Peer jumped up onto the seat and launched himself towards the opening. He hung for a moment, with his head and arms within the small space and his feet kicking in the air below. Gritting his teeth, he hauled himself in, leveraging his weight to the side, feeling the edge scrape roughly against his shoulders. Once they had cleared, the rest followed and, with his foot, he slid the compartment shut. The space was dark, tight. He swallowed and tried not to let the enclosed feeling affect him.
“Su-Hwan?”
“Up here,” she whispered.
On hands and knees, compressed like water in a hose, he began to wriggle forward. It was dark and dusty. He suppressed a sneeze.
Even shut in as he was, he could hear the sounds of a fight from above, several more gunshots. If it was bandits, he hoped they’d make off with the lot. Anything to ruin Quade’s day.
He let out an ooaf as he bumped into Su-Hwan. “What’s wrong?”
“A bag is blocking the way.”
Peer sighed. Right, luggage compartment. He squinted as a sliver of light appeared.
“All clear,” Su-Hwan said. She opened the compartment door wide and pushed the bag out, then slithered on.
They crawled in gloom and silence for several more minutes, and Peer found it increasingly difficult to breathe. Wide open spaces, he thought. Picture wide open spaces.
“We’ve almost reached the end of the car,” Su-Hwan whispered.
Peer’s knees had begun to burn from sliding along the wood planking beneath him, and a sharp ache had taken up between his shoulders. Just a bit further…
Su-Hwan crept over a small briefcase but Peer stopped, recognizing it as Vendra’s drug valise.
His gut compress itself into a hard lump, his breath stalled in his chest. Is she on the train? If so—he chomped down on his inner cheek, tasting blood—he had to kill her. He had to. That she still walked the earth, breathing and warm, when Adearre was gone, was—what had been done with his body? Was he still lying on that beach, decomposing? Peer’s face contorted, fire scorching his veins.
It could foil his escape, but the idea of revenge was sweeter than liberty anyway.
His head jerked to the left, hearing the squeal of bedsprings, a deep grunting, and then a familiar voice: Quade.
Knowing full well that he should move on, escape while he could, Peer slid the compartment open a chink and peeked down. What he saw below froze him.
The muscles of Quade’s bare back shone in the afternoon light. They rippled as he thrust and let out a groan. Beneath him, Vendra whimpered, and little wonder—he drove himself at her with such force, one would think he hoped to rend her in two. Making the act of love an act of violence.
Quade reached for a knife, already bloody, beside him on the bed. The sheets were smeared red. He placed the blade flush with her thigh as he thrust again.
“Tell me that you love me,” he whispered hoarsely.
“I love you,” she said, her voice dead.
“Then why do you make me do this, dear?” He twitched the knife and fresh blood poured from the wound. She let out a pained moan. “If you were loyal, I would not have to do this, now would I?”
She turned her tearstained face to the pillow. “I’m so...sorry.”
Peer slammed his eyelids closed. He had seen enough—felt sick, right down to his bones. He wished he had not looked, wished he could wipe that terrible picture from his mind. His anger from seconds before extinguished, leaving nothing but nausea in its wake.
He had spent the past weeks tending the fire of a hatred that had been misplaced, he realized. It left a bitter taste in his mouth, to feel sympathy for the person who had killed his love, to acknowledge her as a victim.
But he could not kill Vendra. He no longer wished to. He slung the strap of her bag, her drug case, around his shoulder and sidled onward.
Bray plunked down to the roof as a bullet whizzed overhead, biting her tongue in the process and filling her mouth with the metallic taste of blood. Excellent.
She forced herself back to her feet, though she was none too steady. Her vision swam—all silver streaks and flying green.
Her head ached and snot ran freely down from her nose, soaking into the handkerchief tied over her mouth.
Every time she looked up, more Elevated appeared on the roof, though they seemed as encumbered as she and Yarrow had been by the wind. It was difficult to fight when one could not even stand straight.
A bullet zipped by her ear. And to aim as well, thank the Spirits. It would be far too difficult for them to reload in such conditions, at least.
