Elevation of the Marked (The Marked Series Book 2) (13 page)

With precise movements he opened the black case and extracted the syringe. It gleamed in the lantern light. Peer licked dry lips, all of his senses centering on that tiny point, imagining it piercing him.

“You want this,” Quade said, smiling still, “and I am willing to give it to you, should you translate just one sentence for me.” Quade placed a hand on Peer’s thigh; it sent an odd jolt through his body, his blood beginning to pool in a way that shamed him.
 

Peer examined the notebook, the single sentence written there. He’d heard the Fifth say it again and again, but only upon seeing it printed did he know its meaning.
 

The mad man shall be bested by the weapon of Lim Po.

The hand on his thigh moved and Peer swallowed, cursed himself for drinking so much. He needed his wits. “No,” he whispered.
 

Quade slid closer; Peer could smell his soap. “No?”

Peer tried to summon saliva. His mouth seemed to have gone bone dry, but he could focus on nothing other than that blasted hand running up and down his leg.
 

“I have heard it said that those who yearn for a drug, also yearn for the needle.” He began to slowly roll up the sleeve to Peer’s shirt. “They start to like the pain of it. Do you like pain, Mr. Gelson?” His hand returned to Peer’s thigh, higher up the leg. “Or do you prefer pleasure?”

Peer felt a sudden violent urge to vomit. “Neither from you.” He managed to lace the words with scorn, but with difficulty. The man’s voice was a charm—it lulled him into a place of comfort. He had such attractive, dark eyes; smelt so fine.

Quade withdrew a knife from his belt. With one hand he held Peer by the wrist, with the other he began to trace the edge along the flesh of his inner arm. Not cutting, just chafing the skin, up and down in mesmerizing patterns, turning his flesh an angry pink.

“You want me to cut, don’t you?” Quade whispered, tickling the hairs that had grown over Peer’s ear.

To his own horror, he bobbed his head. And it was true—he
did
want the man to cut him, to cease teasing.

Quade’s hand tightened around Peer’s wrist, his black eyes twinkling with a wild, manic ecstasy. He was panting slightly, excited, an expression that seemed odd upon his typically composed features. And then the blade pressed and flicked, opening his arm in a long red gash. Peer felt the sting of it, the hotness of his blood as it ran down his arm. He sucked air through his teeth, unsure if the experience was painful or pleasurable.

Quade leaned down over his arm and, some small part of Peer’s mind was shocked to see, began licking the laceration, nipping at it, sending stinging pain up his arm. When Quade raised his head back, his expression rapturous, his lips and teeth were red with Peer’s blood.
 

“You like that, don’t you?” He unleashed the full power of his charm for the first time, filling Peer with delirious bliss, turning his spine to pudding, making him forget all of this troubles—
Had he any? Surely not
. “It feels good?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes,” Peer whimpered. “It feels good.”

Quade granted a bloody smile. “Su-Hwan, dear,” he said, in velvet tones, “I’d like you to use your gift on me, if you’d be so kind.”

“But you said—”

“I know what I said, my girl, but this is an exception.”

The transformation was instantaneous. All of his allure, his appeal, melted away. He was suddenly ugly, his smile a bloody grimace, his eyes colder than any living eyes had a right to be. Peer shivered, felt doused with icy water; horrified, not just by Quade, but by himself, by his feelings and words only seconds earlier.

Quade grabbed his wrist and began digging into the open wound on Peer’s arm with his nails, causing blood to pour rather than trickle, blinding him with agony. Quade bent over him. “You will translate this sentence for me, or I shall slice you to pieces and make you beg for it. Give you pleasure your precious boyfriend never could, then leave you to feel your own worthlessness. I will cut you apart and make you thank me for it.”

Quade was nearly on top of him and Peer was overcome, utterly and totally overcome—paralyzed. He wanted nothing more in the wide world than to have this
man
—this beast—as far from him as possible.
 

