The Complete Marked Series Box Set

by March McCarron

  Chae-Na’s pulse pounded in her ears, though she could not say why. Perhaps because she felt sorry for Quade. The horror in his dark eyes was so pure, so deep. It made him look frightened as a lost boy.

  “The Chisanta will be no more.”

  Quade disappeared with a pop, the sudden noise making her stomach lurch. His absence settled heavily upon the room.

  Chae-Na exhaled through her nose, disappointed. She wished she could move—at the very least, that she could stretch out her cramping legs. But Quade had not adjusted his command, and she wouldn’t risk hurting his feelings. This was already a painful day for him.

  Not just for him.

  Her thoughts wandered to Ko-Jin, and pity swelled in her breast. Wherever he was, he did not know. How could he?

  The general had only hours left in his Spirits-given body. Just as Bray would no longer pass through walls, as Arlow would lose his luck and Fernie his memory.

  None of them knew. But they would.

  “Before the death of this day,” Yarrow chanted. “The Chisanta will be no more.”

  No.

  That single word chorused in Quade’s mind again and again, until it lost all meaning. No, no, no…

  He found a vacant room and locked himself inside. No, no, no…

  The instant he was alone, his composure crumbled. He wrenched a hand through his hair, his lungs working to draw breath. The room seemed to shrink in upon him. He couldn’t breathe. His eyes were wet.

  Are these tears?

  Is this fear?

  Whatever was happening to his body, he had never experienced it before. He had the vague sense that something heavy sat upon his chest. He stumbled into a side table, and a vase of flowers crashed to the floor.

  That sound—the crisp, tinkling music of destruction—made him feel slightly better, as did the sight of a beautiful thing, shattered. So he set about destroying everything in his reach. He slammed a chair against the wall until wood splintered in his hands, and then he chucked the remains aside. He tore a painting from its panel and punched a hole through the canvas. He yanked the curtains from their hangings, taking particular delight in the sound of tearing fabric. The table met with his rage next, followed by the windows.

  When everything worth smashing had been smashed, he was left in the midst of this wreckage—panting, perspiring, his clothes and hair askew. Blood streamed from the splinters embedded in his palms.

  But he was calmer. He wiped his sweating face on his shirt sleeve, then plucked all the fractured wood from his skin. Then he trailed his fingers along his neck, tracing each circle.

  According to his Fifth, he had only hours left as a marked man. As a Chisanta.

  The Chisanta will be no more…

  It was a travesty. An impossibility. A wrong.

  The best day of Quade’s life had been his fourteenth Da Un Marcu, when he’d woken with an ancient symbol branded upon his skin. He had always known he was special, and here was his proof, a physical sign of it.

  Quade used his gifts to change the world, to reshape it for the better. He had prepared for decades, had toiled in secrecy, had waged a difficult campaign and persevered in the face of humiliating defeat. And now, a mere week after achieving his dream, it was all to be taken from him?

  Without his gift, what was he? Could he hold onto what he’d won—what he’d earned? His sister’s cruel voice whispered the answer in his ear, “No person could hold a cold thing like you in esteem.”

  Quade squeezed his eyes shut. Anger stirred in his chest—hotter and hotter and hotter. His mouth flew wide and he screamed, venting his frustration and wrath until his throat turned raw. Then he sagged against the wall.

  This was Yarrow Lamhart’s doing. Quade knew it, though he could not explain how. The entire situation reeked of him. He, who had sacrificed every piece of himself, was now willing to forfeit the very existence of his kind. Somehow, beyond the veil of insanity, the man was still fighting—and he would steal all the magic from the world, ushering in an age of mundanity, just to see Quade lose.

  He opened his eyes, his boiling blood cooling to a simmer. These final hours could not be wasted in a blind rage. No, he would form a plan. He must make use of his gifts while he still could.

  Quade already knew where he would go: he’d read of the place in the transcripts of the Fifth—not this Fifth, this useless lump blathering about sea urchins, but the one who came before. His sweet girl, who’d given him the world.

