The Complete Marked Series Box Set

by March McCarron

  And yet, somehow, the marked were extinct anyway. The Spirits must have a wicked sense of humor.

  A thunderous bang sounded on the door, and Peer jolted. Fire flared up and down his arm.

  He tipped his head to the ceiling, still feeling a bit punch-drunk. “You were right, Adearre. Gettin’ shot—not fun.”

  He clamped his jaw, his eyes watering, and he rose to his feet. Voices buzzed on the other side of the threshold. The door shivered as something struck the wood. Battering ram it was, then.

  Peer drew his pistol. The feel of the polished pommel in his hand grounded him. But he flashed intermittent glances towards the secret passage, hoping Whythe would return with reinforcements. And soon.

  He had only twelve rounds before he would be powerless, and it was not only the enemy beyond the door he need fear. If any of the sleeping soldiers woke, they too would be a threat.

  Peer swayed, his vision swimming, but he caught himself before he fell. Get it together, man.

  The battering ram struck again, wood audibly cracking. It wouldn’t be long, now.

  This would be a bloodbath, which was precisely what Quade had in mind, no doubt. The man had likely lost his gift, just as Peer had. And yet, here they were, still marionettes dangling from his strings, playing his game.

  He caught a flash of movement in the corner, and he wheeled the barrel of his gun. But it was only Malc who crawled out of the tunnel, followed closely by Kelarre.

  “You lose your mark, too?” Kelarre asked, at the same time that Malc demanded, “Have you seen Wynn?”

  Peer lowered his weapon. “Yes and yes. She was in the far corner there, with Roldon and Trevva.”

  Malc picked his way through the bodies until he found his bevolder. He lifted her into his arms, her curls bouncing. A few people had begun to stir, which meant the drug was wearing off. They didn’t have long.

  Kelarre joined Peer, his dark eyes fixed on the entry. Another thwack reverberated, and then the crack and splinter of wood.

  “Don’t they know we aren’t Chisanta anymore?” Kelarre asked. “We’re not even marked. Maybe they’ll just…stop. Once they know.”

  Peer shrugged the shoulder of his uninjured arm. “You want to open the door, pop your head out, and ask?”

  “No. No, I do not.”

  Malc settled Wynn into a safer alcove of the gallery, out of view, then came to stand beside Kelarre. He was an enormous man, half a head taller than Peer, who did not look up at many men. He might no longer be indestructible, but he was still an intimidating sight.

  “Malc got a splinter,” Kelarre said in a stage whisper. “He whined about it the whole way here.”

  “I did not whine,” Malc said, though he looked down at a pink spot on his finger. “I was merely pointing out that my gift must really be gone. Nothing’s pierced my skin for a lot of years.”

  “Must have hurt,” Peer said dryly, as he clutched his ruined arm to his ribs. “Sure you can still fight?”

  Kelarre snorted. But then a crack ran up the door, and they all steeled themselves.

  The hidden door creaked open, and relief bloomed in Peer’s chest. But it died just as fast, when Dedrre, and Dedrre alone, entered the room.

  It was good of him to come, but one old man wasn’t going to tip the scale in their favor.

  “You, lad,” he said pointing at Kelarre. “Help me with this.”

  Peer’s attention darted between the rapidly fracturing door and the old inventor. Kelarre climbed into the passage, and soon returned with another of Dedrre’s silver canisters.

  “This one’s full,” the Adourran said. “You still have your gas masks?”

  Peer had tossed his aside as soon as it had seemed safe, desperate to be rid of the thing.

  “No,” Malc said.

  “Well, try not to breathe.”

  Kelarre jammed the device into the splintered chink in the door, then cranked the small wheel. Gas hissed through the valve.

  “Fall back,” a voice boomed. There passed a brief minute of clamorous confusion, and then the hallway turned quiet.

  “That ought to buy us a little more time,” Dedrre said.

  “Time won’t do us much good if Fernie don’t get here soon,” Peer grumbled. “Where the blighter is that boy?”

  “Not a boy,” came a new voice. “Full-grown man, thank you very much.”

