The Complete Marked Series Box Set

by March McCarron

  But there was no time for succumbing to injury. He needed to find his companions; he needed to find Bray. So he tucked his wounded wing against his chest, and he and Whythe ran from the gallery.

  They skidded to a halt just outside the threshold. The hallway was packed with soldiers—both Quade’s and Ko-Jin’s. They gave the impression of a pack of predators on the hunt.

  “There,” a soldier cried, pointing at Peer.

  A gunshot rang out, and glass shattered behind him. Whythe grabbed him round the waist and barreled them both back into the gallery. Together, they slammed the door shut and secured the lock.

  Wood shivered under the pounding of fists, but it was a large door with a serious locking mechanism. It would hold for the time being.

  “What now?” Whythe breathed.

  “The passageways,” Peer said. “We need to get to Bray and Ko-Jin.”

  But when he looked back at all the sleeping Chisanta, his shoulders slumped. If Quade’s soldiers broke down the door—no, not if, when—it would be a massacre. Peer couldn’t leave so many of his own vulnerable. “You go,” he said to Whythe. “Find ’em. Bring reinforcements. Bring Fernie, so when this lot wakes they’ll at least fight back.”

  Whythe folded his arms. “You’re injured. You’ve only got one arm. How are you going to hold them off? I’ll stay, you go.”

  Peer was shaking his head before his husband had finished speaking. “I can’t exactly crawl quickly either. And I don’t need two hands to fire a gun.”

  “I won’t allow you to die, Peer Gelson.”

  “Then you better be goin’ quick.”

  They locked eyes in a brief contest of wills. He forced himself to look stern. Even injured, he would put up the better fight, and they both knew it. Whythe was an artist at heart, not a fighter.

  Peer saw the moment he’d won—Whythe relented with a wince. They bent their heads together, gas mask to gas mask. Peer wished he could at least kiss his husband for luck, but this was the best they could do.

  It wasn’t nearly good enough.

  “Don’t you dare make me a widower,” Whythe breathed.

  “I ain’t dyin’ today,” Peer said, pulling a pistol from his hip. “And neither are you.”

  When Whythe still didn’t turn away, Peer gave him a light shove. “Go. Fast.”

  His husband disappeared into the secret passage, leaving Peer the sole waking man in a room full of bodies. The blood on the floor had begun to creep, like a rising tide.

  Peer cracked his neck and focused his eyes on the shivering door. So far, it held strong. It would hold a while longer.

  It would have to.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Fernie hauled himself hand over hand up the pole, his blistered palms stinging. Arlow, ahead of him, was climbing far faster. Show-off.

  By the time Fernie rolled onto the top floor of the tower, his arms felt like dead weights. He lay on his back, panting.

  “They’re here,” Arlow whispered, the relief in his voice audible.

  Fernie crawled to the man’s side and peered through the vent into Yarrow’s chamber. Chae-Na and Veldon had not moved once. They remained kneeling on the floor, their postures unnaturally stiff.

  Arlow stared at his wife and child with hunger, his hands balled into fists in his lap. Fernie was surprised the Pauper’s Queen couldn’t feel her husband’s stare, it was so intense. Though perhaps Quade’s compulsion prevented her from turning her head, regardless of the gaze boring into her skin.

  There were a good number of other people in the room, all equally motionless. A scribe scribbled the Fifth’s words, her hand the only part of her body that stirred, and several caretakers were poised in the far corner of the chamber.

  Yarrow’s deadened voice chanted the same sentence over and over, but he was facing away from the vent, so it was difficult to make out his words. Fernie kept his attention fixed on the clock. Nine minutes. That was all, before their coordinated release of the gas. It sounded a short span of time, but the minute hand appeared to be stuck.

  As he waited, his pulse ticking faster than the clock, he fiddled with his gas mask. Arlow shot him an annoyed glance, and he made himself stop.

  Seven minutes.

  The sharp pop of teleportation made him flinch. He squinted into the room, though he already knew who’d arrived. He always knew when his other half was near.

  Panic surged through his mind, tied up with a softer sense of longing—of feeling more complete. Quade.

