Elevation of the Marked (The Marked Series Book 2) (46 page)

Heavy footsteps sounded squarely above him, stopping just over his head, casting him in shadow. Some part of his tension eased, a sense that everything would be alright. Unfortunately, his logical mind knew that this sensation was to be feared rather than trusted. It must
be Quade.

If only Su-Hwan had the use of her abilities, she could strip him of his gift. It was the perfect moment, and yet they could not act.

There must be
something
he could do, some way he could free himself. It simply could not end this way, not when they had the means to win. Not when they were so very close.

A new gift
, he thought, desperately.
No, no, it would be stripped away too
.
 

“Under here?” a male voice asked. “How’d they get under here?”

Peer’s heart galloped into motion, as the forms of three people crawled under the platform—three Elevated, in blue uniforms.
 

He redoubled his efforts to move, struggling pointlessly, as they crept closer. They were young—two males, one female. One of them, the lad on the end, appeared to be barely out of puberty. The girl was Adourran, her black hair cut short. With no choice but to watch them approach, he noticed countless minute details about his soon-to-be-killers. The older lad had a bright red zit on his chin; the girl had a necklace bobbing around her neck shaped like a seashell. The youngest was sporting a nearly-healed black eye, the bruise yellow against his pale white skin.

“Ugh,” the girl said, crawling close enough that Peer could distinguish the green flecks in her eyes, see easily the red mark upon her neck. “Smells awful.”

“Must have traveled through the sewer,” the first lad said, his nose wrinkling. “Foul.”

They came to a halt before Peer and, with difficulty given the tight corridors, unsheathed swords. Peer’s immovable eyes caught sight of fresh blood on their blades—the blood of other Chisanta, he guessed.
 

This is it
, he thought, and wished he could screw his eyes closed. To know he was about to die seemed somehow less fearsome than having to watch it happen. He summoned Adearre’s face to his mind for courage.
Better have saved me a seat
.

The girl placed a steadying hand on the ground and drew back her sword, preparing to stick him squarely in the chest.
 

She hesitated, gandered up as the whiz and thunk of an arrow hit the planking above them.

Arlow sat rigidly, unblinking eyes gazing down at the platform. The window was thrown wide so he could hear, though the day was bitingly cold. With the icy wind striking him full in the face, he felt frozen in more than one sense.
 

He’d known it would happen, had even thought to empty his bladder beforehand, but, still, it rankled. To be incapable of movement was intolerably emasculating.
 

Linton had used his endless connections to secure them the inn just overlooking the plaza. He and the Pauper’s men had spent the morning drinking coffee in comfort, listening to the crowds amass, waiting for the time to come. The coffee might have been an error—he felt the caffeine zipping along his nerves like messages across a telegraphy line.
 

Mae shifted in her seat beside him and leaned against the window sill. He envied her even that small bit of motion.

Below, on the stage, the famed Five stood in plain view, holding hands in a circle. They struck him as ridiculous, like children playing a game in the schoolyard. Quade had not even had the sense to conceal them.
Fool
, he thought with smug satisfaction.
 

Arlow had expected the chink in Quade’s plan would be something small, a difficult puzzle to solve. Instead, the weakness was like a gaping crater—the man only saw fellow Chisanta as a threat. Idiotic, given the enemies he’d created in other quarters.
 

Somewhere behind him, the Pauper’s King cleared his throat. “It is time. Remember, no deaths. We keep our hands clean.”

Mae left his side and Arlow frowned, or at least he tried to frown. He wanted to call after her, beg her to stay. Perhaps it was good he could not speak, he reasoned. Otherwise he might betray himself.

Arlow heard the drumming of feet down the stairway. Below, the door to the inn banged as it opened. Pauper’s Men, many dozens of them—a collection of highwaymen, thugs, and pickpockets—thundered down the stairway to surge into the crowd.

Arlow’s heart stuttered in his chest when he realized their timing had been off; he’d expected a greater gap between the Five using their abilities and the purge that was to follow.

They were late, and people—his own brothers and sisters—would die for it. He watched, unable to even flinch, as the first of his kind, a Chiona woman, was skewered by three blades simultaneously. She tipped over, dying to the sound of cheers.

More blood on his hands, he supposed.
 

Somewhere below him, a child wailed. A balloon bobbed up, directly in Arlow’s line of sight. It was an absurd thing—a floating ball of rubber, painted bright, cherry red—more absurd for its presence in such a moment. Its thin string whipped exultantly in the wind, the cheery balloon itself dancing in circles over a drear crowd on a drear day.
 

A bubble of inappropriate mirth rushed up his throat, but he made himself focus. The Pauper’s Men stormed into his field of vision, pushing towards the stage. They were a coarse-looking lot—worn clothing of muted colors, most carrying make-shift weapons. He spied the cropped dirty-blonde hair of Mae and his chest tightened. Foy was at her side, a sword in hand. He called over his shoulder and gestured the mob onward, looking more like a knight of old than a highwayman. Arlow silently charged him with keeping Mae safe.
 

He sensed someone approach his right side to share his window. The floorboards creaked as the individual settled. Based on smell alone, he thought it must be Linton, but could not turn to assure himself of the fact.
 

“You did well, Arlow,” the Pauper’s King said. “Your information appears to have been sound. A good thing,” he said pleasantly. “I hadn’t particularly wanted to dispatch you. My sister seems to be fond.”
 

Arlow heard this, but was more focused on what transpired below. Quade was on the stage, standing with his hands clasped behind his back. His expression had turned grim. Arlow wondered whether he had ascertained the danger yet. Beside him, stood only a single Elevated, a slim girl with hair so pale it looked white.
 

