Elevation of the Marked (The Marked Series Book 2)

by March McCarron

  Yarrow seemed not to even notice. He closed his eyes and with a pop, he was gone—they were all gone.

  Arlow stared at the bare floor for a time, too stunned and horrified to speak, until he heard the clatter of Mae’s pistol hitting the floor.

  She trembled from head to foot. “I never killed no one before.” She gazed up at him with gleaming eyes. “Did I do wrong? She said…”

  Arlow pulled her to his chest and stroked the back of her head. “You didn’t know any better,” he said. “It isn’t your fault.”

  She trembled beneath him. His own hands shook.

  “Who was she?” Mae asked into the fabric of his coat.

  “A girl I knew once,” he heard himself answer, his gaze trained on the bloody stain on the carpet.

  Bray’s blood.

  Spirits, help us.

  11

  Yarrow rested Bray upon a pebbly shore. Her head lolled.

  The sound of water lapping, birds trilling in a nearby wood, caused him to glance around, half in a daze and blinded by tears. The Painted Mere, thousands of multicolored stones beneath glass-clear water, stretched out before him. He had brought them there, clearly, though he couldn’t recall making that decision.

  Bray remained still, her lips gray. Yarrow pressed tremulous fingers to her neck and searched for a pulse. He forced his eyes closed and bowed his head. Her heart beat, but softly, sluggishly, like a parting whisper.

  Yarrow balled his fists, fingernails digging into palms, and punched the ground. He threw his head back, desperation, hot and wild, clawing like a living thing trapped within him.

  Peer bent over her, weeping. “Bray,” he howled, “you can’t be leaving me, too.” He shook her, as if to rouse her from sleep. Her arm fell from her chest to the ground, fingers curled lifelessly towards the sky.

  Yarrow wanted to scream, to tear his hair out, to set the world on fire.

  She was dying.

  His Bray was dying.

  He gazed out across the lake and could not help but recollect the last time they had been there. A sob broke painfully from his chest.

  His mind thrust a slew of other memories to the fore of his thoughts, like a slideshow: Bray in that green ball dress, stunningly annoyed at her footwear; Bray, at fourteen, whispering secrets as they lay in the grass at night; Bray’s lips against his own.

  No. He stood. I will not allow her to die.

  He had barely formed the opening stance, Warm Hands over Fire, when he found himself thrown into the Aeght a Seve, as if sheer willpower had propelled him there.

  The Place of Five looked as ever: sunny, breezy, deceptively peaceful. Only, Yarrow did not appear in the grassy center, as he had for so many years. Rather, he materialized on the first stony ledge, the location of his last sacrifice.

  He gazed up at the next tier—it seemed impossibly high, but he knew now that did not matter.

  He inhaled and forced his shaking hands into fists. Think: touch.

  This was easy. There were a thousand kinds of touch: friendly handshakes, motherly kisses, lustful grasps. But he needn’t think of anything other than that afternoon in Cagsglow. That was the epitome of physical touch—the best it could ever possibly be.

  He made himself relive it for a moment: the smooth feel of her skin beneath his fingers, her lips grazing his own, that explosion of tender pleasure.

  It would be a torture, to never feel her flesh against his own again. But there was no hesitation. What would be the point of living without her? The ability to touch was nothing at all, a trifle, when weighed against her life.

  He lowered himself and, with all the drive and focus his Spirit possessed, he leapt. He landed on the next ledge with surprising ease. The moment his back hit the stone he felt it: the loss, the gain.

  He ripped himself back into the present. Peer was still draped over her form, his hands pressed to the wound in a vain effort to stem the bleeding.

  Yarrow shoved him aside to kneel beside Bray’s limp form. He suspended his hands above her, palms flat. A peculiar warmth rushed through him, a heat that pooled somewhere in his core and raced to his fingertips. A light shone from his palms—golden, brilliant.

  The gaping hole in her chest shrank, sealing itself back together before Yarrow’s very eyes, until the skin was once again intact. Her lungs sucked in a great, wheezing breath. Relief suffused him, so sweet it hurt.

  She blinked, looking around in wonder. “Yarrow?”