  Fernie’s bevolder appeared in the center of the room, dark and wild as a tempest. Everything from his mussed hair to his bleeding hands spoke of inner turmoil. Fernie could remember Quade’s face forming a multitude of expressions, but this one—this look of heartbreak and desperation—he’d never seen before.

  Someone approached Fernie from behind, and he nearly called out in surprise. Clea slapped her hand over his mouth, her light eyes fierce.

  Fernie should have guessed she would arrive. He had ordered her to follow Quade, so she might use her gift to send the sedative straight up the bastard’s nose.

  He peeled her hand away from his mouth, noting absently that, for such a powerful girl, she had decidedly delicate wrists. Clea allowed this. She and Arlow nodded to each other.

  “What’s going on?” Fernie whispered.

  She shook her head. “Don’t know. But he had some kind of breakdown a few minutes ago. Destroyed a sitting room. And then I lost him for a little while.”

  They pressed shoulder to shoulder, peering into the room. Quade was using the reflective glass of the clock to smooth his hair, but his hands still shook.

  “Maybe we should release the gas early,” Clea whispered. “I don’t have a good feeling—”

  Quade strode towards Yarrow Lamhart, and in a blinding, angry motion, toppled his chair. The seat clattered, and Yarrow slid across the floor. Quade walked to the Fifth, his manner casual, then swung a vicious kick at his ribs. The man’s body flopped over like a fresh corpse.

  Arlow’s nostrils flared, but he only shook his head. “If we do it early, he might hear the gas and teleport away. We need the sound-cover of the bells.”

  Quade turned his back on Yarrow. He unsheathed his sword. “Chae-Na, dear. Stand.”

  “Blight it,” Fernie said. He would not sit by and watch Quade kill her. He flew to the canister and frantically twisted the small wheel to release the drug.

  Or he tried to. But the mechanism wouldn’t turn. Cold metal dug into his palm, but the wheel would not budge.

  “Walk to the balcony,” Quade said.

  “Spirits,” Clea said, her eyes round. “He’s going to make her jump.”

  “Arlow,” Fernie said, voice pitched high. “Fix this. I’ve got to—”

  He scrambled to the nearest door, not bothering with his gas mask. Fernie crashed into the room, and though his entrance must have been startling, Quade’s head was the only one to turn.

  “Ah, my spirit-mate,” he said, packing the word with scorn. “I was wondering if I’d see you again.” The poison of his gift reached for Fernie, but he swatted it aside.

  “Leave her alone,” Fernie said, his voice cracking on the last word. He sounded a child, even in his own ears.

  Chae-Na stood on the balcony, serenely awaiting further instruction. Behind her, the moon hung bright in a deep blue sky.

  Quade’s lip curled. “Chae-Na, darling. Walk to the railing, climb over it, and dive off the edge head-first.”

  Fernie sprinted straight past Quade, launching himself like a bullet. Chae-Na climbed onto the banister as he crossed the threshold of the balcony. She leapt, and he lunged.

  He was certain he’d missed her, until his hand snagged around her ankle. His shoulder joint snapped at the force of her weight, and his hip slammed against the stone railing.

  Chae-Na kicked with her free foot, squirming in his grasp. “Stop, blight it,” he pleaded.

  He made the mistake of looking past her, to the
ground far below, and a spell of dizziness hit him. The tower stood taller than he’d imagined, and there was a stone patio just beneath. This was not a jump that anyone could survive.

  The queen kicked and kicked until her ankle slipped free from his grasp. Heart lurching, he snagged the fabric of her dress. She flipped in the air, the bottom of her gown wrapping around her torso like a cocoon, her legs dangling bare.

  It was undignified, but she would forgive him. Fernie focused on Chae-Na’s mind. Quade’s poison was thick upon her, its blackness threading deep into her consciousness. Fernie drew it away, bit by bit. You don’t belong here, he told Quade. Her mind isn’t yours to steal. She stopped struggling and instead reached for his hands, her eyes wide and fearful.

  “Fernie?”

  “I won’t let you go,” he said. “I promise.”

