“Spirits…” Clea said dreamily. “I always thought Fernie had a pretty face, but now he looks so…”
“Put the gun down,” a man proclaimed from the other room. It sounded like Fernie’s voice, except far more appealing.
“Beautiful,” Clea said, completing a sentence she’d seemed to leave hanging.
What the blighter is going on out there?
Arlow took the dagger in both hands, went up high on his knees, and plunged. The blade shattered.
Hissing, he tossed the useless weapon aside. He stood and kicked the canister. Pain lanced up his toe, but a slight hiss sounded.
“Clea,” he said.
She didn’t respond, seemingly fixated on whatever was happening within the chamber.
“Clea,” he repeated, poking her in the arm. “The sedative.”
She blinked, her expression unfocused and blissful. But then her attention turned to the canister, and she whipped her hands up, gathering the gas into a sphere. Arlow skittered away, not wanting to breathe the stuff in. Dedrre hadn’t had enough gas masks for everyone, and Arlow would rather not fall unconscious in this filthy passage.
“It’s coming out so slow,” she said. “It’ll be a few minutes before there’s enough for even one person…”
Arlow took Clea’s place at the vent and squinted into the room. Mae sat uncharacteristically still, but seemed to be unharmed. Linnie slept in the crib at her side, his slight snore a sweet sound amidst the horror.
“No,” Quade said. “It’s too early.”
Arlow hadn’t a clue what this meant, but the man was backing towards the door in fear. He scanned the chamber, but could spy nothing amiss.
“We’re about to lose him,” he whispered to Clea.
“Just a few more seconds,” she said, her brow furrowed in concentration. “This isn’t enough…”
“I order you all—”
“Don’t listen,” Arlow said, jamming his fingers into his ears. He kept his gaze fixed on the scene, terrified.
He couldn’t hear what Quade demanded of the room, but based on the panic flashing across Fernie’s face, it was not good. An instant later, Quade was gone.
Arlow darted the way Fernie had gone, and though he did not know where the lever to the door was hidden, he hit upon it instantly. The hatch clicked open and he crawled through.
“Help!” Fernie cried.
He was trying to head off a flock of people running to the balcony, all with the clear intention to leap. Blighter…
Arlow bolted towards his wife. She was scrambling to a water basin, wild desperation in her every movement.
She took hold of a drinking glass and shattered it against the wall. Arlow tackled her to the ground. Her hand clutched a sliver of glass; blood trickled down her arm.
Mae struggled against his grip, trying to sink that crude blade into her own neck.
“Mae, love,” Arlow panted. “Stop this. He’s in your head. Fight it.”
She thrust her knee up, nearly taking him in the groin. The near-miss was still painful, and he grunted. “Let me go,” she whined. “I have to. I have to.”
Linton began to cry—a shrill sound that cut through the madness of the room.
“Mae,” Arlow pleaded. “Please.”
Her eyes were unfocused, as if she could not see him, and she gnashed her teeth.
“Mae…”
She bit down on his forearm, her canines piercing through his skin, and he yelped.
“Fernie,” Arlow called. He searched the room, but Fernie was still contending with the cluster determined to kill themselves via defenestration.
Clea had joined them at some point, wielding a sphere of Vendra’s vaporized drug. She launched it at Chae-Na and Veldon, and the queen and prince soon slumped.
“Clea!” Fernie cried as he was overrun. Yarrow’s caretakers were climbing over the railing. Clea raced forward. Her hands flew up, and so did the people who’d jumped. They floated in the air, just beyond the balcony, apparently trying to swim their way to the ground far below.
Mae ripped with her teeth, taking a chunk of Arlow’s arm with her. She spit blood, her feral eyes roaming. Arlow couldn’t suppress the unmanly shriek that tore from his throat. Tears streaked down his cheeks, and he clamped his jaw.
Fernie rushed to their side. He glared at Mae for a long moment, and slowly her eyes cleared. They widened in shock and understanding.
“Arlow?” she whispered.
He loosened his grip on her wrist, and the shard of glass fell. “It’s me,” he said.