  “Bray!” Peer breathed. He barged past Yarrow and hauled Bray into a fierce hug. Yarrow feared he’d hurt her, but she grinned and thumped his back, pressing her face to his shoulder and squeezing her eyes shut.

  “But,” she marveled at her newly whole body, “I was shot.”

  “Yarrow healed you,” Peer said, and he looked up at Yarrow with an expression of unspeakable gratitude.

  Bray laughed. “Even my cold is gone.” She reached a hand up to caress Yarrow’s face and he jerked back from her fingers.

  Her russet brows drew down in confusion, and then he watched as understanding crossed her countenance, followed by a deep pain. The animation drained from her.

  “Oh, Yarrow,” she whispered, pulling her hand back to her chest, tears in her eyes.

  Yarrow turned away and blinked. He blocked out her feelings from his mind. It was a grief they would both bear, to love each other and yet never touch again.

  “I’m just happy you’re alive,” he whispered, the force of truth behind his words.

  Arlow considered the familiar cityscape through the window as the train approached Accord. He’d not been gone from the capital long, and yet it felt an age.

  Across from him, Mae stared into her lap, pale and quiet. As she seemed disinclined to speak, he would, at least, respect her desire for silence. He understood too well the weight of fresh blood on one’s hands.

  The image of the throne room as he had come to consciousness after the assassination came to his mind. All those young men—maimed, dying, dead. His doing, all of it.

  The compartment door glided open and Arlow jerked from his reverie. A tentative Adourran lad poked his head into the compartment. “Mr. Asher would like to see you.”

  The boy looked downright terrified at the prospect. His gaze flitted between Arlow and the hallway.

  “I take it he is displeased to have lost his prisoner.”

  The boy’s eyes bulged. “I think so, but he is mostly upset about the Fifth.” His voice softened confidentially. “Real upset.”

  Arlow could not imagine an upset Quade. The man wore his mask of benign pleasantness so faultlessly, one might be foolish enough to believe there was nothing beneath.

  Arlow stood and Mae rose as well. He placed a hand on her shoulder. “You should stay here.”

  Mae’s brow dimpled. “Not likely.”

  Arlow glanced to the lad, then leaned in to whisper in Mae’s ear, “If Quade knows you are here, he may use you as leverage against your brother.”

  She sucked in her bottom lip and surveyed his face critically before agreeing. She then plopped back down on the seat, resuming her look of numb disinterest.

  He frowned down at her for a moment, uneasy. “I won’t be long.”

  Arlow followed the youth—though from behind he didn’t look so young; he must be nearly as tall as Yarrow. They half-jogged down the hallway and into the next carriage.

  The atmosphere in each car was just the same: charged with tension. It did little to calm Arlow’s rattled nerves. The Elevated all shared a wide-eyed apprehension, as if waiting for an unpleasant eventuality. Arlow wondered what sort of punishment Quade would mete out. Poor bastards.

  They halted before Quade’s compartment and the Adourran gestured for him to enter.

  “Not joining me?” Arlow asked with a smirk.

  The lad shook his head, eyes bulging at the mere idea. “Good luck,” he whispered.

  Arlow took a fortifying breath and rapped the door with his knuckles.

  “
Come,” Quade’s deep voice commanded.

  Arlow slid the door open and entered, utterly unprepared for what he’d see within.

  Quade sat on a bed, the covers of which were tangled and dangling to the floor. In his lap, he cradled the head of the Fifth. She was plainly dead—her lips, for the first time in Arlow’s presence, still and silent, curved in the hint of a smile.

  Quade stroked the girl’s hair and gazed down into her vacant green eyes.

  “She’s gone,” Quade said at length, his voice having a certain strangled quality. “My sweet girl, my very first child, gone.”

  Quade inspected Arlow and beckoned him closer. Arlow took a few wavering steps, thoroughly uncomfortable. Quade’s eyes held a wildness—unsettling, yet it reached a part of Arlow, evoked pity.

  “She’s in a better place,” Arlow offered weakly.

  Quade glared, and Arlow’s knees trembled. “Her place was with me. There is no better place.” He glanced back down at her still form. “By the Spiritblighter, I will kill them all for this: Lamhart, Marron—”

  “Is already dead,” Arlow cut in.

  Quade stilled. “Bray Marron is dead? How?”

