Elevation of the Marked (The Marked Series Book 2) (21 page)

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.”

“That’s inconvenient,” Ko-Jin said, without fully thinking. Yarrow offered him a level look and Ko-Jin’s mind caught up: no touching, no touching of any kind, for a man very obviously in love. Ko-Jin’s brows slanted with pity. “That’s a bloody tragedy, mate. I’m sorry.”
 

“I don’t understand,” Jo-Kwan said. “How could you lose the ability to touch? Is there,” his brow puckered, “some magical force blocking you or something of that nature?”

“It causes intense physical pain for both individuals, supposedly,” Ko-Jin answered. “Though, I wonder if those reports are exaggerated. Have you tried it yet, Yar? Maybe it doesn’t hurt that bad.”

Yarrow shook his head. “No. Haven’t tried. It only just happened…”
 

Ko-Jin held out his bare hand. “Color me curious. Let’s give it a go.”

Yarrow shook his head slowly again, like a defeated man. It made Ko-Jin miserable just to look at him.
 

“I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
 

“I’m no stranger to discomfort. Besides, it will be an interesting experiment,” Ko-Jin hinted, none too subtly. “Might appease a certain academic curiosity?”

Yarrow’s lip twitched. “I suppose I
am
intrigued.” He took a great breath. “Very well. Here we go.”

Yarrow raised his own bare hand and lowered it down towards Ko-Jin’s palm. The moment their flesh connected Ko-Jin’s vision went black. Pain—white, hot, electric pain, beyond anything he had ever experienced, beyond words, shot through him, so excruciating he could not, in that moment, recall his own name.

When his vision returned, slowly expanding from a center point, filling in the black, he was lying flat on his back, shaking from head to foot, his mouth full of blood from biting down on his own tongue. A whiff of urine made him shamefully aware that he had wet himself.
 

Chae-Na’s face appeared above him, blotting out the clear blue sky. “Ko-Jin? Ko-Jin? Are you alright?”

He groaned and rolled over—fatigued, feverish. His eyes locked onto his hand and he was surprised to find it intact, seemingly unharmed.
 

Yarrow lay just beside him, wheezing into the sand with eyes clenched shut and tears running down his cheeks.

“You alive?” Ko-Jin breathed.

“Seems like.”

“Let’s not do that again,” Ko-Jin said, heaving lungfuls of air.

Jo-Kwan appeared, proffering him a glass of water. “Guess you do feel pain, after all.”
 

Ko-Jin grunted and pushed himself into a sitting position. The glass trembled as he raised it to his lips.

He’d been idiotic to think that, merely because he was athletic, he could withstand agony.