“Could you try to look less…shifty?” she asked him.
His dark brows shot up, and then with a visible effort he relaxed his shoulders and assumed a look of nonchalance. His feigned casualness was even more conspicuous than his open paranoia.
Bray snorted, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Remind me not to bring you undercover, will you?”
The apartment they sought appeared at the end of the hall, and without question she took his hand and phased them through the locked door.
“Why?” Yarrow asked in a whisper as they entered.
“Your acting leaves a bit to be desired.”
He laughed shakily as his eyes scanned the chamber. The late afternoon light illuminated an ordinary sitting room: a leather couch, desk, bookshelf packed with leather-bound tomes, and an empty hat stand atop a maroon rug. The door to an equally commonplace-looking bedroom stood ajar.
“Huh,” he said, rubbing his eye. “I thought it would look more…”
“Villainous?”
He nodded, though even that movement seemed a great effort for him.
“Why don’t you sit?” Bray asked as she opened the top drawer to the desk and began sifting through its contents.
“And leave you to do all of the snooping single-handed?” he asked, though he thunked down on the couch even as he said it.
Bray flicked a concerned glance at him before returning to the drawer. His stomach wound had been healed, but he, Ko-Jin, and herself had been, for the past week, quite sick. Kellar said it was withdrawal, that it would pass. It seemed whatever drug Ko-Jin and Yarrow had been given had greater side effects upon leaving the system than her own.
“Yarrow, I’m a professional,” Bray said, as she skimmed a yellowing letter. “I don’t snoop; I investigate.”
He sank deeper into the couch. “My apologies.”
They remained quiet for a time as Bray read through a stack of old correspondences. Most of them were mundane in nature, saved more out of negligent housekeeping than importance, she suspected. The place hadn’t been used in well over a decade and a half. Likely there was nothing to find.
She opened the second drawer and extracted a worn, decorative wooden case that bore the word ‘Asher’ in embossed letters. Her trembling fingers unclasped the cover, revealing a family photograph rendered in a deep chocolate brown.
The corners were black and light dots freckled the image, but the four figures remained clearly transfixed. Bray brought the image closer for inspection, her gaze taking in each face. The father—tall, handsome, and mustachioed—appeared to be stifling a laugh, his dark eyes glittering with eternal mirth. His wife perched at his side, petite and pretty. The eldest child, a girl in a frilly frock with ringleted hair, beamed broadly, revealing a missing tooth. The face of the last family member, a small boy standing before his father, caused the hairs on Bray’s arm to stand.
Quade.
His black hair had been parted with severe straightness down the center of his head. He wore knee-length knickerbockers and a suit jacket lined in gleaming buttons. His left hand clutched what appeared to be a child’s shovel. His face, even in youth, possessed that sharp spear of a nose, those dramatic cheekbones. But it was his expression that sent shivers racing across her skin, a countenance that no child’s face should ever assume. It was cold, intense—sharp-eyed, thin lipped. It made Bray’s stomach clench, her hand quake. Those dark orbs, transfixed in imperfect sepia, seemed to pull at her, tugging at her very spirit. She couldn’t break eye contact, couldn’t blink. Suddenly, she felt as she had in that round prison at Easterly Point, when Quade had jumped down within the confines of the Sphere, and his charm had been stripped from him, his face and voice adopting an inhuman coldness.
And then she was on her knees, her breath coming in ragged bursts.
“Bray?”
She hadn’t heard Yarrow stand or cross the room, but she felt his hand come to rest on her shoulder. She exhaled.
Normally, the touch of others set her on edge. But Yarrow’s touch had always felt different, somehow. Welcome. She let the tranquility of his presence wash through her and thought of the very first time they’d touched—when they shook hands on that carriage so many years ago. She’d felt it then, too: the inexplicable comfort his nearness afforded. That memory brought a slow smile to her lips and chased the shadow from her mind.
Yarrow took the photograph and analyzed it himself. Bray wanted to reach out and smooth the crease between his brows, but kept her hands entwined in her lap.
