The Complete Marked Series Box Set

by March McCarron

  “You two look familiar,” the man said, his hand inching towards his back, where he no doubt had a concealed blade. “You wouldn’t happen to be Chi—”

  Fernie scrubbed his mind. Quade had deep roots in this one, so it took some mental strength to tear him lose. Sweat bloomed on Fernie’s brow.

  The Adourran’s whole countenance changed. “What…?”

  Fernie repeated his speech, his tone bland and rote.

  “Name and address?” Clea asked, pen poised in her journal.

  It was an imperfect plan. Unlike the quarantine, there was no way to prevent people from walking off and becoming contaminated again, except to make them aware of the dangers and hope they possessed a sense of self-preservation.

  Not perfect, but this solution was the best they could think of, given the circumstances. They could hardly isolate everyone in the city for five days.

  No, he would just have to make several passes. He would beat back Quade’s presence again and again, until no trace remained.

  He thought that perhaps Ko-Jin might have dreamed up a more efficient answer to this problem. But Ko-Jin was gone, gone, gone.

  Fernie missed him.

  “Next,” Clea said.

  Another hour passed, until Fernie’s head ached so sharply he couldn’t hold back a grimace. To his surprise, Clea’s cool fingertips danced across his brow. His eyes fluttered closed. “You look like you’re in pain,” she said.

  “Just a headache.”

  “I think we should stop. This is going to be a long process, longer still if you push yourself too hard.”

  Fernie swallowed. He was torn between wanting to protest, for the sake of appearing tough and undaunted, and wanting this day to be over.

  He also would like it if she continued to touch his face. But her hand dropped, leaving his brow cold and bereft.

  Clea took matters into her own hands. “Those of you still waiting, we apologize but we’re closing for the day. We will be here again tomorrow morning at seven.”

  The crowd grumbled, but with a guard posted they would make no real trouble. The security, ostensibly, was to protect the food. But Chae-Na had insisted upon it to keep Fernie safe. If we lose you, Quade might yet win. You’re too important to risk, Fernie.

  His chest swelled at the thought, and a smile quivered on his lips. It was nice to be valued.

  Fernie, Clea, and the palace guard packed up the provisions and loaded them into their carriage. As he worked, the pain in his head receded, and he felt a new wave of energy.

  Perhaps he and Clea might spend some time together before turning in. He tried to think what she might like best. A walk by moonlight, perhaps?

  The hair on Fernie’s arms stood on end, and his neck prickled. He had the sudden, certain sense that he was being watched.

  He straightened, spinning in a slow circle. A slight movement from above caught his attention. Someone was crouched on the fire escape above him; someone wearing a hood to conceal their identity.

  Something metallic flashed in the lamplight. Fernie dived into Clea, taking them both to the street.

  There came the report of a pistol, and a bullet struck the road-top. His heart tripped in his chest, and Clea squirmed out from beneath him, her eyes wide.

  “Come on,” he said, grabbing her hand. They darted across the alley, briefly exposing themselves. A second shot rang out, and Fernie heard it strike near his feet. He kept running.

  “Get back,” he called to the guard.

  He ducked behind a trash bin, still clutching Clea’s hand. He could feel the frantic flitting of her pulse at her wrist. “Is it someone carrying out Quade’s orders?” Clea whispered. “Someone who knows we’re Chisanta?”

  Fernie narrowed his eyes, gaze directed at their assailant. “I don’t think so,” he said. “I don’t get the impression that Quade is strongly in their mind.”

  “What now?” she asked, her breathing rapid. “You know, I really miss my gift…”

  Fernie snorted, though he wasn’t sure why that should be funny. Personally, he was quite happy to have lost his gift. There was no blessing like an imperfect memory.

  He and Clea were no longer special—they had no supernatural gifts, no heightened physical abilities. But then, whoever was trying to kill them couldn’t be special, either. It was just a regular person with a gun. And they only had four rounds left.

  “Stay here,” he said.