  The cold barrel of a pistol pressed to his temple. He both heard and felt the chamber turn over, the revolver ready to fire.

  He glanced sideways at Quade’s terrible, beguiling smile. “You should not make promises you cannot keep, young man.” Quade’s eyes searched Fernie’s face, his brow furrowed. “I wonder if this will hurt me, too.” He looked troubled for only a moment; then he shrugged. “Only one way to find out.” His finger tightened over the trigger.

  Fernie’s gaze flitted past the barrel and settled on Quade’s eyes. He pushed deeper, into the other man’s mind. And there it was, Quade’s gift. It existed in their shared space, an obsidian stone suspended in the abyss between their two spirits. Fernie wrapped a mental hand around this gift, and he took it for himself.

  Quade visibly startled, his pistol lowering. His face returned to its true form—all severe angles, thin lips, and cold-as-death eyes.

  “Put the gun down,” Fernie said.

  He heard the compulsion in his own words. His voice was suddenly beautiful—it filled up the room like a song. Warmth spread through his body, and though he couldn’t see his own face, he noticed the way every eye turned to him with admiration. Chae-Na, still clinging to his arm as she dangled, sucked in a breath.

  This was a drug that Fernie could learn to love.

  He cocked his head, sweeping the hair from his face so that both eyes were visible. “I asked you to put the gun down, Quade.”

  He’d meant to utter these words with hissing force, but they left his mouth like a pleasant request.

  Quade’s pale cheeks flushed. He slowly set the gun on the floor, all the while keeping his gaze locked on Fernie’s face, as if he could not bring himself to look away.

  Fernie lightly kicked the weapon so that it skittered across the room, landing well out of reach.

  With that threat mitigated, Fernie turned back to Chae-Na and offered her his other hand. He hauled her over the railing with a grunt. She collapsed against him, and made no move to distance herself. His heart fluttered.

  When the queen looked up at him with besotted eyes, he experienced a moment of exultation. Finally someone was seeing him, and liking what they saw. Not just anyone, but Chae-Na. The queen. The second prettiest girl in the kingdoms, after Clea. (And second place was nothing to sniff at.)

  But quick on the heels of that joy came the blow of reality. This wasn’t real. He was manipulating her, just as Quade had done. And he had, ever so briefly, liked it.

  Fernie was as bad as Quade. Or, at least, he could be. If the spirits had given him this gift, would he now be the monster and Quade the innocent man?

  He did not want it. Repulsion coursed through him. As if it were a scalding coal in his hands, Fernie chucked the gift away from him. And it snapped right back into place, returning to its master.

  “How dare you—” Quade’s charmed voice proclaimed, but he cut short and turned his head sharply.

  Fernie followed his gaze, to where Yarrow was still sprawled on the ground. At first, he couldn’t understand why Quade’s attention had been pulled to the man.

  Then Fernie realized that, for the first time, the room was silent. Yarrow lay still and staring, more corpse-like than ever. He was mute: no truths streamed from his mouth.

  “No…” Quade said. He looked fully horrified. “It’s too early. I thought I had more time…”

  Quade backed away from the balcony, towards the door. His black eyes shone with apprehension. “I order you all to kill yourselves,” he gasped. “Do so now. By whichever means you prefer.”

  And with that, Quade ran from the room, leaving violence in his wake without a backward glance.

  Yarrow rested his face in his hands, listening to the speaker below through increasingly disenchanted ears.

  The man was making a fair point, one in Yarrow’s favor, but it was hardly a new point.

  “The common people of Trinitas had achieved peace for centuries! It was the Chisanta who brought again the stain of war—”

  “Are you seeing this?” Adearre whispered, pointing.

  Yarrow focused on the image beneath the speaker—on the stalking form of Quade Asher, and the swirling black shadow of the Spiritblighter following close on the man’s tail. Quade was once again with Yarrow’s body, and he shivered in disgust. But Quade did not touch him. Instead, he pulled a dagger and pressed it to his heart.

  Yarrow’s spiritly hand flew to his chest, where he felt the echo of a heartbeat. His real, physical chest was bleeding. It was strange to see this, but not to feel it.