“Thank the Spirits you’re alright.” She wrapped him in a fierce, slightly painful hug. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t stop myself.”
“I understand,” he said, and then to ease some of her discomfort, he added in a whisper, “You know, when you threatened to eat me, I hadn’t thought you meant it quite so literally.”
Her reaction was half-sob, half-snort. She darted a quick kiss on his lips, then scrambled to comfort Linton, scooping him from his crib.
Arlow surveyed the room. Fernie was still removing Quade’s influence from some of the civilians floating in the air. Chae-Na, Veldon, and two others were sprawled on the floor, breathing heavily.
He couldn’t believe they’d managed to save everyone—and then he noticed a body in the far corner. A giant of a man, who’d thrust a blade into his own heart. A pool of blood bloomed around him, and his eyes were open and unseeing.
Arlow turned away from the sight, his throat pinching. He pressed his head down to his son’s. “Hello, little man,” he whispered, drawing in a deep breath through his nose. “Your da missed you.”
The last of the civilians landed safely upon the balcony, and Clea slumped against Fernie. The boy let loose a manic laugh, running a hand through his disheveled hair.
The pain in Arlow’s forearm was only increasing by the second. It stung and throbbed; blood streaked down his hand and dripped on the floor. He’d like to wrap it up, so he wouldn’t have to look at the ugly wound, but first he had to consult with the others.
Quade, once again, had gotten away.
They would need to—
A pain flared up the side of his neck, like the sharp burn of ice. It disappeared again so quickly that Arlow wondered if he’d imagined it.
He fell to his knees. His gift flew from him—not cut off, not temporarily silenced, but gone. What’s more, he felt his body weaken, all at once.
He reached for his neck, and his fingers scraped across smooth skin. Smooth, unmarked skin.
He looked up, and found that Fernie and Clea were grasping at their own necks, their expressions equally alarmed.
What is this? Arlow thought, his mind flying into a panic. What could possibly remove not only his gift, but also his mark?
“Arlow?”
His heart stumbled in his chest. Maybe he was going insane, having delusions. Because he knew that voice, and it certainly wasn’t the deadened tone of a Fifth. He turned.
Yarrow’s eyes were not only open, they were latched upon Arlow’s face as if seeing him. He lay on the floor where Quade had sent him sprawling, and he tried to push himself up, but his trembling arms could not hold his weight.
“Yarrow?” he breathed.
Arlow flew across the room, sliding to his friend’s side. He hauled Yarrow into a sitting position. His friend’s pale neck was also clear, unmarked.
“How?” Arlow asked. He wanted to pull his friend into an embrace, but to look at him, a firm hug might break Yarrow in two. “Not that I’m not glad to see you, of course, but…”
Yarrow smiled. There was something different about his eyes. Not their shape or color, but their expression. He looked old and wise and infinitely tired. “I’m glad to see you too, old friend. It’s a long story, and I’ll tell it, but first—” He grasped Arlow’s uninjured arm, and his weary eyes brightened. “Where’s Bray?”
Bray was fairly certain there was a spider in her hair, but she couldn’t find the
little blighter. Her skin crawled.
In this dark and dusty space, she felt closed off, boxed in. She wasn’t, of course—she could phase any time she liked—but her senses screamed that she was trapped. It was too similar to being locked inside her uncle’s pantry as a girl.
Ko-Jin scooted closer, so that their shoulders grazed. She didn’t mind. In a situation like this, it was better not to feel alone. And if Ko-Jin was here, then this was not a pantry, and she was not a child. Her tension eased a bit.
Her uninjured hand fidgeted with her knives. The other, her dominant hand, was still bound to her chest. The twin stars of pain in her wrist and ribs flared erratically, like a heartbeat. She had enough experience with fractured bones to know that these injuries were not severe, only painful.
“About five minutes,” he said.
“Before we release our mighty weapon on an entirely empty room?”
She felt him shrug. “Fernie says Quade’s been using this as his office. He could come back any time.”
“If this is the moment Quade is cut down, and you and I are just sitting here, out of the way, contributing nothing—” She stopped, uncertain where she was going with that thought.
