider across his skin. He flailed silently, desperate to eject this intruder from his shirt. His flesh crawled, and he bit back the desire to cry.

  Stop it, you baby. He wrenched his fingers through his hair. You just need a plan. Think!

  Right. He’d been trying to dream up a plan for days, ever since he saved himself from Quade’s spell. The best he’d done so far was slip into the palace unseen with the intention to spy.

  And what had his reconnaissance gained him? What had he learned?

  That Quade Asher was seriously messed up on the inside. Obviously. That no one else could resist him. Of course. That they were all royally blighted. Hurray!

  Quade couldn’t feel their connection—that was the one new fact Fernie had gleaned. He was growing only more aware of his other half, but Quade could not sense his presence at all. The first time Fernie had spied, he’d feared his bevolder would suddenly wheel round and glare at the wall, sensing his spirit-mate just beyond. But, no. Convenient, yet also insulting.

  As Fernie saw it, he had two potential courses of action: he could strip Quade of his gifts and try to kill him, or he could remove Quade’s influence from others and create a resistance.

  The major drawbacks to Plan A were as follows: he didn’t know how to shut off Quade’s gift, and even if he managed to do so, he was fairly certain he couldn’t kill him. The man was good with a blade. But Plan B was also full of potential pitfalls: to fail, all he needed was for Quade to notice one absent enemy. He could ask Trevva to locate that person, and then the passageways would be discovered.

  Fernie supposed he could snatch Trevva first to head off this complication, but Quade would realize she was missing within hours. He’d been using her to track the movements of Bray Marron.

  Fernie rubbed his face, his breath hissing between his teeth.

  It was a question with no clear answer. Cut the strings or kill the puppeteer? Killing Quade probably wouldn’t eliminate his influence, at least not right away. So even if Fernie somehow bested Quade in a fight, he’d likely be murdered in retaliation by an ally still in thrall.

  Fernie hadn’t a clue what he should do next.

  It’s why he had saved no one thus far. He’d listened to Quade do some pretty atrocious things, and had felt sick the whole time, but if he intervened he’d lose the element of surprise. And at this point, surprise was the only card he had to play.

  What would Ko-Jin do?

  Fernie was sure Ko-Jin would have developed a strategy by now, if their roles were reversed. Though, come to think of it, even Ko-Jin’s plans had a way of failing spectacularly. Like at the would-be execution, when Clea’s gift had diverted the breathable sedative they’d planted.

  He pulled his face from his hands, his eyes widening. That’s it!

  Fernie didn’t need a shiny new plan. He could reuse that one. If he pumped a sedative into the palace, the whole place would be put to sleep. He could kill Quade, and then, while everyone remained unconscious, eliminate Quade’s influence, one person at a time. They would wake and applaud him as a hero, rather than murder him!

  He grinned, his pulse picking up speed. He would only require the aid of Dedrre, the old inventor. It seemed unlikely anyone would notice he was missing. The codger had barely spoken since his granddaughter’s death, and Quade had not yet shown interest in him.

  Yes, this could work. He and Dedrre would set up the canisters here in the passages. And then, at the last instant, Fernie would snatch Clea so that she couldn’t thwart his plan. In fact, she could help distribute the drug more effectively.

  Fernie liked to imagine that moment, when he saved Clea and cleared her mind. It would be like a fairytale awakening, and he the dashing prince.

  This was a genius idea. Fernie was a genius.
Well done, Spirits, for choosing him.

  He scurried along the passage, and slid down pole after pole until he landed on the first floor with a light thump. Fernie crept to the entrance in the steward’s closet, feeling around in the dark for a lever. His hand connected with something wet, and he grimaced, but a moment later he heard a slight click and crawled through the opening.

  He paused to listen within the closet, but the office was empty. Slipping into the chamber, he brushed the dust and spiderwebs from his clothes as best he could. The room lacked a mirror, so he would have to trust that his appearance wasn’t a giveaway. But, then, who had ever looked at someone and thought, ‘Has he been creeping around in secret passageways?’ No one, ever—he hoped.

  Fernie always felt a little nauseated when he was nervous. So, quite naturally, the bile in his stomach churned as he strode into the hallway, hiding in plain view.