He hefted the image and examined the thickness of the casing. “It’s an old glasstype photograph.”
“How can you tell?”
“It’s thicker and heavier. Modern portraits are done on thin metal sheets.”
She watched as he sucked in his bottom lip and studied the image. “Spirits, that is…” He swallowed. “Unsettling.”
Bray stood and crossed to the bookcase. It contained primarily historical texts, nothing noticeably insidious to her eyes. She spied several volumes about someone named Alfenze Guenez. The man’s autobiography had a creased spine. Bray snatched it and leafed through the pages. Someone, presumably Quade, had heavily annotated the text. She paused at a passage that had been underlined and starred:
Above all else, it is our duty to preserve the predetermined stratification of mankind. This is not to say that all people are born to the station for which they are intended. It is often the case that those born to power are unsuited to the position. Rather, it is the inherent qualities of a man which dictate his hierarchal placement. Those who are strong, wise, and unflinching should lead. The weak are meant to follow or fall. In this way, even those people of lesser quality will experience the ultimate satisfaction of having fulfilled their predestined role. And so, I posit to those who have questioned my methods that I have never erred. I have never once taken a life out of malice. Merely, I have executed my predetermined role as leader, and I have allowed my enemy the dignity of fulfilling his own purpose as the vanquished.
Bray frowned down at the page. “Yarrow, are you familiar with Alfenze Guenez?”
He set the photograph back in the drawer and came to read over her shoulder. “The genocidal tyrant? A bit.”
“Quade seems to be a fan.”
Yarrow ran a finger along the spines of several books, cherishingly. Belonging to a homicidal despot was not enough to render a text unsavory in his eyes, it would seem. “That’s not surprising. Every megalomaniac of note over the past seven hundred years has slept with Guenez’s autobiography under his pillow. For people like Quade, his philosophy on predetermination is like an unqualified sanction for atrocities. You know, the strong must exercise their strength; the weak must wallow in their weakness—the usual self-aggrandizing fallacy.”
Bray replaced the book, her mouth twisted in distaste. “Let’s check the bedroom.”
Yarrow led the way. A great four-poster bed dominated the space, its blue curtains an unexpectedly cheering color. Yarrow dropped onto the mattress with a squeal of bedsprings. His face had grown clammy and a steady tremor rocked his right hand. Bray chose not to call attention to his weakness.
She proceeded to the bedside table and found a bundle of letters, most much older than those that had been in the desk. Bray perched cross-legged on the mattress and unfolded the first correspondence.
“It’s from his mother,” she said.
The notion of Quade having a mother struck her as strange—the idea of him having once been a babe, helpless and innocent. It seemed more reasonable for him to have sprung to life independently, fully-formed and maniacal.
She flipped back to the front of the envelope, to the address. “2205 Gary Street, Leeson,” she murmured to herself. Leeson was a mere thirty-minute drive from her own childhood home in Mountsend.
“How ethical is it, do you think, to read a man’s letters from home?” Yarrow asked through a yawn. He flopped back on the bed, stretching his long limbs languorously.
Sun
light shone through the window, highlighting his face in a shaft of illumination. His eyes were closed, so she studied him freely. She adored his every detail: the way his dark lashes tangled together, the eccentric disarray of his eyebrow hairs, the way his bottom lip naturally stuck out from the upper. He was gaunter than he had been, his skin sallow and his hair lank, but these imperfections only evoked in her a sort of tenderness that was not typical to her nature.
She cleared her throat. “I think when you have a murder-count in the hundreds, you forfeit your right to privacy.”
His lip twitched. “And what are the ethics of sleeping in the bed of a mass murderer?” He opened his eyes and turned his head to her. “You don’t think the evilness has set into the fibers, do you?”
She bit her lip to keep from laughing. “I imagine the bedding has been changed regularly.”
“Excellent,” he said, stretching once more.
