Marked (26 page)

“How long will it take?” I half whisper. It's so peaceful and quiet here. “For the flowers to grow?”

“You'll see a little green, some pale shoots in a few weeks, but the blooms . . . they'll come back in a year, and this place will be bursting with them.”

I look out again, and imagine it. A sweeping field of blossoms, swirling in the middle of the snowy white hill, like a bright sapphire eye. Yes, blue. All of them blue, every bloom a beacon. For my best friend. My partner. My pacer.

For Bear.

For him, I will tend this place and keep it holy. For
Mary, I will live a life that's worthy of her death and deal out relief to as many as I can. For all that we've lost, I will never stop replanting and rebuilding and defending this ground.

I will remember Bear. I will honor his name. I will teach it to my children, and they will know the price he paid for my life and theirs.

For him. For them.

For always.

I PULL UP TO THE RED LIGHT.

James doesn't like that I'm coming here, without a pack of bodyguards, but I'm doing it anyway. I get it. I really do. Half of Castra's pegged me as some kind of figurehead—“Phoebe Van Zant, Hero of the Revolution,” while the other half—die-hard circuit fans—still pine for “Phoenix Vanguard's triumphant return.” They want me to race again, keeping my alias. And let's not forget the Sixer holdouts, who're still beating the drums for my arrest. To them, I'll always be the worst kind of criminal.

So yeah, I know I need to be careful. But I can't be inconspicuous with an entourage. And I promised I'd be here. How could I not be?

This is my town.

The rig James let me borrow isn't too bad. It's small and black and sleek, like my old Talon, but the engine's standard, so it doesn't have much get-up-and-go. And rust if the accelerant driver isn't delayed. It's knocking in late, and a little too weak . . . I'd roll it into Benny's shop and see what they'd make of it, if I could. But I don't really think my uncle would appreciate that.

At the signal, I ease down the right lane, then pull up to the curb.

The rig powers down in a whine as I park across the street. There's a good deal of traffic today, a ton of people on this stretch of the Mains. At second glance . . . a lot of DP. But they aren't hassling anyone or barking orders. They're just managing traffic and keeping an eye out for the horde of pedestrians. Even their uniforms are different. As public officers, they wear the Castran flag on their badges, instead of King Charlie's lion. But I'm a south side girl, and I am used to badges spelling trouble. I have to tell myself not to wince.

I zip my jacket, pull up my hood, and climb out. Head down and hands in my pockets, I move into the herd of people crossing the Mains. I am short enough. I can almost disappear.

But one of the walkers seems to notice me. And I suppose I can see why. I'm not that much taller than this small
brown-eyed girl whose hand's in her father's as they rush the crosswalk. He doesn't look like he's paying attention to anything, let alone me. The two of them pass quickly, but she looks back. I can almost read her mind. The spark of recognition flashes in her brightening pupils. Her mouth rounds into a great big O.

Under my hood, I smile at her. Her stubby little legs almost misstep, and she has to turn around again to right herself and keep walking. Her father pauses for half a beat to let her catch up, and then they move on. I lose them, and I'm anonymous again.

On the other side of the street, I make for the steps. The long parade of wide stone risers; it's a punishing climb, but worth it for the view.

I pass through the crowded sculpture garden, pausing amidst the tallest statues, the giant obelisks that once taunted the sun. I read the scorched, black shadows clinging to their bases, where only a few months ago, riot flame left its mark. Not so many riots now. For the most part, there's more talking around tables than tear-gas and screams. Between passersby, I notice the new patches of life—spindly scrubroot and my favorite—fragrant, yellow hackweed—that have been planted in a few bald spots.

I find a bench and stand beside it, a step back from the swarm. I look for my friends, but I guess they haven't
arrived yet. It's been a long time since I've seen my former circuit crew. Gil and Goose and all the rest . . . word is, they just want to “catch up and grab some lunch,” but I know the score. They seem to think I'm not done with racing, that I should get back behind the wheel, this time on my own terms. Yet every time I imagine one more shot on the track . . . one more rally, for old times' sake, I can't quite nail down my answer.

Absolutely not. Never again. No way.
Maybe?

I banish the thought. Craning hard, I look up, but the Spire won't quite loom over me anymore. It simply stands, quiet and still, hollowed out of all its stolen power. Abasi says they'll turn it into a national museum. After he's sworn in as prime minister, he'll make sure of it. So many lost treasures . . . so much forgotten history. Everything Benroyal hoarded for himself will belong to everyone once more.

I check the time, then I scan the garden again. Any minute, I'll see my friends. I'm startled, not by a tap on my shoulder, but by a tug at the hem of my jacket. I wheel around, and amidst the patter of footsteps, there she is. The little girl.

The cheeky thing, she's given her dad the slip. He's standing around about fifteen feet away, watching a couple of quarreling birds. Between us, there's a handful of people. The girl stares at me. I stare back.

She's still inspecting me when I snap at the sound of a familiar voice. I look up. My friend is here, and he's walking my way. Behind him, I see the old gang, assembling at last.