“Wouldn’t bother me,” he said. “I’ve had enough of killing. I’d do it, of course, but…”
Bray couldn’t agree. She wouldn’t begrudge anyone who got to Quade first, but she would at least like to be present. She intended to see the life leave Quade Asher’s eyes, to witness the moment he knew he’d been beaten, even if she were not the one to deal the killing blow.
The minutes ticked by, but she couldn’t bring herself to feel anxious or excited or hopeful. She didn’t feel much of anything, just then. “Are you going to step down?” she asked. “When it’s over?”
“Yes,” he answered without pause. She was surprised to find him so certain.
“And what does a young former-general devote his life to?”
“Piracy,” Ko-Jin said, as if the word were on the tip of his tongue.
She snorted, imagined him in an eyepatch, then devolved into body-wracking laughter. “Too bad the moniker Snapneck is already taken. You’d have made a dashing Snapneck. But I suppose we can think of something else…” She grinned into the darkness.
“Captain Breakjaw,” he said.
“The Dread Captain Punchface,” Bray suggested. She was feeling a little lightheaded, giddy. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d eaten. “Pity you don’t have a beard. Snapneck has an excellent beard.”
“Fortunately, I’ve got a scar now.”
“All self-respecting pirates have scars.”
Ko-Jin’s shoulders shook with silent mirth. He leaned close, carrying on in a hiccupping voice, “Did I tell you Mae and Captain Snapneck used to be paramours? Arlow’s been completely—”
Ko-Jin cut short, and they both sobered in an instant. Bray felt all the blood drain from her face. The door to the office had opened. She scuttled forward to peer through the slim vent.
Quade tossed something into a bag slung over his shoulder, then ran for the door. He was gone long before they could have unleashed Vendra’s sedative.
“Blight it,” Bray hissed. She reached for Ko-Jin in the dark, until she found his hand, and then she phased. “Come on, let’s follow.”
“If he sees us—”
“There aren’t any vents in the hallway. This won’t work if he’s on the move. We’ve got to go after him.”
“He could just teleport away.”
“He could, but he won’t. At least not right away. He’ll want to gloat.”
Bray tugged on his hand again, and Ko-Jin allowed himself to be pulled through the wall.
“Here,” he said, pressing earplugs into her hand. They exchanged a glance loaded with meaning, recalling the promises they’d made earlier that day. Bray nodded her head once, then ran.
She dashed through the door and into the hallway, jamming wax into her ears as she went. They skidded to a halt in the foyer. Bray spun on the spot, hoping to catch sight of Quade. From above, she caught a quick flash of motion and the swirl of dark cloth.
“This way,” she said, charging up the grand staircase. Ko-Jin quickly outpaced her.
By the time she turned the next corner, he was entering a room. She followed, baffled to find herself in the palace library. The chamber was only sparsely lit; it smelt of old books and burning lamp oil.
Ko-Jin drew his sword.
Quade, apparently incognizant of their arrival, was busy jamming texts into a satchel. His movements were frantic and uncharacteristically clumsy. He glared over his shoulder at them and spoke, but his words were too dulled by the earplugs to be understood.
Bray glanced sideways at Ko-Jin. She wished it were Yarrow at her side. They could fight together without verbal communication, but she and Ko-Jin had no such natural synchronicity. She just had to hope that he’d follow her lead.
Quade appeared far more interested in his collection of texts than in either herself or Ko-Jin. His eyes were hungry as he flipped open front covers and read title pages. Even Yarrow had never looked so desperately in need of a book.
Bray smirked as an idea formed. They needed to ensure that Quade wouldn’t teleport away, and she had the strong sense that he wouldn’t leave without that bag of his, now containing several texts.
So she darted forward and snagged the satchel right off Quade’s shoulder, then phased. He growled and reached for his books, but his hands passed through them.
Fury alighted in his eyes, and though he could not touch her, it still sent sparks of fear burning through her chest. She was reminded forcibly of the first time they’d fought, in Easterly Point. Of how she’d lost her head when his body had pinned hers, and she’d allowed herself to be subdued.