  Fernie crawled through the opening, followed by Clea, Arlow, Ko-Jin, and—finally—Whythe. Peer hauled his husband into a one-armed hug, tension easing from his shoulders.

  He swept the group with grateful eyes. Peer noticed Ko-Jin first, his shrunken form and twisted posture, but he didn’t let his gaze linger. It seemed rude to stare.

  “Bit of a grim party you’ve invited us to, Gelson,” Arlow said, nodding to the pool of blood.

  Fernie scanned the mass of bodies with wide eyes. “So many…” His hand tugged through his hair. “Blighter, this is going to take ages.”

  “Better get started, then,” Ko-Jin said. “Let us know how we can help.”

  Fernie darted forward, choosing a man at random, and squinted down at him, brow creased in concentration. Beyond him, the first Chisanta sat up, still blinking groggily.

  “Focus on the soldiers first,” Peer said. “They’ve got orders to kill us all.” He looked around again, worry hitting him with force. “Wait, where’s Bray?”

  “She stayed back to protect the queen, Mae, and Yarrow,” Ko-Jin said. “Plus, she’s not exactly in fighting form at the moment.”

  “And you are?” Peer asked before he could stop himself.

  Ko-Jin flashed a dagger of a smile, then whipped his sword in a blinding and precise swirl of silver. “More so than you, friend.”

  “Is Yarrow still…?”

  “He’s back,” Ko-Jin said, his voice warming.

  Peer nodded. “Good.”

  Bray may have forgiven him for his role in Yarrow’s final sacrifice, but he hadn’t wholly forgiven himself. When this was all over, he would have words with Yarrow Lamhart. The man had some real nerve, leaving Bray like that—and dumping the blame in Peer’s lap.

  “People are waking,” Fernie shouted.

  “We should send them through the passage,” Ko-Jin said. “We won’t be able to secure this room indefinitely. Better to flee.”

  “Flee where?” Arlow asked.

  Ko-Jin pressed his lips together in thought. “We should get out of Accord, at least for now. Fernie can fix this, but it’ll take time.” His demeanor changed, shifting into the serious and critical expression of General Sung. “We need to block these windows. That’s where I’d attack next. And we’ve got to move these bodies aside while we still can, or they’ll be in the way.”

  “Cover the windows with what?” Peer asked, gazing around the vacant gallery. His eye caught upon the far wall, where heirloom shields bearing the Bellra crest hung. But there were only two of them.

  “The paintings,” Ko-Jin said, gesturing to the walls.

  “That’s not going to stop a bullet, lad,” Dedrre said.

  “No, but it’ll make it hard to aim, and it will stop an arrow. Better than nothing. Let’s get to work.”

  They flew into furious action, knowing that time was short. Fernie ran around the room, clearing minds one by one, while Clea guided the recently woken to the passageway. Malc, Kelarre, and Arlow moved the bodies away from the windows, saving them from falling glass and trampling feet.

  Meanwhile, Whythe, Ko-Jin, and a one-armed Peer pulled art and shields from the wall to block up the windows.

  “This is an atrocity,” Whythe grumbled.

  Peer glanced at the bodies on the floor—the ones which were not merely sleeping, like Ander Penton, who was turning grayer by the minute. “I know…” Peer said.

  But his bevolder was not gazing at the fallen Chisanta. His sad eyes were locked on the paintings they’d stacked as shields.

  Peer snorted. “Tell me you aren’t talkin’ bout the art.”


  Whythe sniffed. “Without culture, man cannot live—for life without art is no life at all.”

  This sounded like a quote Peer was meant to know, but didn’t. “People can always make more.”

  Whythe looked properly horrified, his hand flying to his heart. “How did I marry such a cultural slack-jaw?”

  Peer grinned and stole a quick kiss. “An illiterate cultural slack-jaw, I should probably mention. Lucky for me you can’t be takin’ it back, husband.” He winked.

  Someone touched his shoulder, and he spun, pulse surging. But it was only Roldon, his cheek red from being pressed against the floor. “Captain, what should we be doing?” he asked. The other bevolder pairs lingered just behind him, all looking fairly disoriented. Peer bowed his head to Trevva, and she nodded back. Avearra and Enton, who had always been uncomfortable with each other, now stood with their hands clasped.