I spy Navin, who detailed every rig. Dev, who hauled our tires. And Billy and Arad and Gil and so many more. Even Banjo. Sweet Banjo, who faithfully loaded our fuel. Beyond a hundred unfamiliar faces, they stand near the obelisks, and I'm pulled back in time, to the night of the gala. They stood there . . .
right there
 . . . at dusk. They posed for photographers.

Arms linked, we posed as a team.

“Ma chère!” Auguste calls, a storm of wild, wiry hair and gangly limbs. He's going against the grain, slipping through the throng. The sight of his brightly tailored suit is the happiest jolt. But the crew behind him looks so different. No crimson and gold. No uniforms or tuxedoes. No Benroyal crests stitched over their hearts. I ask myself . . .

What colors would they choose now?

Again, the little girl tugs at my jacket. Bold as anything, she puffs out the words. “Are you the . . .”

She stops herself, and I wonder how she'll finish, whether she'll ask for the circuit star or the renegade.

The girl's father finally glances our way. He sighs, then crooks his finger at her. There's no time for her to finish
her question, but I decide it doesn't matter anyway. I don't have to wait on expectation. I don't even have to choose.

I glance back at the crew.
My crew
.

“Yes.” I nod. I glance down and meet the girl's eyes. “I am.”

Then she lets go. And I push through the crowd. I walk into Auguste's wide-open
arms.

Acknowledgments

“The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places.”
– Ernest Hemingway

While working on the final edits for this book, it hit me.
Tracked
was all about fighting back after you've been cornered, but
Marked
is all about getting back up after you've been broken. So now that it's time to say good-bye to Phee's story, I'd like to take the time to thank some of the wonderful people who've lent me their strength, during the ups and downs, from the book's first draft to its final chapters.

To my agent, Sara Crowe, for your unending support. I'd have given up long ago, if it weren't for you. All hail the team at Harvey Klinger.

To my editor, Stacey Friedberg, for your patience, insight and clarity. I'm so grateful you adopted this book. Sounding board, cheerleader, idea bouncer, story fixer...you've been all this, and so much more.

To Jennifer Dee, for all that you've done. In a million ways, you made this Cinder Author feel like a bona fide Cinderella. No one could ever have a better, more passionate publicist. Your work made all the difference.

To the rest of the team at Dial, to the sales reps and publicists and Penguins who've been kind and supportive: I'll never forget it. A million thanks.

To my husband, Chris, for being my everything and always. Thank you for taking my writing dreams and protecting them. You put your strong arms around them, keeping them safe and bright. I love you, and I still believe . . . we make our own luck.

To my son, Conor, for being the best kid, the best comedian, the best co-conspirator, the best reason to laugh every single day.

To, Caron Ervin, for being my closest, truest friend. Thank you for all that you are.

To my dad, Charles, for reading every single draft of every story I've ever written. Thank you for being there, at every step.

To my mom, Marilee, for giving me confidence. I love you, too, no matter what.

To my granddad Charlie and my grandma Joy, for teaching me everything I know about sacrifice and service. There's so much of you in Hal and Mary.

To Erik and Brett. We miss you. Every day.

To the rest of my family, to each and every one of you: thank you for the love and support.

To Rosemary Clement-Moore, Kate Cornell, Candace Havens, Sally Hamilton, A. Lee Martinez, Brooke Fossey, Brian Tracey, Steve Manning, Melissa Lenhardt, Russell Connor, J.B. Sanders, Tex Thompson and everyone else at DFW Writer's workshop. Y'all are the best. Pass the pancakes.

To Julie Murphy, for being my sweetheart. Someday, I'll bring the best mum for you.

To Sally Hamilton and Hafsah Faizal, for your beautiful designs.

To Jen Bigheart, for the shenanigans.
To Daryle McGinnis, for helping me land that flying car.

To Eric Smith, for championing Phee. Thank you for using your superpowers for good.

To Erin Bowman, Mindy McGinnis, Rachel Caine, Antony John and Beth Revis, for supporting
Tracked
with the kindest words. I'll always be one of your fans, and I'm forever grateful.

To all my bookish accomplices, online and off—Amber Swindle, Meredith Moore, Becky Wallace, Amber Lough, Heather Alexander, Jenn Marie Thorne, Virginia Boecker, Kim Liggett, Lori Goldstein, Victoria Scott, Janet Taylor, Courtney Stevens, Victoria Schwab, Lindsay Cummings, Kari Olsen, Kristin Treviño, Kayte Ghaffar, Natalie Parker, Jeramey Kraatz, Stacy Vandever Wells, Kelsey Macke, Krissi Dallas, Jill Cox, Mary Hinson, Karen Jensen and Britney Cossey. To the Fourteenery and the Freshman 15s. To my Dallas and Austin and Houston girls. You're in my heart.

And last but never least, to you, dear reader, for being the reason I write. You're the best part of this journey. Thanks for taking it with me.

Always.

JENNY MARTIN is a Texas school librarian. She lives in the Dallas/Fort Worth area with her husband and son, where she is an active member of the YA publishing community. Learn more at readjennymartin.com, or follow Jenny on Twitter at @readjennymartin.

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