Before Mae and the others had even reached the stage, an arrow streamed in Quade’s direction. In the split second before it would have hit its target, the young girl flicked her wrist and the arrow changed course, embedding harmlessly in the stage. Arlow wondered who had fired—it had not been a Chisanta, clearly, nor arranged by the Pauper’s King. The arrow had come from the roofline, but he could not look upward to catch sight of the archer.

Whoever had loosed the missile, Arlow hoped the Spirits blessed them. It had proved a perfect distraction at just the right moment—the instant before Linton’s men climbed up onto the stage. They formed a mighty pack: men and women, young and old, brandishing sticks, pipes, crowbars. It mattered little. The Elevated had dispersed amongst the audience; the Five lacked protection, were too focused on their task to protect themselves. Another bit of arrogance that Quade would pay for.

 
The mob of criminals surged forward, overtaking the five, knocking them off their feet. Arlow would certainly have been grinning if he were able.

And then, in the space of a heartbeat, he could move—the restraints disappeared. He
did
grin then, and leapt to his feet.
 

“Where are you going?” Linton asked, as Arlow sprinted to the door.

“To kill Quade,” Arlow called over his shoulder.

Linton might have a no-kill policy, but Arlow did not. His hands, after all, were already bloody. He might as well, for once, shed the right blood.
 

Arlow bolted down the stairway, leaping over the last few stairs and sliding on the rug. He tugged open the inn door and darted into the plaza.

It was utter confusion. The assembly had perceived the threat, and many shoved in the hope of fleeing. They were too densely packed to achieve much, however.
 

Arlow, one hand on the hilt of a recently purchased sword, pushed his way into the mass of people, clamping his jaw at the slowness of his progress. An errant elbow connected with his stomach and he doubled over, air huffing from his mouth. He paused for only a moment, then continued on. The bodies on every side suffocated him—the stench of sweating people, the constant jostling. He ground his teeth. He had never had such trouble with a crowd before.

He realized that the cold sensation still lingered—whichever of the five removed gifts must still be conscious. If he’d had his luck, he would have found the easiest path.

Too slow
, he thought desperately.
I’ll never reach him first.

A woman turned around just in front of Arlow, her face covered from hairline to chin in freckles, her blonde hair bound in a long braid. He had an instant to register recognition—
Britt?

“Traitor,” his old friend spat, and without warning swung a punch, her fist clenched around the hilt of a knife.

Arlow felt the splitting pain spread from his eye-socket across his face. His neck wrenched. His knees connected with the ground just as consciousness slipped from his grasp.

25

The invisible bonds vanished, leaving as unexpectedly as they had arrived. Bray turned in time to see the Elevated woman plunge her sword. A shout escaped Bray’s lips, a desperate, inarticulate sound. Peer lunged to the side and the woman, unprepared for her victim to move, fell forward, sword extended before her, with a graceless
humph
.
 

Bray scrambled forward on hands and knees and tackled the enemy nearest her, taking him from behind—a young lad who smelt strongly of shoe polish.
 

He responded with more skill than she’d expected, rolling and slamming her back into the stony ground. He clambered atop her, reaching for her throat. She rolled her chin forward to deny his fingers access to her neck. He was panting heavily in her face, his breath hot, his youthful eyes round and rabid, like an animal.
 

Bray forced herself to remain calm despite the weight of him on top of her, ordered her breaths to slow, her heart to regulate. She ignored the sounds of her companions fighting nearby, focusing all of her attention on the young man. Her desire to phase was overpowering, but the chill lingered. She would have to best him without her gift.
 

Bray wrenched one leg free, bringing her knee up to her chest. The sharp sound of her skirt tearing punctuated the move. She wrapped her legs around her opponent’s knee, then thrust all of her weight to the right, taking him down and rolling atop him. Without hesitation, she punched the lad in the face and heard the crack of his nose breaking beneath her knuckles. Blood, dark and fast, ran from his nostrils, and he blinked dazed eyes. She punched again—twice, thrice, until his face drooped to the side, unconscious.
 

Huffing and sweaty, she rolled off her enemy and looked to her companions. Peer and Su-Hwan had, apparently, dispatched the other two Elevated more quickly. Su-Hwan was attempting to stem a bloody nose. Peer had his hands braced on the ground before him, his head hung and chest heaving.
 

He met her gaze with clear blue eyes. “Thought I was done for.”

She scrabbled across the short distance that separated them and threw her arms around his neck. “Thank the Spirits,” she whispered, her chest contracting. She felt his wide, warm hand come round her back and return the embrace.

Su-Hwan spoke calmly from behind. “My gift is still barred.” Her dark eyes flicked upward. “Whythe must be up there.”

Peer released Bray and added for her benefit, “He’s a blond-haired lad. If we can knock him out, the plan should still work.”

One of the Elevated began to stir. Bray frowned upwards. “Let’s do it, then.”

She crawled towards the light and noise, eager to be free of the confinement of their hiding place. Even before their lives had been threatened, the close quarters had made her palms sweat.
 

She squirmed free of the stage and rose to her feet, the breeze stirring her hair and chilling the perspiration that still clung to her brow.
 

The scene before her was almost too overwhelming to be believed. The plaza was packed shoulder to shoulder as far as she could see. The din of so many people thundered in her ears. She stood for a moment, mouth agape, until she felt Peer’s hand touch her arm.
 

The stage, too, was in chaos. At first she couldn’t understand what was happening. It seemed as though ordinary citizens had taken it upon themselves to attack—rough clad men and women, many with weapons no more refined than crowbars and four-by-fours. Then she spotted a tattoo upon a neck—the crowned fist.