  “Help clear the bulk of the Chisanta, guide ’em to the passageway.”

  “Maybe we want to stay and fight,” someone shouted from behind him.

  He didn’t bother to identify the speaker. The former Chisanta were all looking to him, so he raised his voice to include everyone. “These soldiers are brainwashed. We don’t want to kill ’em if we don’t have to. Let’s not have an unnecessary stand-off.”

  As if to punctuate this statement, a pistol discharged with a startling snap. A bullet whizzed by, piercing through both window pane and classical portrait.

  They all dropped to the floor, but none faster than a very pale Arlow Bowlerham. He must be feeling uncommonly vulnerable without his gift.

  “How’s it coming, Fernie?” Ko-Jin barked.

  “I’m finished,” he said. “I’m getting the hang of it, finally. It’s gotten easier.”

  “Think you can work through the window on men you can’t see?”

  Fernie squinted at the nearest stack of precious art, as if trying to see through to the other side. At length, he shook his head. “No. I need to see them.”

  Glass shattered, and soldiers shoved against the obstructions blocking the window.

  “You’re in luck, Fern. I think we’re about to see them.”

  The Chisanta flowed into the passageway, but they could only go one at a time, as it was a narrow entry. The soldiers who’d initially attacked, now awake and free from Quade’s compulsion, appeared at a loss. Peer didn’t know what to tell them. Help or stay out of the way.

  A stack of paintings went crashing to the floor. “Bevolders,” Peer called. “Each pair take a window.”

  They dispersed, one couple to each of the four windows—Roldon and Trevva, Malc and Wynn, Enton and Avearra—all prepared to hold the soldiers at bay until the gallery was cleared.

  “You ready?” he whispered to Whythe.

  His husband squeezed his hand. “I’m never ready.”

  But as they braced themselves for the fight, that familiar sense of connectedness sparked between them. He was as aware of Whythe’s hands as he was his own. He’d feared they might have lost this bond along with their marks, but no. The link between them snapped tight.

  They had been weakened today, but together they were still strong.

  We’re gonna live through this, Peer thought.

  And then the first of Quade’s soldiers crashed into the room.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  As soon as Ko-Jin and Arlow disappeared into the secret hatch, Yarrow let himself slump. Everything hurt, and not just where Quade had kicked him, cut him, or inflicted other types of ‘encouragement.’ Disuse had withered his body into something brittle and tremulous. Mere existence was painful, and he needed to do so much more than exist.

  His mind, too, felt leaden and fragmented. As a spirit he’d possessed perfect understanding and infinite knowledge. Now, everything was a muddle.

  Well, nearly everything.

  Bray.

  She had climbed out of his lap, which was a pity, but she hadn’t broken contact with him once since entering the room, as if afraid he might disappear again the moment she released him.

  Her face was sadder than it used to be. He had done that.

  Everyone had changed in his absence. It was disorienting, to see how much time had passed. Arlow had a son, currently cooing in his mother’s arms. Friends had gotten married, the city had, apparently, been transformed, seasons had come and gone, and all the while his body had wasted away.

  But Yarrow hadn’t the luxury to wait for his strength to return. He’d seen all the paths of the future—and though now, so much of what he’d known and understood as a spirit was slipping away—he remembered, quite clearly, what he must do next. What they must do next.

  “Help me up,” he said. “Please.”

  Bray took his hand, and slowly, haltingly, he rose to his feet. Lightheadedness crashed into him, and his leg muscles quivered, threatening to give way. He closed his eyes and waited for everything to steady.

  “Take it slow,” Bray said.

  “I can’t,” Yarrow said. “We need to go. Now.”

  “Go where?” Bray asked.

  He opened his eyes and met her emerald stare. She was such a fierce creature. Every time he looked at her, he fell in love all over again. “You know where.”

  Her demeanor hardened. “We’ll go after him. I have no intention of letting that man remain at large. But not right away. You aren’t ready.” Her left hand danced to her wrapped arm, held stiffly to her chest. “I might not be ready either.”

