Lamentation of the Marked (The Marked Series Book 3) by March McCarron

Author:March McCarron [McCarron, March]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2017-07-02T18:00:00+00:00

Yarrow fell forward, into the Confluence itself, into nothingness. For a fearful moment it seemed he had ceased to exist—there was nothing but blackness. And then that blackness grayed, coalesced, shifted—like a scene painted from clouds. Finally, colors bloomed.

He gazed down upon a scene as if he were floating above it. It was not a place he knew, but it was comforting nonetheless: a library, far larger than any Yarrow had ever seen. The shelves of books seemed to stretch infinitely. Rain pattered against the windowpanes, and there came a rumble of thunder in the distance. A set of doors crashed open, and a harried figure charged into view, trailing pools in her wake—Bray?

She gasped, as if she had run a great distance. Her hair was plastered wetly to her face, turned a deep cinnamon red-brown. She paused for a moment to consider her direction. Then she took off at a dead sprint down the passageway, and Yarrow found himself moving along with her, above her.

The panic stamped across her features had infected Yarrow as well. His own heart would be racing, if he were not incorporeal.

Bray reached the end of the library proper and came to an abrupt standstill before an office door, her chest heaving. She paused for a second, screwing her eyes closed and hanging her head, before pushing the door open. Where she had been in the utmost haste before, she now moved slowly, fearfully.

“Yarrow?” she called out in a choked voice.

He wanted to answer. I’m here. Up here! But he had no tongue, no lips.

Bray hiccuped. “Ya-Yarrow?”

She ran forward, and as she did so Yarrow’s perspective lowered, so that he might take in the far end of the room.

He saw himself—which was, on its own, a most strange experience—and yet at the same time it was not himself. Not really. This man had his face, but there was no expression upon it. He spoke in a voice too flat and detached to be his own. The words that streamed from his mouth were pure nonsense:

“The pull of the earth is constant. Lightning strikes the highest tower. Angry, angry, angry, he’s so angry. Look to the boy, the bevolder…”

Yarrow, from above, was voicelessly screaming. The terror of this vision seemed a physical thing. He had never stopped to consider his greatest fear, but he knew now it was this: madness. The loss of his mind, his intellect, the one thing that remained to him.

In addition to this spirit-altering fear, he felt anger. Was this meant to be a vision of the future? Did the Spirits truly expect this of him—this too? Had he not given enough already?

Bray was shaking the Fifth by the lapels of his robes, but the senseless words poured forth unhindered. “Yarrow, no. No. No. Yarrow, please, no.” She sobbed and stammered. Finally, she pressed her head into that Yarrow’s chest, her words unintelligible.

A man charged into the room, streaming with rainwater. “Bray?”

He tried to pull her away from the Fifth. Bray, without looking, elbowed the man in the gut.

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