  She spoke of a sacred place. A portal hidden in the desert, south of the abandoned city of Nerra, where once the Chisanta of old had communed with the Spirits. Men who made that pilgrimage were granted knowledge and—rarely—superhuman gifts.

  Quade would go and speak with the Spirits, to request that his abilities be returned. As a boy, the Spirits had chosen him. They would choose him again. Some men were destined for greatness. There were mortals and there were legends: Quade Asher had always been the latter.

  The sun dipped beyond the horizon. The warm glow of dusk shifted into cooler shadows. His time grew short, and he would need every minute—to make arrangements, gather provisions, information, maps.

  But first, Quade would sow a little chaos.

  If Yarrow Lamhart wished to annihilate the Chisanta, well, then, Quade would give him just that—an annihilation.

  He threw open the door and stormed up the stairway. Anger and anticipation coiled in his limbs. He felt his body carrying itself differently, all his movements rigid and urgent.

  General Paeva had taken over General Sung’s quarters. When Quade burst into the outer office, he found the old Adourran neatly folding his predecessor’s robes.

  Quade smacked the pile, and fabric spilled across the floor. If Ko-Jin survived the coming days, he would not return to a room tidied in his absence.

  “S-sir?”

  Because there was little time, Quade decided to be direct. He took the old general’s face between his hands and poured his gift into the man, throwing wide his charm like the opening of a dam. “Paeva, you are loyal to me, are you not?”

  “Of course,” the general whispered, his pupils dilating.

  Quade pressed a kiss to the other man’s lips. It was not a face he particularly wanted to touch with his own mouth, but his will was most strongly transferred this way. Given the stakes, Quade needed this particular seed burrowed deep.

  Paeva blushed, which looked odd upon his grizzled features. He leaned forward, hungry for a second kiss—greedy blighter—but Quade steadied him with a hand on either shoulder.

  “I have orders, and they are the most urgent I have ever given you. If you have any love for me, you will do everything in your power to see this mission accomplished.”

  Paeva blinked a few times, then nodded. His gaze locked onto Quade’s mouth. “Anything you ask of me, I will do.”

  “Excellent. I have just learned of a conspiracy. The Chisanta intend to turn against the people of Trinitas. Apart from myself, every marked man and woman is in on this plot. You understand how dangerous they can be. For the sake of the people, the Chisanta must be eliminated. All of them, and as soon as possible.”

  “Sir?”

  “You will share this order directly with all your officers. Make sure the soldiers know it comes from me. And let it be spread to the civilians as well, for their own safety. Remember, you must not go by the marks on their necks, as a little concealer can hide them. Anyone who is dressed as either Chiona or Cosanta must be killed on sight. Do you understand?”

  He saluted. “I will see it done, sir.”

  Paeva lingered, drinking in Quade’s presence like a cat basking in a block of sunlight. But there was no time for such foolishness. “Go. Now. Time is limited.”

  The general bolted from the room, his desire to please Quade overriding any sense of dignity. He blundered around a corner and out of sight.

  The nearby grandfather clock ticked a steady beat, like the thudding of a heart. Quade tried to calm himself
with a deep breath, but his anxiety could not be soothed. His mind buzzed with all the tasks he must accomplish before midnight. If at all possible, he intended to teleport to Adourra before the end of the day.

  But first he had one more task to oversee. He smiled, fingering the dagger sheathed at his hip.

  If he was to leave Accord behind, he would first free it of monarchs. He had won the throne of Trinitas. It was his. He’d be blighted before he let any Bellra or Bowlerham sit upon it in his absence.

  He had much to do, but it would not take long to kill three common humans and a baby. Quade focused his mind on the Fifth’s tower, and he teleported.

  Peer was entirely too tall for these secret passageways. He had to bend at the waist for clearance, and still he kept bumping his head on the ceiling. His eyes smarted from all the dust, making it hard to find his way.

  Whythe had less difficulty. He appeared to take voyeuristic pleasure in peeping through all the vents, observing the palace from this new, secret angle. It was endearingly boyish.

  At the next intersection, Peer paused his husband with a hand on the shoulder. “We have to go down here.”