Yarrow appeared at her side with a burst of noise. “I’m sorry.”
“What happened?” Bray asked.
“They saw the mirror.” He grimaced at her in apology. “So, what’s the new plan?”
“Look for Peer, of course,” she shouted over the roaring wind. “We’ll just abandon stealth.”
Bray gestured for him to follow. She scurried to the end of the car, gripped the cold metal lip, and swung herself down onto the gangway betwixt carriages. She nearly lost her balance, vision swirling as her boots hit metal, but snatched hold of the railing. Yarrow landed with a light thump beside her and she yanked open the door and ran inside. The relative hush, without the wind raging in her ears, was blissful.
Before them, a narrow hallway of closed doors—all wood paneling, copper trimming, and patterned maroon carpeting.
Compartment doors flew open, Elevated coming to investigate the noise. In the moments they had before combat, Bray gripped Yarrow by the face and pressed a swift, hard kiss on his lips. “Fight back to back. It we’re overrun,” her gaze grew sharp, “teleport us forward or backwards, but not away. We don’t leave without Peer.”
Yarrow’s expression was difficult to read—his gray eyes seemed a touch wild, but his jaw was set. He inclined his head in agreement. Bray turned to face her charging opposition, lofted her hands and lowered her center of gravity. Having Yarrow at her back felt intensely, uncommonly right. As if he belonged there, not just because she trusted and cared for him, but for some deeper reason, something beyond her own understanding.
The first to reach her seemed to realize with alarm that he had charged ahead of his companions. He pulled up, young eyes widening. She hit him hard and true in the face, feeling his nose break beneath her fist, then kicked him in the chest, knocking him back. He flew into two of his fellows, sending the three of them into a jumble, an obstacle for those who followed.
Bray smirked. The Elevated vastly outnumbered them, but the narrowness of the train car would work in their favor. She pulled a knife from her boot, but hoped she’d not have to use it.
She had the odd sense that she knew what Yarrow was doing behind her, as if they were somehow connected—two branches of the same tree. She drew strength from him, had the impression that he drew strength from her as well. When he sent a young man stumbling in her direction, her elbow was already extended to greet the lad in the face. When she ducked beneath a high kick, he spun to knock the foot wide, before returning attention to his own adversary.
In the pause between combatants, he flashed a grin her way. Her skin prickled, a quiver running down her body. Fighting in this way with him, it put her in mind of making love. A kind of bodily union, a connectedness she had never experienced before.
Two broad-shouldered men who looked uncannily similar—the same short brown hair and deep-set eyes—came towards her in unison. They ran, and when they were nearly upon her, she kicked an ajar compartment door forward, nailing the one on the left squarely in the head. She swept down, dodging a blow, and flicked her knife, severing the tendon behind a knee.
Bray needn’t discuss her intentions; she and Yarrow were of the same mind. They fought forward through the carriage, climbing over limp bodies as necessary, united in purpose.
Their enemy were largely unarmed, a blessing for which she was grateful. Fighting hand-to-hand, with their newfound union of mind and body, she belie
ved they were unstoppable.
Almost as soon as this thought registered, a woman tall enough to tower over even Yarrow erupted through the doorway, a pistol in hand. She took aim, and Bray had to fight the urge to phase. Even if she managed to solidify quickly enough to remain on the train, the bullet would hit Yarrow.
She reached back and grabbed his hand. “Now.”
The pop of their disappearance sounded a mere instant after the blast of the gun. Bray found herself in the next carriage.
A train attendant in a crisp uniform cowered, but the hallway was otherwise empty.
“Run,” Yarrow called.
They did. Bray sprinted down the carriage, reality streaming by her unfocused eyes, her arms pumping. She glanced in each compartment as best she could as they darted past, in search of Peer.
A single Elevated girl, no older than fifteen, poked a pretty face out of a compartment at the end of the car. Bray raised a knife to the girl’s jugular and demanded, “Where is the prisoner?”
The girl’s face blanched. She pointed a trembling finger to the compartment at the back corner of the next carriage, flinching away.