  “Shot.”

  “By whom?” Quade whispered.

  Arlow licked his lips. “Myself.”

  Quade scrutinized him lingeringly, and then the muscles in his face seemed to slacken. He held out a hand to Arlow—a hand that was covered in dried blood and had several long dark hairs entwined around the fingers. Arlow pushed his disgust aside and took the proffered palm in his own.

  Quade squeezed and did not let go. The contact sent a wave of pleasure through Arlow’s body, a warmth that eased the hurts he bore. “You would not deceive me, Arlow?” Quade pierced him with kind, brown eyes.

  “Never,” he choked out.

  “You came to me, Arlow, when so few have. You are special to me. Dear. Remember that.”

  Arlow felt a blush creep up his neck. “Thank you.”

  “You care for me, do you not, Arlow?”

  “Of course.” Arlow moved closer. “Of course I care for you.”

  “When my enemies try to take you from me, you will not allow it, will you? They are always taking from me, and I could not bear to lose you.”

  “You won’t lose me.”

  “You are mine?”

  “Yes,” Arlow breathed. “Yes, I am yours.”

  “Good. Now tell me about the Pauper’s King.”

  Arlow thrilled at the idea of offering useful information. “He is mightily piqued you took his pickpockets. He wants me to help discover their location.”

  Quade ran a finger along Arlow’s cheekbone and the touch reminded him of how he’d felt as a boy when his mother would cover his face with light, lovely kisses: adored and safe.

  “I have given the poor work, shelter, and food. I should think the man would be grateful with fewer mouths to feed.”

  “Yes, I am sure he is grateful.”

  Quade retracted his hand. “Thank you, Arlow.”

  It was a dismissal; Arlow felt cold and empty at the prospect of leaving. He wanted to stay, tried to think of what other information he could give.

  “That will be all,” Quade added crisply.

  Arlow bobbed his head and retreated, the warmth of Quade’s company quickly replaced with a cold, hollow emptiness.

  “Well?” Mae asked, as he rejoined her in their compartment.

  “Well what?”

  “What did’ya learn?”

  Arlow felt the train begin to slow as they entered the city. He wished Mae would leave and give him some peace. “Nothing.”

  The city was better off without thieves and degenerates. Quade had the right of it. Who cared where they were? Not he. No, certainly not he.

  Ko-Jin’s calves itched to go faster, to take wing. This loping, measured pace chafed like a shackle.

  At his side, Jo-Kwan’s breath heaved and his face was flushed. His strides had grown uneven, his arms slack. “How,” he gasped, “many more?”

  “As many as you can handle.”

  “And if,” he began to stumble, but caught himself, “I say this is it?”

  “Then you’re a liar. You’ve got more in you.”

  Jo-Kwan spared him a look that was half loathing, half pleading. “Bastard.”

  Ko-Jin grinned. If you didn’t hate your trainer a bit, they weren’t pushing you hard enough.

  They were running laps around the cottage rather than down on the beach. If Yarrow and Bray needed his help, he wanted to be near at hand. He couldn’t, however, bring himself to just sit and wait. He required movement.

  It was maddening, to be left behind. He felt so useless, expendable.

  Jo-Kwan was falling behind him, flagging steadily. Ko-Jin knew he should slow down, keep his pace to something the king could reasonably match. But he couldn’t bring himself to hold back any longer. His body demanded unleashing.

  He shifted from jog to sprint in a few paces, accelerating until his legs burned and his heart galloped, the wind whipping around him as if he flew. Arms pumping, legs flying, the rhythm of footfall and breath—all synchronicity.

  Ko-Jin hurtled along the ridge of the crag, back around the side of the cottage. Soon he was upon Jo-Kwan again.

  “You know I can’t—”

  The king had no time to finish his sentence; Ko-Jin had already darted past. There was an ecstasy in running, a moment when bodily fatigue vanished, when one felt invincible, glorious. All fears of inadequacy were, in those moments, laughable. It was a drug, and Ko-Jin knew himself to be as hooked as any addict.

  But he must stop, he knew he must. He could not push his body to its limit, not when he had people to protect. He’d be of little use to anyone if he allowed his legs to turn to jelly. It was an unfortunate irony—that he felt strongest when he was breaking himself down, rendering himself weak.