  The spire churned as every spirit fixated on the actions of Quade Asher. Suddenly, for the first time since Yarrow’s arrival, Quade’s voice filled the obelisk—his true voice, stripped of the honeyed effect of his gift.

  “I want to know the future,” he hissed. “I want to know the secrets of the past. I want to know what my enemies are doing. And if you do not begin to offer me information of merit, I swear by every Spirit in the Company and the Blighter himself, I will run you through.”

  The Company stirred, and Yarrow felt himself the sudden focal point of the room, as if a spotlight were upon him. He swallowed back his discomfort, determined to use this attention to his advantage.

  He stood. “You know what must be done.” His voice boomed, clear and forceful. “How many more deaths will you allow before you make your choice? How many times will you allow evil men to sever the connection between the living and the dead?”

  The spire was thrown into sudden darkness, shadow falling like a shroud. Yarrow could see nothing through the gloom, until pricks of light appeared in the distance, like stars born from the black.

  Someone just beneath Yarrow stood, and the moment the spirit was on his feet, his body shone with brilliant light.

  “It’s a vote…” Adearre said. “You have done it, love. Finally, it is happening.”

  Adearre rose—a sign of his agreement—and was illuminated from within, his entire form dazzling.

  Yarrow launched to his own feet. He gazed down at his shining hands, light beaming from every fingertip. Starlight shone everywhere, above and below, until the spire was a blazing night’s sky. A smile spread across his face, slow and vivid.

  Adearre grabbed his hand, and they glimmered together. “When you get back,” he said, his amber gaze fervid. “Take care of them for me. Spirits know, Bray and Peer need a lot of looking after.”

  “When I get back?” Yarrow echoed.

  As more and more spirits cast their vote, the space became blinding. Light reflected and bounced off the crystal walls of the prism.

  Adearre smiled and shook his head. “Did you honestly not think what this would mean for you personally? How very Yarrow Lamhart of you.” He gripped his hand harder. “See this ended, and then live your life, my friend. Be happy.”

  “Adearre, I—”

  A gong sounded from seemingly nowhere, and the tower reverberated with the noise. The light of the Spirits coalesced into a spear of pure white, which shot into the sky like a beacon.

  And then Yarrow was flying. Color and sound hurtled by his senses in a blinding, blaring stream. He squeezed his eyes closed
and shot through space like an arrow loosed from a bow.

  Until, quite suddenly, everything went still. Everything went dark. A thudding sound echoed throughout his form, and something heavy weighted his spirit down. He felt as if he were trapped inside some ponderous casing.

  My body, he realized with an electric sense of clarity. He sensed his limbs, his fingers, his eyelids. Pain hung dully throughout, and more sharply in some places, such as his ribs and his bleeding chest.

  Yarrow had returned to his body—his physical body. And that thumping noise was his heart, pumping blood just as it always had. As if with understanding, the thudding intensified. His pulse throbbed with new awareness.

  I’m home, Bray, Yarrow thought.

  And then he opened his eyes.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Fix it?” Arlow whisper-shouted after Fernie’s retreating back. “I didn’t exactly bring my tool belt!”

  But the young man was already gone, so Arlow turned his attention to Dedrre’s drug canister. He didn’t at all understand how the thing worked. It was a smooth metal tube, with a single small wheel and spout.

  But then, it might not be broken, really. Fernie wasn’t a strapping lad. Likely it just needed some muscle.

  Arlow gripped his hand around the wheel and strained to turn it. The stubborn thing wouldn’t budge; it only bit into his palm.

  “Come on,” he grumbled. He rolled his shoulders, cracked his knuckles, and tried again.

  “Blighter,” Clea said, still peering into the room. “She jumped, but Fernie caught her. Now Quade’s pulling a pistol. You need to hurry, brother.”

  Arlow strained with all his might, but the wheel would not move. “I think it’s broken.”

  “Luck it fixed,” she said.

  He grumbled—that was not how his gift worked—and pulled a dagger from his belt. Two-handed, he raised the weapon high and stabbed downwards.

  The blade skittered across the metal, leaving only a scratch but nearly severing several fingers.