  Whythe slid down the dusty pole, and Peer followed. He did his best to slow his descent, so his landing would not be loud. Still, it was elating—the sensation of a controlled fall, like taking flight. He and Whythe exchanged a quick grin, then forged onward.

  “Up here,” Whythe whispered.

  They found the canister of Vendra’s drug just where Dedrre had promised. Whythe peeked through the vent into the art gallery beyond. Peer ran a hand over the cool metal of the capsule, a sad smile touching his lips.

  He would never forget the deadness in Vendra’s eyes as she’d fired her pistol, killing Adearre. That entire scene was preserved in his memory: the roiling sea, the storm clouds overhead, the bruising hands that held him down. The last look Adearre had flashed in his direction, which had been charged with emotions that Peer couldn’t read. And then the blast, the way he’d fallen—so graceful, like a backwards dive.

  And finally, worst of all, the smack of his body slamming into the beach below.

  Peer swallowed back a swell of emotion. He had never wholly forgiven Vendra while she lived. But he was glad that, even in death, she would play her part in Quade’s destruction. It would be her drug that disabled him. She would like that, Peer thought.

  “You alright?” Whythe whispered.

  Peer cleared his throat and nodded. His bevolder searched his face, and must have understood the sorrow in his eyes. He pressed a quick kiss to Peer’s brow, and the twisting pain in his heart eased a fraction.

  “How many?” Peer asked, his tone suggesting a return to business.

  “Lots,” Whythe said. “He’s got them packed in there like bullets in a carton.”

  They switched places so that Peer could peek into the room. The art gallery was a wide chamber without furnishings, and it was positively crammed with bodies. Chisanta, all.

  Peer searched faces and found he knew most of them. These were primarily his allies—Elevated and those Chisanta who’d resisted Quade from the beginning.

  In the far corner, he located the other bevolders: Roldon and Trevva, Enton and Avearra, Wynn.

  Every single spirit in the room was kneeling silently, gazing straight ahead. As motionless as they were, and arranged in such neat lines, he thought Whythe’s comparison apt: bullets in a cartridge, ammunition waiting at the ready. They were an eerie sight.

  “How long do we wait?” Whythe asked in a whisper.

  Peer’s gaze flicked to the clock in the corner of the room. It would chime when the time had come, and that sound would hopefully disguise the hiss of the gas as it issued from the canister. “Less than ten minutes.”

  Peer pushed away from the vent, settling onto his heels. He unhooked the gas mask at his belt and turned the strange thing over in his hands.

  When he discovered Whythe already wearing his own mask, he had to bite back a laugh. His husband looked like some manner of alien insect—though, admittedly, an alien insect with very nice hair.

  Peer slipped his own mask over his head and hated it instantly. The round lenses distorted his vision, causing everything to appear swollen and a little too close to his face. The filter that pressed over his mouth called to mind the many weeks he’d spent gagged, back when Quade had held him captive.

  Just breathe, he reminded himself. Won’t be long now.

  They listened to the steady tick-ticking of the clock from within the gallery, as it was the only noise coming from that unnaturally quiet room. They waited, Whythe fidgeting with the cuff of his shirt. He still wore common civilian clothes, the shirt far too large for his slight frame.

  Several minutes before the turning of the hour, the doors to the gallery banged open. Peer squinted through the vent. He saw a line of soldiers march into the room. Then he saw that line of soldiers unsheathe their swords, all in unison.

  Though he was meant to remain quiet and concealed, Peer couldn’t stop himself from bellowing.

  Without warning or apparent cause, the soldiers launched an attack. And the Chisanta did not rise and fight. Did not dodge or block. They merely died. Peer watched through horrified eyes as the old Cosanta, Ander Penton, placidly accepted a sword through the belly.

  “Blighter,” Peer hissed, wrenching his head back and focusing on the canister.

  “It’s early,” Whythe said, as he scrambled to see what was happening.

  “Don’t matter. If we don’t act now, they’re all dead.”

  He cranked the small metal ring to open the valve, and gas shot from the tube. He fed a flexible hose through the vent to send the drug into the room. “Come on,” he called to Whythe.