  He slowed as he ran up behind the king again, returning to a jog. The king turned a ruddy face to him, his weary limbs swinging more haphazardly as his endurance withered. “Show-off,” he huffed.

  Ko-Jin smiled. He’d been called a show-off more times than he could count—by Arlow, mostly—but this accusation was a misunderstanding of his character. It was fear, not arrogance, that pushed him. Fear that, no matter how strong he appeared, the feebleness he was born to lingered within him still.

  “That’s enough for today,” he said, when he knew that Jo-Kwan was beyond his limit.

  “Thank the Spirits,” Jo-Kwan said, promptly collapsing onto the grass, chest heaving. “I had such a stitch.”

  “Good,” Ko-Jin said. “Learning to push yourself through pain is important.”

  “I am not convinced you feel pain.”

  Ko-Jin snorted. “Go get some water, Highness.”

  “You go a lot easier on my sister. You stopped before she even asked.”

  “That’s because she’s too stubborn to admit she needs to stop. You don’t seem to have that problem.”

  Jo-Kwan’s face, already ruddy, turned redder. His dark eyes flashed, but he remained mute, no doubt resolving to never complain again. Good.

  “She has been gone a while,” Jo-Kwan said. “Bray.”

  Instinctively, Ko-Jin turned towards the west, towards Yarrow and Bray. “Not long enough to worry. Water, then some of those nuts. You need the energy.”

  The king sighed and forced himself up off the ground. He traipsed like a drunk man towards the cottage. Ko-Jin smirked, wondering how he would react to the next step: a plunge into the cold ocean to help prevent injury.

  He jammed his fists in his pockets and rocked on his feet. He felt tight, unsatisfied. The desire to do something was overwhelming. All of this hiding, this physical preparation for future fights, it had him in mind of a tiger at the zoo, pacing the confines of its cage.

  Through the window, he glimpsed Fernie and Chae-Na preparing dinner. The slight, blond-haired lad positively jumped to do her bidding—running to grab a cutting board
, throwing away scraps, hovering in case she required anything more. Ko-Jin chuckled; the kid had something of a puppy-dog crush, clearly. At least he wasn’t weeping any longer.

  Finally, Ko-Jin permitted himself to glance at his watch. He had resolved not to be concerned until they had been gone for over two hours, which meant he was not allowed to worry for twelve more minutes. Until then, he would think of other things. He flexed his hand, rocked on his heels some more.

  Blight it. He dropped to the ground and began doing push-ups. One, two, three…

  He kept his body perfectly rigid, his palms wide, toes pressed into the ground, as he levered his body up and down, up and down, enjoying the slow burn building in his biceps and abdomen. Fifty, fifty-one, fifty-two…

  He squeezed his eyes shut with relief when he at last heard the sound he’d been waiting for—a sharp pop.

  He hopped to his feet. “About ti—”

  Ko-Jin froze when he caught sight of Yarrow, shoulders hunched and alone. Not good.

  Jo-Kwan and Chae-Na raced out of the back door, trailed by their new Elevated friend. They all stood silent for a second, too fearful to ask the obvious question.

  Yarrow’s coat was soaked with blood, but even more alarming was the look on his face: his eyes, red-rimmed, betrayed a frantic air that was decidedly un-Yarrow.

  “What’s happened, man?” Ko-Jin finally asked. “Did you find Peer?”

  Yarrow approached him but stopped short. He seemed confused, distracted. “Peer is safe. Bray was shot, though.”

  “What?” Jo-Kwan half-shouted.

  “She’s alright,” Yarrow said, looking out over the ocean. A seagull cawed and glided overhead. Yarrow seemed more interested in the bird’s progress than in continuing his story. “I healed her.” He lowered his voice, began speaking to his boots. “Should have seen it coming, really. It was in my name all along. Yarrow. Yarrow stops the bleeding.”

  “You healed her?” Jo-Kwan asked, nonplussed.

  Yarrow bared his teeth in the mockery of a smile, his eyes flat. “I’ve got a new gift, you see. It means I won’t be able to teleport the others back with me. We’ll have to go the old-fashioned way. The teleportation requires skin-to-skin contact.”