  The halls of the palace had never been so busy. Everywhere he looked, there were Chisanta and soldiers—both Quade’s and Ko-Jin’s—marching with quiet purpose. Quade’s influence sat upon their minds like an inky parasite.

  Fernie melded into the foot traffic, doing his best to match the pace of the crowd. Fortunately, no one was looking at him. With everyone wandering about like the walking dead, he was invisible. Still, the urge to vomit pinched at the back of his throat. He swallowed a mouthful of watery saliva.

  Fernie marched through the foyer, and then straight out the entrance. He spilled onto the front lawn, the sunlight burning his eyes. After spending the last three days living in dark, cramped tunnels, the fresh air tasted clean as pure water. His muscles loosened as he wended along the drive.

  He relaxed, but he shouldn’t have.

  A moment later, his stomach jerked, his heart punching against his sternum. Because Quade was near—very near—crossing the grounds and heading directly toward Fernie.

  Striding across the sun-bright lawn, Quade Asher looked like the Spiritblighter himself: a figure shrouded in black shadows, filigrees of darkness stretching out in every direction like feelers.

  Fernie gulped, bowed his head, and tried to maintain a natural pace. If he changed course, Quade might notice. If he puked on the grass—as his stomach wished to do—Quade would definitely notice.

  Don’t see me, he pleaded in his mind. I’m just your spirit’s mate, but you don’t care about that. Nothing to see. Keep walking.

  They passed so near that their sleeves grazed. The proximity felt electric; a part of Fernie wanted to reach out and touch him. To collide with him, like two storm fronts clashing in the sky.

  Quade stopped. Fernie passed him by, determined not to look back.

  “Fernie, lad,” Quade said.

  Spirits, that voice…

  He had no choice but to stop and turn, pasting a bland look on his face. “Yes?”

  They locked eyes. All of Fernie’s organs began to pound. Surely it was a group effort; his heart alone couldn’t produce such thunder.

  “Bathe,” Quade said. “You’re filthy.”

  Tendrils of blackness slipped into the air. Mentally, Fernie batted them aside. “Yes, sir.”

  Quade’s eyes searched him. His dark brow furrowed, and he looked as if he might say something more, but then he merely shook his head and strode on.

  Fernie let loose the longest breath of his life, until he was entirely deflated. And then he kept walking.

  The city streets were packed with people, all talking about Quade—seeds passed, planted, and fertilized again and again. Fernie trained his eyes on the pavement and maintained a brisk pace.

  Dedrre’s shop stood dark and quiet, and at first Fernie feared the old Adourran might be out. But he soon found the inventor sitting near a window, staring fixedly at the sky. The double blow of Vendra’s death and Yarrow’s sacrifice had left this old man brittle and broken. He hadn’t built anything in months. The shop was strewn with half-completed projects, all grown dusty.

  It was plain that Dedrre was under Quade’s spell, because this was the first time he hadn’t appeared heartbroken. Now, he looked like a man suspended in stasis. A puppet on a shelf, waiting to be used.

  Fernie knelt before the old man, who didn’t turn from the window. Taking hold of one of his spotted and vein-corded hands, Fernie focused on the parasite burrowed in the inventor’s mind. As always, this disturbed him—like a crystal pond turned to oil, and he having to plunge his arm in anyhow.

  You don’t belong here, he told Quade. And the shadow began to dissipate in wisps, little by little, until it was gone completely. Fernie watched for the change in Dedrre’s eyes: they transformed from blank, to clear, to sad, all in quick sequence.

  “I need your help,” Fernie said, by way of greeting.

  Dedrre extracted his hand, a flash of repulsion on his face. He cleared his throat. “What help could I possibly be to you, lad?”

  “How much do you know?” Fernie asked.

  “I know that the monster who slew my Vendra is now sitting on the throne of Trinitas.”

  Fernie bobbed his head. “Right, that’s what I’m hoping to fix.” He explained his plan, knowing he was rambling, phrasing everything poorly. He kept talking, because it looked as if Dedrre might refuse, and Fernie couldn’t do this without him.

  “I understand your intention, lad,” Dedrre cut in. His wild silver brows dipped low over a pair of stormy eyes. “What I don’t understand is why it’s you coming to me. You’re his spirit-mate, are you not?”