  “Where are you going?” she hissed after him.

  Fernie grabbed the lid of the trash bin to use as a shield. He had no confidence it would actually stop a bullet, but it seemed better than nothing.

  He held the disk of metal up to protect his head, and he dashed across the alley again. Three shots fired, one right after another, sounding like corn popping over a campfire. Fernie cringed as he ran, but nothing hit him. He ducked underneath the fire escape. Their assassin was straight overhead, and he had only one bullet left.

  Assuming Fernie wasn’t allowing him time to reload. And that the bloke didn’t have more than one revolver, like Peer Gelson. Don’t be so pessimistic.

  A bucket of old, rusted cleaning supplies leaned against the side of the building, including a sad-looking broom. Fernie peeled off his vest, hung it on the end of that grainy shaft of wood, and edged it out from underneath the stairway.

  A gunshot fired, and Fernie ran. He rounded the corner and leapt up the stairs.

  His assailant was scrambling to reload, still crouched on the top of the fire escape. The sight sent a flood of relief through Fernie, who had half expected to be riddled with holes.

  Bullets scattered, rolling away from a pair of shaking hands. They hit the street below with a merry tinkling, like a bell.

  Ko-Jin would have told this assassin to defend his high ground. Situational awareness can save your life, Fern.

  Fernie barreled into the hooded figure. The pistol skittered across the steps and clattered down to the road. As they landed, air shot from both their lungs.

  The hood fell back, revealing a familiar face.

  Fernie’s insides twisted. “You,” he hissed.

  He drew back his fist, but his assailant bucked beneath him and he lost his balance.

  “Me,” Britt agreed, her freckled face harsh and determined. “Quade will thank me.”

  “Quade’s about to be too dead to thank anyone, you bleeding psycho,” Fernie said.

  Even without his gift, he would never forget the sight of kind-hearted Jo-Kwan with his neck sliced wide, nor Chae-Na’s empty-eyed devastation after Quade’s assault. Britt had orchestrated both those events. And for what?

  They grappled in the ineffective way only two former Cosanta could, all evasions and shifting momentum. She got the better of him, and he was swept onto his back. His head slammed into the metal stair, and he saw stars.

  A blade flashed above him. “Goodbye, Fernard. You didn’t deserve him.”

  He screwed his eyes closed, raising his arms to shield his face. A resounding blast split the air.

  When no life-ending pain arrived, Fernie peeked through his squinted eyelids.

  Britt, still straddling him, stared confusedly at a hole in her shirtfront. Blood streaked down her chest, and she wavered, collapsing on top of Fernie. He shuddered and pushed her aside, his whole body shaking.

  Clea stood on the nearest step, Britt’s fallen pistol held in her steady hands. The wind stirred her straight, silver hair, and she looked like a saving spirit. A heroine.

  “Nice timing,” he croaked.

  She lowered the weapon. “Let’s go back to the palace.”

  “Good idea.”

  Fernie glanced down at his bloody clothes and hands. He tried to wipe the red away on his trousers, but it seemed a losing battle.

  He descended the fire escape on shaky legs. His mood was wild and a little giddy.

  He saluted his guard. “Well done, gentlemen.” Their stricken expressions only made him laugh. “Just joking. Carry on.”
/>   He climbed into their carriage, and Clea slid in beside him. For a girl who had just shot a woman in the chest, she seemed remarkably calm.

  “You’re alright,” he said, and it sounded more statement than question.

  “I don’t think that one’s going to weigh on my spirit,” Clea answered primly.

  “Good. It shouldn’t.”

  The carriage set off, conveying them through dark city streets. “Think we’re the only ones left in Accord now?” he asked.

  He was thinking of the Chisanta. Or rather, the former Chisanta. They had all gone to the Temple together. Fernie envied them.

  This task before him—ridding the world of Quade—it might take most of his life. The man could teleport. He had touched all three nations; his poison was everywhere.

