Elevation of the Marked (The Marked Series Book 2)

by March McCarron

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “And what did Ko-Jin think?”

  “He wet himself.”

  She let out a loud laugh before she could stop herself, then slapped her hand over her mouth. “Sorry, inappropriate reaction.”

  Yarrow’s eyes danced and his lip twitched. “If you can’t laugh at a grown man pissing himself, what can you laugh at?” He visibly struggled to regain his seriousness. “Probably don’t mention it to him though.”

  Bray sighed and patted the blankets. “Alright, come back to bed. I won’t try it again.”

  “We can never be like we were,” he said, sadness coating each syllable. “I need your word. I won’t be able to sleep by you otherwise.”

  She thought of the time, not so long ago, when she had asked Yarrow for the very same thing—his word. She fought back a smirk. “I make it a general practice to defer to wisdom and experience.”

  He laughed at hearing his own words thrown back at him and yielded, returning to their hollow of blankets. Bray rested her head on his chest and listened to the rhythm of his breathing. She watched the lazy progress of a firefly, but within she kept hearing his recent proclamation: We can never be like we were. Her eyes burned with unshed tears. It was so utterly unfair…

  His hand traced soothing circles into her back through the fabric of her coat and dress. She consoled herself—at least they had that, contact through the veil of fabric. Then inspiration struck.

  She reached into her coat and pulled out the scarf she had used to cover her mouth atop the train.

  “What are you—”

  “Trust me.”

  She draped the fabric across the lower half of his face and she saw the moment his eyes switched from confusion to comprehension.

  She lowered her lips to his, felt the warmth and shape of them beneath the thin fabric. He responded with enthusiasm, taking her face in his hands, and now the warmth of the skin beneath seemed to burn through the leather. They kissed until her lips began to chafe against the rough fabric. Must get a silk handkerchief.

  Feeling more content, she lay back down, tried to settle herself into a comfortable position for sleep. She closed her eyes and slowed her breathing.

  “You know,” Yarrow whispered, when she was on the verge of unconsciousness, “I would understand if you wanted more than that…something I can’t give.” He swallowed. “I won’t lie, I would hate the man, whoever he was, but I would…understand.”

  Her eyes snapped open and she lifted onto her elbow, spearing him with a glare. “You think I’m that faithless?” she hissed. “I would rather have almost-kisses with you than a thousand real ones with any other man.” She jabbed him in the chest, none too gently. “I could never love anyone else. You’re stuck with me.”

  He snatched her hand with sudden intensity, and she realized the words she’d just spoken—words she’d never said aloud before. She held her breath.

  “It’s the same for me,” he whispered. “I loved you from the first. You and you alone.”

  Bray squeezed his hand and lay back down, endeavored to wipe the smile from her mouth and failed. Her very being felt full to bursting with a deep, spirit-altering contentment. She reveled in it, that sweetest feeling life had to offer: to be loved better than one deserved and to know it, feel it to the marrow.

  Arlow tossed his cards on the table with an indifferent flick of the wrist. Brows raised with mock sympathy and a half-concealed smirk, he gathered his taking. “Better luck next time, gents.”

  The man to his right, a burly fellow with a prodigious red beard and dubious hygiene, cast him a glower that would make a lesser spirit quake. “What sort of madman goes all in on a pair of fours?”

  Arlow smiled and slouched back in his seat, his coin purse chiming with the motion. “An inordinately handsome one.”

  The man did not look amused, though he alone was at fault for his losses. Eyeing the man, Arlow determined he’d better lose the next hand—he’d hit that precarious tipping point at which his string of luck had begun to look like cheating.

  The common room of the Gray Fox Inn had begun to empty as the evening wore on. It was the perfect sort of bar for poker—seedy enough to attract gamblers, but too nice for losers to start a tedious brawl. He glanced at the bearded man’s scowl. Probably.

  “Arlow,” Mae’s voice sounded from behind him, plainly annoyed. He didn’t bother to look, but he imagined she had her arms crossed, her foot tapping with impatience. “Ain’t we heading out afore dark?”