“And when I am done with you,” Quade went on, “I shall do the same to that little red-headed girl.” His fingers pried deeper into the cut. Peer could swear the man was touching bone. He screamed. “What does it say?” Quade finished, hissing each word.
 

He shouldn’t answer—he should give Quade no weapon, but desperation was the driving emotion plummeting through his veins. “It’s about the weapon of Lim Po,” he gasped. “The mad man will be bested by the weapon of Lim Po.”

Quade stared him in the eye for a moment that felt like an eternity, then must have believed he spoke truth. He stood, almost casually, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and began wiping the blood from his fingers. “Now, was that so difficult?”

And without another word he departed. Peer could barely draw breath, his heart hammering in his chest with dangerous abandon. Fresh tears began to leak from his eyes—tears of utter self-loathing. He hoped desperately that the Spirits above did not watch the living, that Adearre had not seen his shame.

He attempted to right himself in his seat and glanced, hesitantly, up at Su-Hwan. He expected to see her usual impassive expression, or perhaps some reproach for his appalling behavior. Instead, he perceived wetness in her eyes, horror stamped across her features. Her gaze was on the door where Quade had just retreated, then it pulled down to her lap. She rolled up the sleeve of her own shirt, revealing a skinny arm laced with old scars—long, perfect, slices. Peer caught sight of the raised marks clearly in the lamp light.

Peer’s face clouded. This girl was seventeen at the oldest, and those scars were old. She was an awkward, friendless little thing, as parentless as himself.
 

Quade needs killing.
And he meant to do the deed himself, if he could.

When Whythe arrived to relieve Su-Hwan, Peer realized he did not want her to go. They had shared something, she and him.
 

“Be well,” Peer said as she stood. “Until tomorrow.”

Whythe gaped as if Peer had just performed a handstand. Su-Hwan wheeled back to meet his eye, and he thought he detected a new light there—as if those simple words had meant a great deal to her.
 

“You too,” she whispered before quietly exiting.
 

Peer slumped back in his seat. Whythe was chatting at him, but he didn’t listen. He thought of how Adearre had always said that a little kindness was a powerful thing. Peer’d always laughed at that—it had sounded like the kind of sunny banality that grandmothers embroidered onto decretive pillows. But perhaps there was truth there. Perhaps if he could win Su-Hwan’s confidence, she could be his means of escape. And he hers.
 

Mae urged Poppy Seed Muffin into the public mews of Dalyson. Arlow dropped down from the gig, clutching the side of the carriage to steady himself.

Three days without food had rendered him well and truly bad-tempered. Yesterday, he’d been nauseated and his head had ached. By that morning, his stomach actually hurt with hunger—he supposed that was why they were called ‘hunger pains,’ though he’d never previously considered the term.
 

His vision blurred and he blinked.
 

“You alright there, fellah?” a stable boy asked.

Arlow’s forehead creased, confused for a moment by the lad’s informality. Then he recalled that he wore common trousers and shirt. Mae had laughed herself to tears when he’d donned the costume, so he imagined he looked fairly ridiculous.
 

“He’s just fine,” Mae said.
 

She seized Arlow by the arm and towed him out into the streets of Dalyson, casting him a side-long glance.
 

The town bustled, inordinately crowded, with a general air of merriment. The sidewalks were lined with food and drink vendors. Music—lively country tunes—drifted from several directions, and dancers whirled in the avenue. Not being a holiday as far as Arlow knew, he guessed it must be a local festival of some kind; the sort of public event he would not normally deign to attend.

He stumbled and Mae steadied him. “It’s almost over,” she said, and patted his hand.
 

They passed a bakery, and the smell of yeasty, fresh-baked bread sent him almost wild, mouth salivating.

“Do you have any advice for a novice crime-doer such as myself?” he asked.
 

“Well, different people’ve got different ways. Waiting on a distraction and pocketing something is a classic for a reason—as is creating the distraction.”
 