  Fernie could just imagine himself, some doddering old-timer, traveling from town to town, still fighting a battle with a long-dead man.

  “Us and Arlow,” Clea said.

  “Right,” Fernie agreed.

  Arlow was a prince now, so he wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon. He, Mae, Chae-Na, and Veldon had been just as busy as Fernie, putting to rights a nation in turmoil.

  It had been only five days, but already the city was coming alive. Stores were re-opening, farmers had come to sell goods at market, and the trains were running. It was beginning to feel like the war was actually over.

  Fernie frowned at Clea. “Why are you here?”

  He hadn’t thought to ask. She’d stayed, and he’d been glad, but never considered why.

  She laughed. “Why am I here?” she mimicked, making the question sound ruder than he’d intended it. “You really are dim sometimes, Fernie.”

  “Can’t argue with that,” he said. “But, really, why are you here? In Accord, I mean. Why not go with the others?”

  “Because I wanted to stay,” she said lightly. And then she pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

  A blush spread from the spot, until his whole face was blazing. He cleared his throat. “Well, good.”

  She laughed. “Well, good.”

  And Fernie grinned.

  The tie he felt to Quade tugged on him less and less. The man was out there still, but not for long. Fernie had no doubt that Bray Marron would put him down. She was one scary lady.

  It wouldn’t be long, now.

  Accord was free of Quade Asher, and soon Fernie would be too.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Yarrow crossed the deck of the ship, breathing deep the sea air. With his legs strengthening by the day, brief walks no longer winded him. The painful spasms in his muscles did not come so often, either. He was much improved in such short time.

  Still, it would be no easy journey across the desert to Nerra. He had no illusions about what lay before him. This was, after all, his third time making the pilgrimage.

  Which sounded straight out of an old folktale, like the ones his ma used to tell. A hero must always do a thing thrice, in tales like those.

  He leaned into the rail, squinting through the mist that blanketed the sea. The shores of Adourra had come into view several hours before, but now everything was shrouded.

  Yarrow bit his lip, gaze distant, and drummed his fingers against the wood. The first beat, when only one finger struck the railing, sounded like an off-note in a song. It drew his attention, and he stared down at the scarred stub on his right hand. He closed his fist.

  “Captain says within the hour,” Bray said, appearing at his side.

  She reclined against the taffrail, her shoulder pressing against his own. Their fingers nearly grazed, and in a panic, he snatched his hand away. It was a habit he was having a difficult time breaking—he was terrified of causing pain with his touch.

  She grabbed his hand and interlaced their fingers, and he sighed. This was the one benefit of his now-unfounded fear: every time he remembered he could touch her, it was like a fresh gift. She must have felt the same. They’d been doing rather a lot of touching, all things considered.

  “Wonder what he’s left for me this time,” Bray said in a bleak voice.

  He squeezed her fingers. “Nothing good, I’d imagine.”

  They stood in silence, remembering. Quade had not just cut a bloody path across Daland, he’d taunted them. Or, rather, he’d taunted Bray.

  Every time they found some poor, slaughtered civilian branded with her name, Yarrow watched another piece of her break. In Andle, Quade had slain six girls and left Bray a message scrawled in their blood: ‘Have saved them from their uncles. Will you thank me for it, Bray Marron?’

  “How does he know just where to poke; just which wounds go the deepest?” she murmured.

  “He has a talent for misery.”

  “I’m so tired,” she said, and sounded it.

  “I know.” He folded her into an embrace, resting his chin on the top of her head. She wrapped her arms around his waist and burrowed into his chest.

  Yarrow didn’t need his former gift to read her exhaustion. It was a deeper thing than physical weariness. She was tired in spirit. He only hoped her heart could rest soon.

  There was little hope of that today, however. Today, they would find whatever new horror Quade had left them in Che Mire. Yarrow dreaded this discovery; he held Bray tighter.

  The sun cut through the clouds, and all at once the day brightened, dispersing the fog. Che Mire appeared, golden in the late-evening light.