“Though,” Bray said, as she slid across the mattress to be closer to him, “I’m not sure that a mid-break-in nap is advisable.” Despite these words, she lay down beside him. He hooked an arm beneath her waist and hauled her to his side. A feeling of deep contentment filled her as she placed her head upon his chest. They lay there for a time, and Bray thought he had in fact gone to sleep. She was content to listen to the thumping of his heart beneath her ear. Wanting to be closer still—could she ever be close enough?—she hooked a leg up over his.
“If you are trying to seduce me,” he said in a slurred voice, startling her, “I’m afraid I may be physically unequal to the challenge at this moment.”
She grinned into his robes. “That wasn’t my intention.”
His chest rose and fell beneath her in a chuckle. “Normally, I have an unslakable libido, I assure you.”
She sniggered and rose up to look into his face. “Yes, I’m sure you’re a regular rake.”
His brows drew up in mock offense. “You question my lechery? I’m well known for it at the Cape, make no mistake.”
She rolled onto her back and laughed so hard that tears came to her eyes.
He sat up and began to unbutton his robes. “Very well! If my reputation as a libertine is in question, I shall rally.”
“Yarrow!”
The mere act of working the top button free seemed to have sapped his energy and, in the shadows of the canopy, the circles beneath his eyes looked deep and hollow as a skeleton’s. “Prepare to be made passionate love to,” he said thickly, “in this very creepy bed.”
She pushed him back down. “No one is likely to come in here. You might as well sleep.”
His breathing quickly regulated once again. “A raincheck, then?” he asked through a mighty yawn.
“Certainly.”
She reclaimed the stack of correspondence and began to peruse the letters written decades ago by Quade’s own mother. The steady ticking of a clock on the wall, along with Yarrow’s snores, made her own eyelids feel heavy, but she made herself focus, reading one letter at a time until she had completed the task.
She glanced at the address again, wondering if the Ashers would still be in residence. Perhaps his mother still lived there. Perhaps they would have some insights for her…
Yarrow jerked from his sleep.
“What is it?” she asked, startled.
“We need to go to the palace.” He leapt from the bed. “It’s Ko-Jin.”
The panic in his eyes stayed any question or argument she might pose. She pocketed the letters and took his outstretched hand, bracing herself for the unknown.
2
For the space of several breaths, Ko-Jin stood frozen in wide-eyed disbelief.
Before him, chaos.
The shrieks of the audience echoed through the chamber. The crowd shoved towards the exits, though the bolts that rained from above targeted the royal family alone.
A pool of blood inched outward from the king’s still form, dark against the light marble floor.
“Father,” the prince bellowed from behind the throne, his voice breaking—a heart-rending sound.
It shook Ko-Jin from his stupor, as did the sight of the guards moving towards the dais with unsheathed swords. Having expected nothing more this day than a conversation, he had brought no sword, only a single knife strapped to his forearm beneath his robes. It would have to do.
He shot forward, forcing his weary muscles into a sprint, driving against the current of the crowd.
As he ran, he assessed. Twenty men, twelve with sword and eight with crossbow, plus two Chisanta. Average reload time of a minute and twenty-five seconds. Glare from sunset through eastern windows. Slick floors.
He blocked the path of the nearest guard. “Might I have the use of your sword?”
The young man let out a loud guffaw, clearly thinking Ko-Jin mad. He swung his blade, aiming to kill, but Ko-Jin danced away and, in a swift motion, sent the lad to the ground, depriving him of his weapon. “Much obliged.”
The blade was of inferior quality; it felt clumsy in his hand. Still, he darted forward. He met with and dispatched a second guard. Beyond, he could see Arlow and Vendra mounting the dais, closing in on the prince and queen. A desperate powerlessness filled him. He was too far off; there were too many guards. He couldn’t possibly cross that distance in time.
Then a gloriously welcome sound greeted his ear—a sharp pop—and Yarrow and Bray were there, just beyond the throne.
Ko-Jin breathed a sigh of relief and returned his attention to the royal watch. They had begun to organize into a ring around him, no longer approaching one man at a time. Pity.