“Are you offering to be my distraction?” he asked.

She smiled benignly up at him. “’Fraid I can’t be helpin’ you. It’s against the rules.” She squeezed his arm. “I’m just here for…ah, moral support.”

He snorted derisively. “To verify I actually do the deed, more like. Is conning a valid form of theft?”

“Sure,” she said. “But it usually takes more time. More skill too. You ain’t an over-good actor, you know.”

He gave a laugh that sounded more like a cough. “You’ve no idea what I’m capable of.”

As they strolled up the lane, Arlow paused before each purveyor of food. He stopped and watched the owners for a time, shook his head, then moved on without explanation.

After half an hour of this, Mae’s lips compressed into a tight line. “What’re you waitin’ for, then? A ‘come nick from me’ sign? You’ll not find one.”
 

He opened his mouth to reply but his attention wandered, snagged by a small girl lingering near a butcher’s cart. Four years old at the most, her dress was mere tatters, her limbs skin and bone. The girl’s stomach had a bloated curve and her eyes shone with animal-like hunger. She crept to the cart on bare, silent feet, ravenous gaze fixated on a link of sausage.

The butcher caught sight of the girl and swung a kick. She danced out of the way, melded back into the foot traffic. “Stay away, rat,” the hulking man shouted after her.
 

The word
rat
echoed in Arlow’s mind. A memory, a long unthought-of thing, sprung to the fore of his thoughts: himself, as a boy, driving with his parents through a poorer district in Accord. A group of street urchins had clamored around their gig, reaching forward with dirty hands. Arlow had had half a meat pie left over from his own lunch, so he’d tossed it down.

He’d laughed as the children mobbed, fighting each other over his meager, half-eaten offering. His father had said, “Arlow, don’t feed the rats.”

He’d laughed at that too. They’d seemed like rats to him, then. Less than human.

Arlow swallowed, feeling distinctly ill.

“You alright?” Mae asked.

He shook himself, realized he’d been staring at the space of road where the waif had been. “Yes.” He swiveled his gaze to the butcher. “I think I’ve found my target.”

“’Bout time.”

Arlow approached the meat cart with a swagger, stumbling deliberately. “Hello, my fine fellow,” he slurred.

The man grinned, revealing a missing tooth. “Someone appears to be enjoying the revelries.”

“Oh, aye.” Arlow said, affecting a hiccup. “It’s been a marvelous time. I’m having a very lucky day, you see. Lady Fortune’s been on my side.” Arlow withdrew a gold mark from his pocket, tossed it in the air, and caught it again.

The butcher’s eyes followed the bounty. “Is that so?” the man asked. “Come to purchase some of my quality meats with your winnings? I’ll make you a good offer.”

Arlow teetered—this time without intention, but it helped his ruse all the same. “I thought I’d keep the good luck going. So I’ll make you a wager. You toss this coin three times and if it comes up heads all three, I get two of your family platters free of charge. If it comes up tails just once, you keep the gold.”

The butcher held out his hand for the mark and Arlow placed it in his meaty paw. The man tested the weight, examined its ordinary appearance, and finally bit it. Though the mark passed his inspection, he regarded Arlow distrustfully.
 

Mae stepped up. “No, honey. You can’t be riskin’ all that—we need that coin. Think of the children.”

Arlow could have kissed her he was so grateful, but instead he assumed a look of belligerent annoyance. “Don’t you tell me what to do with my own hard-won coin, woman.”

Mae leaned in and, in a carrying whisper, begged, “But, honey, you’re drunk. You aren’t thinkin’ straight.”

“Now madame,” the butcher said. “You should let your husband do as he likes. It is, after all, his
lucky day
.” He smirked at Arlow. “I’ll take your wager.”

A crowd had begun to gather around them, ready for a show. “The bloke is sotted,” someone nearby whispered, chuckling.
 

“Here we go,” the butcher said, addressing the growing audience and seeming to enjoy the attention.