  Arlow’s shoulders tensed. Aside from intending to fill his newly emptied coffers, he’d joined the game for a chance to think of a plan. He was tempted to give Mae the slip, to go back to Quade, but he wasn’t sure how his master would view such a move—as an act of loyalty or a squandered opportunity?

  “Another hand or two,” he said, not bothering to turn to her. “It would be unfair to leave the game without giving these fine fellows a chance to recoup their losses.”

  His comrades nodded their heads in concurrence. Fools were always willing to pay for humiliation if there remained a glimmer of hope that they might yet succeed.

  He heard her stomp away and he breathed a sigh. “It is my deal, I believe,” he said, smiling benignly. How best to ditch the little scamp?

  A bell jangled as the front door opened. Arlow did not look up, his eyes fixed upon the task of dealing, until he heard the innkeeper say, “Greetings, Mistress Chisanta.”

  Arlow turned his head and caught sight of a familiar dark, pretty face. He groaned internally.

  “Terribly sorry,” he said, standing and tossing down the cards. “I see an acquaintance.”

  His companions grumbled mutinously as he walked away, but he hardly noticed. “Vendra, my dear,” he said, greeting her with forced warmth. “What the blighter are you doing in this part of town?”

  Vendra swiveled to the sound of his voice and seemed to breathe a sigh of relief at the sight of him. “Looking for you.”

  Arlow scanned her over with a furrowed brow. She trembled from head to toe, her eyes darting paranoid glances around the room. From the queen of coolness, it was a downright alarming display. “Are you quite alright?”

  She inclined her head, then returned her attention to the owner. “Might we have the use of a private room? And water for tea?”

  Mae followed them. Arlow wasn’t sure if he should protest her company or not. Vendra said nothing, however, so he too held his tongue. Taking a seat at a great oaken table intended for a much larger group, he asked, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  Normally, Vendra would have greeted such a falsehood—her presence was many things, but certainly never a pleasure—with a flat stare, but today she seemed not to hear him at all.

  Vendra set about unwrapping tea bags from her own satchel with hands that shook violently. She mumbled to herself, incomprehensible things, and her countenance vacillated between worry and confusion. Arlow swallowed. The woman was clearly having a psychotic episode.

  A tray with a piping teapot and biscuits was deposited on the table and then the door clicked shut, leaving the three of them alone. Arlow watched as Vendra attempted to add her teabags to the pot. Her fist kept jerking back, and then she would, gradually, as if with great effort, extend the small pouches back towards the steaming water.

  “Why don’t I help you with that?” Arlow offered, not quite managing to conceal his discomfiture.

  He had to pry Vendra’s fingers from the teabags before he could extract them from her grasp. While the tea steeped, Vendra withdrew an envelope from her pocket. Her hands fought her in this task as well.

  “Is there something I can help you with?” Arlow asked.

  “Drink,” she said, forcing the word from her lips. “Drink it all.”

  Arlow poured them each a cup of tea. Bringing it to his nose, he breathed in the fumes. It doesn’t smell like poison. Of course, if she were trying to poison him he thought she’d perform better. He’d seen her acting in
action before—she could even summon tears on cue.

  Mae, who was looking at Vendra with kind concern, sipped first. She didn’t spit it out, so Arlow followed her lead. It tasted strange, like no tea he’d ever encountered before, but not foul in any way.

  Vendra endeavored to knock her cup back in one gulp, but her hand jerked away from her mouth, causing her to spill the hot liquid down the front of her robes. She hissed in pain and jumped to her feet.

  “Vendra,” Arlow said, rising. “Really, let me call a doctor.”

  She shook her head. “Not sick. Must go.” She dropped a box of the strange tea along with the envelope and fled the room.

  “Well that was bleeding weird,” Mae said, staring at the door through which Vendra had disappeared. “She always like that?”

  “No,” Arlow said. “I’ve never seen her betray an emotion other than annoyance. That was…most odd.”