Yarrow took off even faster than Bray, tugging her down the hall. She felt lighter as they approached it, so relieved to have at last found her friend.
He slid open the compartment door and within they found two people: one, an unconscious woman on the floor, the other the Fifth. Bray stared at her for a moment in awe, having only ever heard or read about such things—like a figure out of history. The Fifth’s face was ghostly pale, her hair black and lank, her eyes wide, unseeing orbs. She babbled, but over the roar of the train and the thundering of Bray’s heart, her words were unintelligible.
Yarrow seized a notebook from the floor and tucked it into an oversized pocket in his coat.
Behind Bray, the door flew open—she dropped to the floor—and a pistol fired, deafening in the limited space. She heard the bullet, with the soft smack of metal meeting flesh, strike the Fifth full in the chest. The girl spasmed and a horrible gurgling sound erupted from her mouth; blood, bright and red, pouring from her wound.
Bray gaped, morbidly fascinated, as the Fifth’s truths slowed and finally, on one half-uttered proclamation, ceased. Her already lifeless eyes turned glassy.
The shooter was so stunned by what he had done that he stood frozen, pistol still pointed at the Fifth, mouth parted. Bray bounded to her feet, snagged the weapon, and struck the Elevated in the temple.
Yarrow gawked at the slumped form of the Fifth, stupefied. Bray caught his sleeve and tugged him up and out of the compartment. Clearly, Peer was not there.
She took off at a sprint, her head aching worse than ever and the floor swimming before her eyes.
And then she heard the worst possible sound imaginable: the honeyed, charming tones of Quade Asher. He can’t be here, she thought, dread pooling in her limbs. He should be in Accord, running the country. Not here…
It didn’t matter that he shouldn’t be near at hand. There was no mistaking that voice.
“Don’t listen to him,” Yarrow whispered to her, out of breath.
And then the man himself was there, standing before them in the hallway.
Quade stood, bare-chested, his hair rumpled and loose around his face. Fresh blood glazed his hands. She hoped it wasn’t Peer’s blood.
“We have guests,” Quade said, his dark eyes crinkling with pleasure. His voice ran through her like a stiff drink, warming her and easing her fear. “How good it is for you to join us, Miss Marron, Mr. Lamhart. We’ve been expecting you.”
Bray began to hum loudly, endeavoring to block him out of her head. She jerked Yarrow’s hand, urging him to teleport them forward. He didn’t.
Behind them, a small crowd of Elevated gathered. They hung back, however, watching their leader.
Quade was speaking, but she could not hear—would not hear. Yarrow was answering. She stopped humming, rounding on him. “No, Yarrow!”
“It seems only reasonable to talk things over, as Quade says,” Yarrow said, his tone flatter than usual.
“An excellent sentiment, Mr. Lamhart. No reason men of intellect cannot come to an understanding.” Quade held out his hand to Yarrow and Bray stared at the offering blankly.
Yarrow began to reach forward, his hand quivering slightly. A glint of victory shone in Quade’s eyes.
Then Yarrow’s arm reached behind him, to the pole and mirror strapped to his back, and he swung the instrument with a blinding flash of silver, striking Quade over the head. Blood gushed from the head wound and he collapsed, though his eyes were still open. He plainly retained consciousness.
Yarrow grabbed Bray’s hand and teleported them forward to the next carriage, nearly the last carriage, leaving Quade and the gathering of Elevated behind. He took the grip of the mirror, which was now cracked, and slid the long pole between the handles of the doors. Bray beamed at him in approval. It wouldn’t keep them out for long, but would afford some time.
Again, they began their search.
“I’m sorry,” Yarrow huffed. “I should have shot him. I have a round. But, I just…couldn’t.”
“Let’s just focus on finding Peer and getting out of here,” she said, though deep down she felt a pang. If Quade were dead, it would all be over.
How could he have hesitated?
Arlow crossed his legs at the ankle and turned a page in his newspaper. The wine in his glass sloshed with the rumbling of the train.
“I swear, I seen someone atop the front car,” Mae said, her nose pasted to the window.