  “We should gather provisions and set out tonight. Sleep during the day, like last time.”

  He nodded. It was always disorienting to remember the months after he’d made the third sacrifice, when he’d been a different version of himself. It was like having someone else’s memories stashed in his own head.

  She measured him with her eyes. “Are you sure you’re up for this?”

  “What would you say if I weren’t?” he asked.

  “That you could wait here for me. I remember the way.”

  “I have the energy,” he said, forcing a weak laugh. “We’ll get a camel. I recall how fond you were of them.”

  She clucked her tongue. “So impudent.”

  The deckhands ran to and fro, shouting in Adourran, their feet pounding against the deck. The dock approached.

  “Do you know how this ends?” she asked softly.

  “No,” he said.

  Yarrow had seen all the possibilities as a spirit, but summoning that knowledge was like trying to remember a dream. The harder he focused on it, the more the details slipped away.

  Bray sighed, pulling free from his arms. “Well then, I suppose there’s just one way to find out…”

  They collected their belongings, said farewell to the captain, and disembarked. The firm planking of the dock seemed to shift beneath Yarrow’s feet, and he threw out his hands to regain balance.

  “Yarrow,” Bray said, her tone a warning.

  The docks were overcrowded, with everyone staring in the same direction—toward a ship, not properly docked but floating near the pier.

  Yarrow swallowed as he took in the sight: hanging from nooses over the side of the railing, the crew looked almost like ornamentation. Their bodies thunked against the hull of the ship in a sick rhythm, their clothes whipping in the wind.

  And the mast bore a message, written in dripping black ink: ‘Why so far behind?’

  Bray stared fixedly at the gruesome prospect, drinking it in through slitted eyes. Her posture was rigid, her jaw clamped tight.

  “He would do this even if we weren’t following,” Yarrow said in an undertone.

  “I know.” Her glassy gaze swiveled to his face. “I know that. But it’s still just so…”

  “Terrible,” Yarrow said. “Yes.”

  “We better get going,” she said, once again sounding weary and dispirited. He reached for her hand, to comfort her, but she was already on the move.

  They marched up the docks until they came across a trio of constables, who had their heads bent in close conversation. One of them darted gl
ances at the ship, his face hard with grief.

  “Excuse me,” Bray said, loud enough to snatch their attention. “Do any of you speak Dalish?”

  “Little,” one said, pinching his forefinger and thumb to indicate the breadth of his knowledge.

  Bray gestured to the pier. “When did this boat arrive? How long has it been here?”

  The Adourran constable considered, parsing her words and searching for his own to reply. “Two day,” he said. “Or little fewer.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  She began to stride past, but the constable stopped her with a hand. “About this, you know?”

  She shied from his touch, but met his eye. “No, I was only curious.”

  Yarrow and Bray continued into town. “You lied,” Yarrow said, faintly surprised.

  “They would have held us for questioning. No time for honesty, I’m afraid.”

  “Right,” he said. “Well, let’s buy what we need. I won’t be able to teleport for water this time, so we must bring more than enough.”

  “It would be truly irritating to defeat Quade and then die of thirst on the return trip,” Bray agreed.

  They purchased provisions, the process taking longer than Bray would like. She radiated impatience. Much to her annoyance, the camel proved the most trying factor.

  Last time, they had paid to travel with a caravan for much of the journey and taken the final stretch on foot. This time, they needed to set a more aggressive pace. And one could not rent a pack animal in Che Mire.

  “I can’t believe I own you, camel,” Bray grumbled, frowning into the dull brown eyes of their transport.

  “Perhaps she’ll grow on you,” Yarrow said, fighting against a smile.

  Bray surprised him with a kiss. Like every kiss they’d shared since his unexpected return, it reduced his bones to jelly and his mind to mush.

  “Perhaps,” she said with a smirk. “You did, after all.”

  The desert stretched long before them, and they set out into the arid night, holding on to what good humor they could.