  There was a swollen bruise forming on her jaw, and her wrist was plainly broken. He wondered what other injuries she carried that he could not see, physical or otherwise. He wished they had the time to heal, together.

  “Quade is going to carve a path of destruction across the nation, and then he’ll destroy the Confluence. He can travel faster than us. If we don’t leave now, we’ll never catch up with him in time.”

  Her gaze darted between his eyes, measuring him. “I don’t know if the two of us can handle Quade on our own, even if we were at full health. Without our gifts…”

  “We can,” he said. He slipped his arm around her shoulder, so she could help bear his weight. He couldn’t stand unaided for long. “I’ve seen all the ways this story can end. And we can.”

  “So we win?” she asked, her russet brow arching in question.

  Yarrow tried to recall what he’d seen of the future, and he was overcome with vertigo and nausea. He caught only flashes of what had so recently been clear: Quade killed, Bray killed, Yarrow killed, and assorted other permutations. An infinitude of outcomes, branching from the countless decisions they could yet make.

  “That isn’t certain,” he said. “But we can. It’s more than possible. If we leave now.”

  She still hesitated. “If we could just wait for Peer, or even Ko-Jin…”

  “They’re going to be busy for a while. Besides, the Chisanta need Peer, and Ko-Jin has better things in store for him than a trip to Adourra.”

  He knew he sounded mad, but he was so certain. Or, at least, he remembered feeling certain when he’d known more, even if he could no longer explain his rationale.

  Bray appeared on the verge of relenting, but her attention darted to the queen and the prince, who were still peacefully slumbering. “We promised to keep them safe.”

  “I can do that,” Mae called to them. The babe in her arm made a noise that sounded like agreement. “They don’t seem to be interested in non-Chisanta, anyway.”

  “If you’re sure…” Bray said, a question in her voice.

  Mae crossed the room, pulled a small coin purse from her pocket, and pressed it into Bray’s palm. “Funds for travel. You go and get the bastard. For my brother.”

  Bray hefted the bag, surprised at its weight. “Should I ask where this money came from?”

  “Not if there are answers that’d upset your sensibilities.”

  Bray exhaled derisively through her nose. “Alright. Tell Peer and the others where we went, will you?”
And then, with a sidelong look at Yarrow. “You’re sure you’re ready?”

  Yarrow was having difficulty keeping his knees locked. He felt like a newborn foal—all shivery, over-long limbs he’d yet to master. But he nodded anyway.

  Bray wrapped her one free arm around his waist and they began their slow descent down the winding stairway.

  Yarrow could hear the sounds of violence nearby: the shattering of glass, the discharging of pistols, the desperate cries of men bent on slaughter. But their way was mercifully clear. Bray led him through a side door, rather than passing through the main foyer, and they spilled out into the palace gardens.

  It was night. Yarrow tipped his head back to admire the star-bright sky. “You know, it’s always daytime in the Spirit’s Home.”

  “Is it?” she asked. Her breath was labored from carrying so much of his weight. “What does it look like?”

  He described it to her—the white sand beach, the jungle full of disembodied whispers, the impossible crystal spire—but his words were too weak to paint a proper picture.

  “Adearre says hello,” he said softly. It seemed unfair that Yarrow should have gotten his life back, while Adearre was stuck in the land beyond. Still waiting for glimpses of his friends’ lives, as they moved on and aged and thought of him less and less.

  Bray stumbled. “You’ve spoken with Adearre?”

  He hoped that their friend was allowed to see this moment—to see the heartache and longing in Bray’s expression. Adearre had been gone a long time, but he was not forgotten.

  “He was waiting for me when I arrived,” Yarrow said. “You’ll see him again, too.”

  “Good,” she said, trying to sound brisk, but not managing it. “I can’t wait to tell him off for his idiotic heroism.” They continued their slow trek, and she added in a smaller voice, “And for leaving me here.”

  Yarrow swallowed against the lump in his throat. He understood her meaning. He, too, had chosen to leave her. This was the worst kind of pain: to see how deeply he had wounded the person he loved most.