  He leaned across the table to grab the crumpled envelope and was surprised to see his own name written in a shaky hand. He tore off the side and dumped a single sheaf of paper on the table.

  It was penned by Vendra, clearly, as the handwriting bore her distinctive geometric letters, but it was unsteady and frequently crossed out. As a result, the letter was only barely legible.

  Arlow,

  Destroy this after you read it. I am choosing to trust you against my better judgment. As you may know, I have been in Quade’s company for nearly fifteen years. My mind has not been my own for most of that time.

  This tea I am leaving with you was an early invention of mine, designed to help rid the body of drugs and promote lucidity. It helps some. For the past months, I have been drinking it and have rare moments of clear-headedness. I pen this at such a moment, and if I do not find you before it wears off, I fear the consequences. When my mind is his again, I will surely tell him all.

  There are things I must say, but I cannot convince my hand to write the words. My hand is not my own, either.

  You think you are not affected, but you are—not as much as I, but more than you believe. Fight it, Arlow. It helps to focus on the people you love. Try to think of childhood, that helps too.

  Quade knows the Pauper’s King will not support him. He hopes to—no, I cannot say. The poor are being used to further Quade’s passion project. Cannot say more, but you are intelligent enough, at least, for this.

  Burn this letter and make no reference to its contents to myself in future.

  Vendra

  Arlow had difficulty reading the words; a part of him wanted to toss the letter into the hearth unfinished. By the time he reached the end, his hands began to tremble, sweat beading on his forehead. Something most strange was transpiring within his head—as if distinct parts of his mind were battling.

  “Arlow?” Mae gripped his shoulders, staring into his face with narrowed brown eyes. “You alright?

  “I…I…I…” he stammered, not sure how to answer.

  She picked up the letter and read it, her frown deepening as her eyes flitted further down the page. “Spirits…” she murmured to herself. She poured a second cup of tea and forced it to Arlow’s lips.

  He began to sip, the liquid burning down his throat. This will help. He sputtered, spraying the tea across the table. No, it will not!

  Mae pulled Arlow from his seat to the floor, where she wrapped him in a fierce embrace. His head rested on her shoulder and she clasped him firmly, rocking him. “It’ll be alright,” she whispered. “You’re stronger ’an he is.”

  Slowly, the disorder that clouded his mind ebbed, like the sun dispersing a thick fog. The shaking slowed and his heartbeat returned to normal, but he did not extricate himself from her grasp. He had experienced a variety of pleasurable sensations in the arms of a woman before, but he’d never felt anything quite like this—comforted, bolstered, without judgment.

  “Linton shouldn’t of asked you to do this,” she said at length. “I’ll tell him so.”

  “Thought you said you’d shoot me,” he said, affecting a laugh.

  “Nah,” she answered. “That was a bluff. I like you too much, truth to tell. You make me laugh.”

  A warm sense of safety spread through him at her words. He thought of how Quade had made him feel earlier and shuddered, thoroughly disgusted with himself. He felt violated, unclean.

  “What’s Quade’s passion project?” Mae asked, releasing him now that his quavering had stopped.

  “Ah…archeology, I suppose.” He frowned. “Quade must be using the kids from the street at the dig sites.”

  “Where?”

  Arlow stood and held out a hand to Mae, pulling her to her feet. “I don’t know, but it should be easy enough to find out.”

  13

  An Elevated in a blue uniform stole around a corner. Peer pulled his collar up, hoping it appeared a countermeasure to the wind and not an effort to conceal his neck. He felt Bray stiffen beside him, her head bowed to cast her face in shadow beneath the cowl of her bonnet.

  He peeked down at her, surprised. She’d been on edge since Yarrow had gone his separate way, gone to seek answers in Adourra. A wild goose chase, no doubt. Peer hoped, for Bray’s sake, that the man would return soon.