  He could hear people dying as he fumbled for the lever that would unlock this door, his heart hammering in his windpipe. Please, please, please…

  At last, a tile compressed beneath his probing hands, and a small hatch clicked open. He crawled through the narrow opening and sprang to his feet.

  “Together,” he said to Whythe, and they drew their blades. As much as he adored his revolvers, this was no time to discharge a loud weapon.

  There were a dozen soldiers, and by the time Peer and Whythe met them, the marble floor was slick with the blood of dead Chisanta. The tang of copper was thick in the air.

  “Back to back,” Whythe said, as their enemy formed up around them.

  “Try to stall,” Peer murmured. “The gas shouldn’t take much longer...”

  Quade’s soldiers were as dead-eyed as the Chisanta. They worked together seamlessly, without discussion, forming a ring around Peer and Whythe. They closed in as a unit.

  Adrenaline surged in Peer’s veins; his pulse pounded in his ears. He felt Whythe at his back like an extension of himself, as if they shared four arms and four legs between them.

  The soldiers set upon him, two at once. Peer’s blade connected with a clang. Whythe blocked the second sword, which otherwise would have taken Peer in the eye.

  Near the concealed vent, the living Chisanta began to waver on their knees. An instant later, the first one slumped.

  “Give up. Quade will—”

  Peer roared to drown out these words, and he slashed at the man’s leg. He missed, his blade swiping through the air, because the blighting mask confused his depth perception. His opponent pressed the attack, and he danced back. Whythe sent an enemy stumbling Peer’s way, and he struck out with his elbow, connecting with a throat.

  The gas thickened in the air, making everything appear murky. Several of the soldiers blinked, their sword arms falling. Come on, Peer thought. Sleep afore you force me to kill you.

  The cleverest of the group charged towards the door, but Peer and Whythe moved in tandem to head them off. They fought in the doorway, their enemy growing more lethargic but also more desperate.

  Several blades flashed at once, and Peer dodged and kicked, sending men tumbling. Most of them were unable to rise.
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br />   When the last man was left standing, his eyes struggling to remain open, Peer let himself relax.

  Too soon.

  The soldier whipped a pistol from his belt and leveled the weapon at Whythe’s head.

  The moment felt like an echo.

  Fear and panic roared in Peer’s mind, and he didn’t—couldn’t—think. He acted. Launching himself forward, he flew at the soldier.

  The gunshot scalded his ear, and white-hot pain lanced through his arm. He landed with a huff. The soldier sprawled beneath him and turned still.

  Peer lay frozen, terrified. He was afraid to turn his head. If Whythe had taken that bullet, it would kill him. He didn’t want to know. He couldn’t bear—

  Sure hands grasped his shoulders and wheeled him around. His husband—whole and uninjured and lovely—stood over him, his eyes wide with fear behind the goggles of his mask.

  “Peer,” he said, voice muffled. “Your arm.”

  He caught these words through his left ear, over the ringing echo of the gunshot. His right ear felt wet and stuffed.

  Peer looked down at his arm in a detached way, as if it belonged to someone else. The bullet had pierced straight through his forearm, shattering the bone. His blood was already beginning to pool on the floor.

  It was grisly and unspeakably painful, but his relief at Whythe’s safety was stronger. He pulled his husband into a one-armed embrace, and their hearts banged a desperate off-beat rhythm.

  The rest of the room was still, everyone else either asleep or dead. The clock chimed the hour, marking the time when they should have enacted their plan. Throughout the palace, people should be feeling unexpectedly sleepy.

  “Can you help me bind this?” he asked. “We need to get moving.”

  He couldn’t fathom why Quade would order a mass killing. Why now? He had won. These Chisanta were his unwilling slaves. They were also useful, so why would he suddenly choose to dispatch them?

  Whythe ripped the sleeve from his own shirt. Peer gritted his teeth, but couldn’t silence a whimper as his husband wrapped the wound. He could feel all the shattered bits of bone stabbing him from within, and his vision darkened at the corners.