He seemed to read her cowardice and to delight in it. His beautiful face glowed like a moon in this dim room.
But he was forced to break eye contact when Ko-Jin charged straight through her, his blade raised. Bray slung the bag across her shoulders and slipped a throwing knife from its holster. She slid her feet into position and gripped the hilt, poised to throw. It felt all wrong in her non-dominant hand.
Ko-Jin slashed and shuffled forward, his form perfect. Quade did not engage—he disappeared.
Bray spun in a quick circle, dagger in hand, and Ko-Jin did the same. Without the advantage of hearing Quade teleport, he might find himself skewered through the back.
Quade appeared to her right; Bray solidified and threw. She knew as the hilt left her hand that she was off, a little wide. The blade stuck into a leather-bound tome over Quade’s shoulder, quivering.
He dived for her—or, more specifically, for his bag—but she was a ghost again before he arrived. His face contorted with frustration, and he finally drew Treeblade from its sheath. His eyes flicked to the clock in the far corner.
Ko-Jin swept across the room with the grace of a dancer, his robes swirling out around his feet. Their swords met in a flurry of strikes and parries. Ko-Jin began to gain the upper hand, but a moment later Quade teleported again.
Bray hefted her second blade, her gaze swiveling for any indication of his arrival. Quade must have anticipated her intention—this time he reappeared so that Ko-Jin stood squarely between them. She scrambled to her left, but once again he disappeared from sight.
She waited for his return, pulse throbbing and chest heaving. When he rematerialized, he was directly in front of her. He spoke, no doubt demanding that she hand over his bag. She pasted a look of pleasant confusion on her face, as if to say, “Sorry, what was that?”
Ko-Jin swept across the room, his sword at the ready. Bray held her breath—hoping.
A flash of pain, like the burn of ice, raced along her neck. Her entire body jerked. She felt her gift slip away like a dying breath. Ko-Jin stumbled and collapsed to the floor.
By the time she looked back at Quade, at his cold and terrible face, his fist was already flying. The blow slammed into her j
aw, wrenching her head to the side, and her vision flickered. She fell, and her fractured ribs sparked bright with pain.
He tore the satchel from her shoulder and pressed his knee into her injured side. Her cracked bones screamed inside of her—a scream that ripped from her throat.
Quade dug the wax out of her left ear and whispered in his icy voice, “I could kill you for wasting my last moments, Bray Marron.”
She couldn’t phase. Her gift was gone. Once again, she was an unexceptional girl pinned beneath a man whom she did not wish to touch. She was eleven years old, all over again. She was back at Easterly Point, smashed underneath the weight of this monster—too panicked to think, beaten in mind before body. At his mercy.
“But I prefer the idea of you alive, for now,” he said. “Do come and find me, little puppet.”
His weight lifted, and she sucked breath through her teeth, clutching her cracked ribs. She heard him leave. Her fingers trailed up to her neck, where the mark of the Chisanta should be, but wasn’t.
She lay for a moment, succumbing to weakness. It was not just her injuries. Something in her body had changed. She felt withered.
Twelve years ago, in a temple on the western coast of Daland, the Chiona within her had awoken, filling her with innate strength, speed, and skill. And a minute ago, the Chiona in her had died. She was no longer marked, no longer special.
“Ko-Jin?” she asked, cringing as she sat up.
Her friend had taken off his boots and was gazing down at his deformed left foot. If she felt withered, he looked it—like a balloon deflated. When he glanced up, there was a storm of emotion in his eyes. “What happened?” he whispered.
“I don’t know,” Bray said. “But I think Quade knew it was coming. That’s why he was so desperate to be away.”
She wanted to ask if he was alright, but the answer seemed self-evident. Of course he wasn’t alright. He’d lost his body. Minutes ago, he was dancing across this room like a legendary sword master, and now he was shrunken and crippled.
“Is it possible the Chisanta are…over?” he asked.
It was an incomprehensible notion after so many centuries, but why else would all three of them lose their marks simultaneously?
The Complete Marked Series Box Set Page 138