All eight crossbows fired, and a female scream pierced the air. I have a minute twenty-five, then.
Ko-Jin took a steadying breath and rooted himself. His opposition shuffled forward, tightening their trap—six men in total—while Ko-Jin counted down the time. The ticking of his pulse matched his mental timer.
As ever, he perceived the scene as if he hung above it, watching the circle of men approach like the minute marks on a clock shrinking in upon him. Overhead, he heard the guards turning the hand cranks of the crossbows, reloading. A minute fifteen.
To kill these men would be a simple task. However, they could be under the sway of Quade Asher, and therefore innocent. He frowned, annoyed—killing was far easier than maiming.
Ko-Jin evaluated his enemy: the man at twelve o’clock was small and wore a wrist brace. Ten o’clock, while strong, betrayed poor footwork. A minute five. Four o’clock suffered from hesitance. Eight and two o’clock appeared the most ambitious, though tall men like two o’clock tended to leave their legs unprotected. A minute, even.
Perversely, his mind flew to an old Dalish nursery rhyme he’d known as a boy—the sort of child’s song that concealed a black meaning behind a catchy tune. His opponents almost seemed to move to the beat.
Cannot stand,
Cannot stand,
Against the pressing, pressing hand.
As if they’d reached a designated mark upon the marble floor, Ko-Jin flew into motion. His knife came to his hand and, with a blinding flash, lodged itself in eight o’clock’s boot. The man howled, pinned.
Ko-Jin leapt towards four o’clock, his sword flashing in a swift slice, severing the tendons that joined shoulder and arm. Ko-Jin caught the guard as he fell and channeled that momentum onward, barreling the body into another guard. Fifty-two seconds.
No man wills,
No man wills,
To face that face, that face that kills.
Ko-Jin turned, now outside their ill-thought ring. Two o’clock whipped his blade and Ko-Jin ducked, felt the whiz of the weapon swoop above his back. He knocked the man’s sword from his hand and, with a quick flick of his blade, severed his hamstring. Launching back to his feet, Ko-Jin felled two more men with calculated blows.
He heard the whirr of a knife in the air and spun, taking his nearest foe with him. The hilt of the short blade bloomed in the guard’s shoulder. Twenty-five seconds.
Fe
el the sting,
Feel the sting,
You merchant, peasant, beggar, king.
It was like a dance, and he alone knew the steps—each movement, each gesture possessing faculty and grace. A poem, writ in gore and steel.
As he slid towards ten o’clock—the man who had thrown the knife—the sharp smell of urine filled the air. Ko-Jin struck the guard with his pommel. The lad thunked down to his knees, blood arched up into the air and fell again like rain. Ten seconds.
Hear the chime,
Hear the chime,
That marks the passing, passing time.
Six o’clock charged, the last guard standing, and Ko-Jin stood resolute, his feet rooted amidst the bodies. The sound of cranking abruptly ceased. Six swung up mercilessly; Ko-Jin turned out of the way, hooked the guard below the elbow, and flipped him up upon his own shoulders like a rucksack.
The thuds of the crossbow bolts hitting the guard’s chestpiece reverberated deep in Ko-Jin’s bones. He dropped the man—the last man—and breathed, feeling, still, the steady beat of his blood pumping through his veins.
Tick-tick-tock,
Tick-tick-tock,
We fall before, before the clock.
Dueling desires to laugh and vomit surged through his core. He pushed loose hair from his face with a bloody hand and examined his fallen foe, verifying that all were, indeed, incapacitated.
A whimper from the dais drew his attention. Yarrow and Arlow fought, each of them doing rather a sloppy job of it—it seemed neither had much intention of hurting the other. Ko-Jin shook his head and crossed his arms before his chest. Have I taught the two of you nothing at all?
Vendra’s form lay inert on the steps, a sight which inspired little sympathy. He scanned the room for Bray.
Elevation of the Marked (The Marked Series Book 2) Page 2