A Book of Spirits and Thieves (12 page)

“He did. Only not in those words.”

“I’m not surprised he’s still fully on Team Markus, but he’s wrong. Look
evil
up in a dictionary and there will be a picture of Markus.” She went silent for a moment. “I know your mother can be an asshat, too, sometimes, and we don’t always see eye to eye—to say the least. But trust me—she’s only being an asshat because she loves you. She wants to protect you from . . . this.”

Trust me.

“If you want me to trust you, I need you to tell me everything you know about that book. What is it? Where did it come from? And why do you think Markus wants it so bad?” Crys reached for Becca’s hand again while cradling the cell phone on her shoulder.

“There’s too much to tell and no time to tell it.”

“This is not helping.”

“You’re a smart-ass, you know that?”

“I inherited that trait from my favorite aunt.”

Jackie laughed, a genuine sound from her belly. “Look, I’m trying to get back to Canada, but I’m having a bit of a problem leaving Paris.”

“What sort of problem?”

“Uh, let’s just say I’m currently wanted by certain . . . authority figures.”

Crys’s brows shot up. “Because you stole the book?”

There was a pause. “Because I steal a lot of things. Some shinier than others. Stay in school, sweetie. Get a good education and you won’t end up like your crazy aunt.”

“Too late for that advice.”

Jackie groaned. “A subject to discuss in further depth when I finally get my butt across the ocean. And I will. But in the meantime—and know that I’m going out on a limb here because your mother would murder me if I told her I was bringing you on board—you need to go see someone named Dr. Uriah Vega at his office tomorrow. He’s a professor of linguistic anthropology at the University of Toronto, and we go way back. Mention my name and tell him I said to give you the full monty on the book. He’ll know exactly what to tell you to help clear a few things up. Go after lunch since he teaches all morning.”

A name and a location. It was the best lead she’d had so far. “Thanks,” Crys said. “I’ll do that.”

“Hey . . . remember when I gave you and your sister those self-defense lessons?” Jackie asked.

“Like it was last summer.” Which it had been. “Why? Will I need them?”

“You never know. Just remember my number one lesson, because it’s the most important and useful one of all.” She swore again loudly. “Sorry, I need to scram. I’ll call again as soon as I can, okay?”

But Crys couldn’t remember which lesson was the number one. Right now all she could recall was that a knee to the groin and a finger to the eyeball were very effective methods for suppressing an attacker.

What was the first lesson?

“Wait, Jackie—”

The line went dead, and Crys stared down at the phone in disbelief.

A few moments later, Julia returned and stood at the doorway. “Did I just hear you talking on the phone? Who was it?”

“Jackie,” she said, her voice hushed. “But she’s gone now.”

Her mother snatched the phone out of her hand and stared at the home screen with dismay. “What did she say?”

“To not trust anyone but you and her.”

“Good advice for once,” Julia said, though the way she was looking at Crys told her that she was more than a little suspicious about what Jackie might have divulged. “Let’s go home. We can’t do anything more for Becca today.”

Her mother took hold of her arm, and Crys didn’t protest or try to squirm away.

They didn’t get along most of the time, but Crys had always thought she at least knew her mother. Jackie said her sister was hiding the truth because she loved Crys. But Crys had to wonder: Was that love? Was that trust?

Frankly, she wasn’t sure who this woman directing her out of Becca’s room and into her silver Mazda hatchback in the parking lot really was. Julia Hatcher had more secrets than Crys ever would have guessed.

Two could play at that game.

Chapter 11

FARRELL

F
arrell tried to read while he waited for the call from Lucas. He’d bought the entire Walking Dead graphic novel series but still found that flipping through images of zombies and a plethora of blood and guts and angst did nothing to distract him.

“Farrell . . . you busy?”

He glanced at the doorway of his room to see Adam silhouetted in the frame.

He set the books aside on his bed and put his arms behind his head in a lounging position. “Come on in.”

Adam took a seat on the side of the bed, eyeing the graphic novels. “Walking Dead?”

“You can borrow them.”

“Are you finished with them?”

“With these two.” He nudged the first volumes toward his brother, who took them, staring at the covers with interest.

“Awesome,” Adam said. After a pause, he looked up from the books to his brother. “Look, I know I overreacted and bitched you out this morning. I’m sorry.”

Farrell frowned. “Wait. Are you really apologizing right now?”

“I’ve been thinking a lot about what happened Saturday night, and . . . it was just a shock. That’s all.”

“I know.”

“I wasn’t expecting that, especially not with me on the stage, so up close and personal. But—that guy, he was dangerous. If we had let him go, he’d have gone out and caused the deaths of tons of other people. If he went to jail, it probably wouldn’t have been for nearly long enough. There was no other answer.” Still, his face looked bleak and haunted about this harsh realization.

“I get it, kid. I do.” Farrell leaned forward and gripped his brother’s shoulder. “And you don’t have to apologize to me for anything. Ever. Okay? I should have been more understanding.”

Adam blinked. “Wow, is this, like, a sentimental brotherly moment? Should we hug tenderly?”