  Fernie took a step away. His jaw tightened. “I’m the only one who could come to you, so that’s a blighting stupid question.”

  “Watch your tone, boy.”

  Fernie positively vibrated with frustration. “I didn’t choose him, you know! I don’t want this thing between us. I can’t help it.”

  “Your other half killed my family,” the inventor growled.

  “He killed mine, too!” Fernie shot back, breathing heavy. “Now, are you going to get up off your old ass and help me stop him, or do I need to think of something else?”

  They glared at each other, until the Adourran’s eyes softened. He snorted. “Old ass. I ought to box your ears, boy.” But he stood, groaning as he did so. His knees audibly popped. “But you’ve made your point. And I can’t see what I’ve got to lose by trying. So let’s get to work, then.”

  Arlow was profoundly unhappy.

  Both of his wrists stung, raw beneath their bindings. A gag cut into the corners of his lips, and a grubby handkerchief had been jammed so deep into his mouth, it made him feel as if he were choking.

  Additionally, he was filthy, hungry, tired, and bored. Arlow disliked each of these conditions separately. To experience them all together was a torment.

  His captors took turns standing guard—Ko-Jin, Bray, Peer, and Whythe—and despite all of his struggles, he could not seem to kill them. Quade had ordered it, and his blood sang with the need to comply, but he could not. That was by far the worst of his ills.

  Arlow missed Quade. There was an emptiness creeping into his heart without the man’s presence, like the setting of a sun.

  They had been traveling via coach for some days—a cheap gig, based on the jostling he’d been subjected to. On the first day, Malc had been let out to relieve himself, and he’d tried to fight off Ko-Jin and flee. The Chiona had been unceremoniously hauled back into the carriage, and three hours later the man had wet himself. Everything had smelt of piss from then on.

  They’d been drugged often, which was its own kind of indignity. He despised having so little agency over his own body.

  On the third night, Arlow had been forced to attend the kingdom’s shabbiest wedding (and Arlow, who was wed in a fourth-rate alehouse, knew a thing or two about shabby weddings). And then he’d been eaten alive by mosquitoes whilst failing to sleep.

  On the fourth day, Kelarre had some manner of mental breakdown. He’d begun crying like a child, his whole demeanor had changed, and—for some reason—he’d been taken away.


  Arlow thought they’d left him behind, until he spied the sullen youth walking at his liberty, unbound. The next morning he became their first guard. Which had put Arlow in an even fouler mood, as all of this was Kelarre’s fault. If all three of them had dropped from that library roof at the same time, they might have killed Whythe and Bray, in addition to Tae-Young. Then they could have dispatched Ko-Jin and Peer, three against two. But Kelarre, the hasty fool, had jumped a second too early, and Arlow’s clever plan had fallen apart.

  Arlow spent the day burning holes into the young man’s skull, using only the power of his gaze.

  Later that evening, Malc seemed to undergo a similar emotional collapse. He started shouting through his gag, the same word over and over. His eyes were wide and bloodshot in his ugly face. It took a long time for Arlow to recognize that he was crying out for Wynn, his little Elevated girlfriend. Pathetic.

  Malc, too, was taken from the carriage. That night, when they stopped to sleep, Arlow was the only one still restrained. He’d sat twisting at his ropes until his wrists bled, glaring daggers at Malc. The bloke was sitting close with Bray, head to head. She kept patting his beefy shoulder in a consoling way.

  You can kill her now, you fool! Arlow wanted to yell. They had the ability to carry out Quade’s orders, to earn his approbation. And they were wasting the opportunity.

  Ko-Jin sat beside Arlow for a spell. The stitched-up side of his face looked particularly ghastly in the firelight. Arlow took vicious pleasure from the sight for two reasons: first, because he, Arlow Bowlerham—ever underrated and overlooked—had wounded the great General Sung; and second, because Arlow had always resented Ko-Jin’s perfect face. Not so pretty now, are you?

  “If you could shake this off soon, I’d really appreciate it, old friend.”

  “I have no friend but Quade,” Arlow retorted through his gag, but it came out as nothing more than a muffled wheeze.

  Ko-Jin leaned back onto his elbows, his expression far away. “Don’t know how we’re getting through this,” he said softly.