“Perhaps it is some new, mad training regimen of Quade’s,” Arlow said, taking a sip of his beverage. It might as well be piss, he thought, as he opened and closed his mouth a few times. Sure, he had persuaded them to let him aboard the train for free, but did that truly warrant subpar libations?
“All these Chisanta abouts gives me the creeps,” Mae said.
Arlow put a hand to his chest. “You find us creepy? That certainly explains the pistol.”
She put a hand to the weapon at her hip. “Sure do.” She tore her gaze from the window. “Not you, cause I know you and I know what your gift is now. But these ones? Heck they could be readin’ my mind or seeing through my dress.”
Arlow quirked a brow at her, lips pursed thoughtfully. She laughed at him. “Plus, you’re easier to read than a book. But, for all I know, all these little buggers have five gifts a pop. That’s how many you can get, right? Five?”
Arlow folded his newspaper and placed it on the seat beside him. “Yes, but you would know if they had five. They’d be mad.”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Are you not familiar with the sacrifices?”
She shook her head, and her eyes held a bright interest that he found appealing.
“The first gift is free. The next four come at a cost.” He held up his hand to count, lifting his index finger. “The first is the ability to have children—”
“What, you lose your bits?”
Arlow choked back a laugh. “No, the bits are all there. Just less…potent.” He lifted the next finger. “The next sacrifice is physical touch, skin-to-skin contact. After that is your memories, and finally your mind.”
She whistled. “Sounds lousy, if you ask me.”
“Hence why most of us have just the one.”
She snatched his wine and took a gulp, seeming not to notice its atrocious quality. He folded his arms and shook his head at her, still unsure if he found her total lack of decorum charming or off-putting. The wine left her lips wet and red.
She jumped. “Did you hear that?”
He had—a raised voice, just outside their compartment. “I’ll see what it is.”
Arlow stood, slid open the compartment door, and stepped into the hall. Almost instantly, the sharp blade of a knife pressed against his throat. He found himself staring into the blazing green eyes of Bray Marron—the very last person he expected to see.
“Arlow?” Yarrow asked.
Arlow smirked. “It seems every time we see each other it comes to this.” He tsked. “Terribly bad manners.”
Bray did not smile, her face resolved into hard, hate-filled lines. She pushed him back against the door to the compartment across from his. “You will tell me where my friend is, or I swear by all the Spirits above, I will bleed you like a pig.”
Arlow lifted up his hands, hoping to calm the situation, perhaps explain that he had switched sides.
“Bray?” a male voice called from the far side of the carriage.
Bray’s head snapped to the sound, and Arlow saw the relief wash over her features. “Peer!”
Arlow cleared his throat. “Excellent, now that we are all reunited, I—”
“Shut it,” Bray said, turning the knife to draw blood, making Arlow hiss. “I ought to kill you anyway, if you’re going to keep turning up like this.”
Arlow’s reply was stolen by the deafening sound of a gunshot. The knife fell from his neck in an instant and Bray’s eyes widened in shock. She collapsed. He frowned down at her, watched a small red hole between her shoulder blades expand into a wide blotch of blood. His heart stopped.
Yarrow bellowed her name, his voice breaking, and Peer, trailed by a petite Chaskuan girl, charged up the car. All of this seemed to happen distantly—Arlow’s ears rang.
He pulled his gaze up from Bray’s body, to the place where the shot had come from. To his own compartment, where Mae stood, pistol still in hand, smoking slightly, her face deathly serious.
Arlow felt as though all the air had left his body; he could not draw breath. The blood. There was so much blood.
Unbidden, he thought of Bray as she had been when he’d first met her, so many years ago. A precocious girl who had called him a prat, but who’d always had his back at the Temple.
“We have to get her out of here,” Yarrow said, his voice strangled, desperate. “Grab ahold of me,” Yarrow said to Peer.
Yarrow scooped Bray’s inert form to his chest and her head hung lifelessly. Peer grabbed Yarrow’s bare arm and the Chaskuan girl took hold of the other.
Elevation of the Marked (The Marked Series Book 2) Page 14