Farrell laughed. “I don’t give hugs out liberally, especially not to family.”

Adam grinned in the lopsided way that made Farrell know that his happiness was genuine.

Farrell’s phone buzzed, interrupting this rare peaceful moment. It was Lucas.

“Gotta take this, kid,” he said, bringing the phone to his ear. “Yeah?”

“It’s time,” Lucas said.

He covered the receiver with his hand. “Adam, why don’t you take the whole set? I won’t be reading them anytime soon.”

“Really? Okay.” Adam gathered the books and headed for the door. He hesitated there, as if he still had something more to say. But after a moment, he left the room, closing the door behind him.

“It’s time, is it?” Farrell said. “Cryptic, much? Is there a secret handshake I should memorize before I leave the house?”

Lucas snorted softly. “Always with the jokes. I’d probably curb that tendency a bit tonight if I were you. Markus’s sense of humor is . . . singular.”

Whatever that meant. “I’ll be on my bestest behavior—cross my heart,” Farrell said.

“You don’t have to be nervous.”

“Do I sound nervous to you?”

“I would be, if I were you.” Lucas told him where to meet in half an hour.

Farrell left the mansion and directed his driver to the address, which was a large cathedral on the west side of the city that looked more like a castle, with tall spires and towers and stained glass windows that sparkled despite the overcast day.

“Shall I wait here for you?” Sam, his driver, asked.

Farrell had tried very hard not to start to like him, or even get to know him. Sam, who was somewhere in his midtwenties, had been hired as a temporary solution to the problem that was Farrell Grayson’s lack of a driver’s license. But Farrell would be back in a brand-new Porsche the first moment that the lawyers sorted out his DUI, and then Sam would be nothing more than a distant memory.

“
Don’t make friends with the hired help
,” his mother had shrilly told him a decade ago when she’d caught him playing with one of the maid’s kids.

But Sam had been a huge help in the last few months, and it was hard not to think of him as a friend, rather than just someone his parents paid to drive him around.

Farrell smiled as he recalled a conversation from a recent night out.

“Ever think about, oh, I don’t know, not drinking?” Sam had asked as he waited for Farrell to stop puking at the side of the road.

“I’ve thought about it,” Farrell had replied, wiping his mouth. “And . . . nah.”

“Just asking.” Sam grinned and shook his head. “It’s your liver.”

Sam was reliable and friendly and went above and beyond to help him out. Farrell appreciated that more than he’d ever admit out loud.

“No, Sam. Don’t bother waiting, since I have no idea how long I’ll be,” Farrell said now. “Go get yourself some dinner. I’ll call when I’m all done.”

Not one minute after Sam had driven off, Lucas approached Farrell on the sidewalk. He offered his hand, and Farrell grasped it and shook it.

“You ready for this?” Lucas asked.

“Hell yeah.” Farrell eyed the intricate building and gestured up at it. “Do I need to confess my sins first? I admit—it’s been a while, and I have quite a few.”

Lucas grinned. “Follow me.”

He led Farrell around to the back of the cathedral, where they found what looked like an unmarked subway entrance blocked off by construction tape and wooden panels. He shoved away a panel, which revealed a trapdoor beneath.

“After you,” Lucas said after lifting the door.

Farrell raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Looks dark down there.”

“Yes. Very dark.” Lucas waited patiently, as if issuing an unspoken challenge.
Are you a coward, Grayson? Or are you worthy?

“Let’s do this,” Farrell mumbled, then stepped through the trapdoor, grappling in the darkness to find the stairs. He braced himself with his hand against the cool concrete wall as he slowly began his descent. The door slapped back down into place as Lucas fell into step behind him.

“It’ll just take a few moments for my eyesight to adjust,” Lucas
said. “Then I can get us where we need to be pretty quickly.”

“Yeah, sure. My eyes will take a minute, too.”

“Not like mine. Not yet, anyway.”

“Oh, I love it when you talk in riddles. It gives me tingles.” Farrell kept moving down the stairs, taking them slowly so he wouldn’t fall and twist his ankle. Finally he reached what he was pretty certain was the ground floor. He saw the glow of fluorescent light from about fifty feet ahead and he followed Lucas in that direction.

“So how many are in this circle?” Farrell asked, trying to make conversation to distract himself from thoughts about the unknown destination before him.

Lucas shook his head. “I can’t talk details with you. Not till you’re officially in.”

“What happens then? Do I get a prize? A chest tattoo of, I don’t know, a hawk and a spear?” The prospect of getting a tattoo didn’t bother him. He already had two. One—a quote from his favorite Korean action movie (in Korean, of course)—
Bright is life. Dark is death.
—on his left side over his ribs. And on the inner bicep of his right arm, he’d gotten a crown to remind him that he was the king of his own life, that no one controlled him.

“No tattoo,” Lucas said. “You’ll see.”

“You’re so helpful. Anyway,” Farrell started, ignoring Lucas’s ban on questions, “who got into the circle first? You or Connor?”

“Me. I was invited two months before Connor was. I suggested him, actually, but Markus had already been considering him.”