  He kept his pace slow as the young Elevated crossed their path, though he held his breath. With Bray’s face all over Trinitas and Su-Hwan a once-trusted member of the Elevated, they were likely tempting fate by traveling in public. Fate, however, must have been on their side. The young man strode past without a glance in their direction, seemingly occupied.

  Bray let out a breath. “I didn’t expect him to have men here.”

  Peer agreed. Leeson was a small port city of little importance. If Quade had men here, he likely had men everywhere.

  “That was Trenton Smalls,” Su-Hwan said, her flat voice betraying no concern. “He is something of an imbecile.”

  Bray chuckled then pointed up to the street sign that read ‘Gary.’ They turned into a residential neighborhood—though it was several blocks from the marina, the air still stank of fish, the odor carried on a biting, relentless wind. They marched up the sidewalk, scanning the long row of townhomes. The road sloped up a sharp hill and in no time Peer’s calves ached and his chest felt tight, sweat blossoming along his hairline despite the bitter cold.

  “Here,” Bray said, coming to a halt. They stood before a home identical to all of the others aside from the brass numerals declaring it 2205. She glanced up and down the road to ensure that they were unobserved, then opened the mailbox and read the name upon a letter within.

  “Asher,” she said and shut the box.

  “You’d think he’d of gotten his own ma a better place.” Peer eyed the tiny residence skeptically. It was hard to imagine that this had been Quade’s childhood home. Had he played in this yard? Ridden a bike with neighborhood boys up this very sidewalk? The idea of a child Quade, in and of itself, was chilling.

  Bray took a gulp of air. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Peer followed her up the brick steps that led to a forest green door. She tapped the brass knocker three times and they waited, clutching their coats tighter against the cold.

  At first there was silence within and Peer feared no one was home, but at length the squeak of floorboards sounded and the door cracked open. A petite woman with graying hair squinted out at them. Peer had to contain the panic that threatened to engulf him when he looked into her dark eyes and found them unsettlingly similar to Quade’s.

  “Yes?” the woman asked with lifted brows.

  Bray curtsied. “Hello, Mrs. Asher. I apologize for the unannounced visit. My name is Mag Hadley, and these are my associates Brasson Keller and Min Chae-Song. We are with the Accord Herald and we are working on a piece about your son, Mr. Quade Asher. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, we’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  Mrs. Asher held the door open wide and beckoned for them to enter. “Oh, how marvelous,” she said, with a friendly smile. “What sort of piece?
”

  Peer had the immediate impression that Mrs. Asher wasn’t quite all there upstairs—something about the glazed look in her eyes, the blank cheeriness. She waved them into a small parlor.

  Peer choked slightly on the overwhelming scent of potpourri. All of the surfaces were topped with doilies, the walls adorned with framed dried flowers and decorative plates. The dense, contrasting floral patterns of the wallpaper, sofas, and rug put Peer in mind of the most quintessential old-lady residence, right down to the long-haired gray cat glaring balefully at him from the rose-patterned ottoman.

  He had to choke down a laugh at the thought of Quade in this house; it was such a ridiculous image.

  Bray, blinking at her surroundings with an expression of mild horror, answered, “A background story. People are dying to know everything about him.”

  Mrs. Asher beamed. “Naturally. He is a very special young man. Please, take a seat,” she said. “I’m afraid my housekeeper’s not in today. I’ll make up a tray for us, shall I?”

  “That would be lovely.”

  When Mrs. Asher disappeared they each began circling the room. Peer paused at a shelf that held a family portrait. He examined the smiling faces preserved in sepia—they were a handsome family. Quade’s father was undeniably attractive, and his mother had a genial, bonny face. Quade himself was a babe, held in his sister’s arms, a small girl who grinned at the camera, revealing a missing tooth.

  The babe Quade had a tuft of black hair that stuck straight up from his small head. His features were set in an expression that looked far too grave upon the face of such a small lad.

  “Take a look at this,” Bray said.

  She stared at another photograph. It was of Quade and his sister, Quade perhaps eight years old. At a glance it seemed a sweet photograph of loving siblings, but a longer look cooled Peer’s blood.