“Did he handle it well? Being chosen like that?”

“I thought he did.”

“He had started to become a real prick before . . .” Farrell had to force himself to say it. “Before he died. It was like his personality did a one-eighty.”

“Really? I didn’t notice anything.”

“Yeah, he went from being a nice guy to being a total dick. Could it have been the circle? Did it do something to him?”

“Like what?” Lucas eyed him sideways. “Like make him want to kill himself? Is that what you’re insinuating?”

“You’re right. It doesn’t make sense. I’m still just trying to figure it all out.”

“Trust me, Farrell. Nobody wants your brother alive more than I do. I was his best friend. I didn’t see it coming, even when Mallory dumped him. And if I did, I damn well would have done whatever I could have to stop it.”

The words were there, the words Farrell needed to hear from Lucas. But his tone was off. Lucas spoke without any emotion, like he didn’t care one way or the other. Like he was paying lip service to shut Farrell up.

A horrible thought rose to the surface of Farrell’s mind.
Did you have something to do with my brother’s death, Lucas?

“I think you and I could be friends, now that we’re about to have a lot more in common,” Lucas said. “Which is interesting, since I always thought you were a prick.”

“Ditto.” Farrell had no idea how to interpret this conversation, but he knew he didn’t want to push Lucas too far. It would be best to befriend him, to get to the real story of his brother’s final days. He needed to coax the truth—if there was any new truth to tell—out of the guy as smoothly as possible. “But I need more friends in my life. I’ve almost run out of people to braid my hair and talk about cute boys with.”

They both laughed, Farrell trying to sound as natural as possible, as they navigated the maze of tunnels. The hallways now had better lighting, but they were still much dimmer than the
tunnels under the restaurant leading to Markus’s theater.

“Do all these tunnels connect?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

Farrell glared at him for giving yet another nonanswer. “How about I ask you all these questions again after I’m in?”

In the faint light, he saw Lucas’s lips quirk up. “Good idea.”

They walked in silence for a while, Lucas leading the way as the tunnels got narrower, then wider, then narrower again with each turn they made. Finally, Farrell ventured to speak again. “Any advice when it comes to my meeting with His Majesty?”

“Sure. Be honest. Answer his questions with nothing but the exact truth. He’ll know if you’re lying.”

“I don’t know. I lie really well.”

“He’ll know. But you should also be honest about what you want. If you don’t want in—”

“I do,” Farrell interrupted before Lucas could finish his sentence. Failure was not an option. He’d come this far, and he refused to leave without being accepted into the circle. Every step he took was one his brother had also taken. One way or another, Farrell was determined to get to the truth.

Lucas shrugged. “Then I don’t see a problem.”

Farrell absently played with the gold society crest he’d pinned to the lapel of his blue shirt, beneath his leather jacket. It was incredible to know that the circle had existed for decades, yet he had never heard of it before Saturday night. “How long has he been considering me?”

“A year,” Lucas replied.

So as long as Connor has been gone.
The thought made him grimace but also brought up another question. “So am I taking my brother’s place?”

“I thought so to begin with, but apparently not. Markus believes he sees something special in you.”

Farrell considered that.
Special, huh?
That would be news to his mother. “What’s in it for you? What do you get out of being part of the circle?”

“I get to serve Markus,” Lucas said, as if it were obvious.

“Is that it? Why not just serve at the Red Lobster, then? Way less blood and death to clean up there. More tips, too.”

Lucas’s gritted teeth glinted in the torchlight. “Keep walking, Grayson.”

They walked for what felt like a mile, passing flickering lights set into the ceiling every twenty feet. It was damp down there and as cold as winter—like walking through a meat locker. The floor was slippery, coated thinly by patches of ice.

Finally, they reached an iron spiral staircase, nearly identical to the one that led to the theater, except that this one was painted red instead of black.

“Up we go,” Lucas said.

With trepidation, Farrell eyed the stairs leading up into more darkness. “If I’d known this would be a major hike, I would have worn my Nikes.”

Up and up the staircase went, until the air grew warmer again. Finally, they reached a silver door that bore the Hawkspear crest.

Lucas knocked. Two quick knocks, four slow knocks: a different sequence from the one used at the theater. Farrell filed that bit of information in his head for future reference.

The door creaked open, and a man Farrell recognized from the society meetings peered out at them. He wasn’t sure of his name; he’d never really paid much attention to the particularities of society life before.

“We’re here,” Lucas said.

The man opened the door wider to allow them entry, and suddenly Farrell found himself out of the dark stairwell and inside a warm building that was, judging by the walk through the tunnels, at least a mile from the cathedral. It must be accessible by secret passageway that also connected to the theater and the restaurant, Farrell thought.

“This way,” Lucas said, leading Farrell through the dim interior.

The place was huge, at least as large as the Grayson mansion. The floors were stone and the walls plaster, with original oil paintings that looked as if they’d hung there for a century. Just past an archway at the end of a hallway, Farrell’s gaze landed on what appeared to be a massive library where there were floor-to- ceiling bookshelves filled with leather-bound books.