A Book of Spirits and Thieves (15 page)

Crys read the heading three times, not understanding. “Fifteen years ago. So around the same time your father and that woman were killed.”

His expression darkened. “That’s right. That’s why I feel personally responsible for their deaths, and why I’ll never forgive myself.”

This article had potentially caused two people with direct knowledge of the book to be murdered.

It’s possible all this was just a coincidence, Crys thought. Or, if it wasn’t, that Markus King isn’t responsible.

But then who was this man to whom her father was so loyal?

“Obsidia is the language in the book?”

“Obsidia is what my father called it. I have retained that name as I try to translate it. I will admit that most of the scholars who’ve read this paper have ridiculed my hypothesis.”

“Your hypothesis that Obsidia is a magical language from another world.”

“Yes.”

She had to admit, it did sound completely insane.

“Here’s what I believe, Miss Hatcher,” he said gravely. “Are you ready for my theory—a theory that your aunt also believes?”

“More than ready.”

“Sixty years ago, this book appeared in Toronto, out of nowhere. Because of some other . . . strange circumstances in her life, the woman who found it believed it was something she needed to hide from others seeking it. So hide it she did, holding her secret to her chest for years before she trusted my father enough to share it with him.

“My father told me that the moment he saw the Codex, the moment he touched it, he knew that it was incredibly rare and special. He had worked with rare books—so-called
grimoires
and spell books from many cultures and ages—but he’d never come across something that affected him at first sight as this one did. This language, he believed, could potentially unlock the mysteries of the universe—and could imbue great power on anyone who can read and comprehend such a language. This . . . the Bronze Codex . . . is a book of spells from another world, Miss Hatcher.”

Crys felt the color drain from her face with every word he spoke. Her hands were cold, clammy.

A book of spells. Real magic . . . from another world. Did she believe that?

“What does Markus King have to do with this book?” she asked, breathless.

Dr. Vega placed one palm flat against the binder, his other on top of the paper he’d written. “All I can say is, I know that he wants it and he’s more than willing to kill for it.”

When she didn’t reply right away, the words sticking in her throat at this flat proclamation, he flipped further through the binder to an illustration of what looked like an ornate stone wheel. “Such detail. It’s incredible, don’t you think?”

Crys moistened her dry lips with the tip of her tongue before she found her voice. “You said this book is not from our world.”

Vega nodded gravely. “That is both my father’s and my hypothesis, yes.”

Crys realized she was clutching the strap of her bag, still slung over her shoulder, so tightly that her fingers had gone numb. She loosened her grip. “Are you talking about outer space and, like, intergalactic travel?”

He shook his head. “No little green men here, Miss Hatcher. Many believe our world to be the only one, but this is arrogant thinking. Then there are those whose minds are open to more flexible possibilities. It would be best and easiest for you to picture these other worlds as . . . parallel dimensions. And I believe the Codex . . .” He caressed the binder as one might do to a lover’s cheek. “It must explicate the means to create a magical gateway between these worlds, which is how it got here in the first place.”

“A
magical
gateway?” She couldn’t keep the disbelief out of her tone. “You know that sounds crazy, right?”

He nodded now, as if in partial agreement. “So most have told me, but that’s done nothing to change my mind.” He flipped to the middle of the binder. “I’ve studied my father’s notes and sketches
for years, and I’ve been poring over these photocopies ever since Jackie sent them to me, giving me my first glimpse at the book itself. This language—just as my father always claimed, it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Nothing even comes close. I’m familiar with hundreds of languages, both modern and ancient. I learned ancient Babylonian in a month. I can translate hieroglyphics while simultaneously chewing gum and standing on my head. But this? This is the greatest undertaking of my life.”

“Because you can’t decipher it.”

“Don’t be so quick to assume, Miss Hatcher. Your aunt believes in my abilities; otherwise she never would have shared so many secrets with me. I believe with enough time, I can crack the code. Here.” He touched a page with one large line of script on it, surrounded by hawks and a drawing of a meadow with what looked like a glass city in the distance. “This word. I believe it could be
evergreen
. Perhaps
never-ceasing
 . . .
perpetual . . .”
His gaze moved to hers.
“Immortal.”

“Immortal,” she repeated, her mouth dry. “Maybe . . . maybe this is all just some sort of a hoax. There have always been con men throughout history who’ve tried to fake one-of-a-kind artifacts, right?”

He actually grinned at that, the maniacal smile of someone who doesn’t sleep much and who compensated for it daily with gallons of caffeine. A quick glance at the professor’s desk confirmed Crys’s hunch: There were multiple coffee mugs and Styrofoam cups strewn across the surface. “A fair assessment, but I know I’m right about this. Down to my very soul, I know.” He flipped forward again and pointed at an illustration of what looked to Crys like a squirrel, but with very long ears. “For example, this particular species does not and has never existed in our world.”

“That’s just a drawing. Mickey Mouse isn’t actually a real mouse, either, you know.”

An edge of annoyance entered his gaze. “You want to deny what I’m saying, but I see in your eyes that you believe it could be true.”

“If it is,” she allowed, “do you feel safe here having those photocopies in your office? I mean, after what happened to your father?”

“I haven’t been visited by members of Markus King’s society for well over a decade. I haven’t published a thing about the Codex since my original paper, and I’m sure they’re well aware that any subsequent attempts to shed light on the matter have been mocked by my peers at every turn, all but discrediting any work I’ve ever done in the field. They believe my work in this area has ceased. That I am just a humble university professor with eccentric theories.”

“But they’re wrong,” she said.

He nodded. “It’s best that they think I’m nothing more than a fool.”

“I don’t think you’re a fool.” She had to confide in him. If Jackie trusted him, she would, too. “Dr. Vega, you have to help me. My sister, Becca, she’s in trouble.”

“What do you mean? What kind of trouble?”

“The Codex . . . she saw it. She touched it.”

“Oh my,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “So Jackie did manage to get the Codex back to Toronto. She is a woman no one should underestimate.”

So much for being vague. Dr. Vega was a whole lot savvier than he had originally appeared. He didn’t underestimate Jackie . . . and Crys wouldn’t underestimate
him
.

“Becca’s in a coma from touching the book. She started off catatonic, but now it’s turned into a full-blown coma.” A shiver sped down her spine. “The book did it to her. I need to know how to wake her up again.”

His brows drew together. “I’m sorry you have to deal with all this at your young age.”

Crys waved his concern away. “I held the book for as long as she did, and nothing happened to me. Why would it affect her and not me?”

His lips thinned. “I honestly don’t know. I’m sure many people have had physical contact with the book in the past, but this is the first I’ve heard of it having a tangible and negative effect on its handler.”

“So what do we do?”

Dr. Vega riffled through his top drawer, pulled out a lined notebook, and scrawled something into it with a blue pen. His handwriting was nearly as unintelligible as the Codex’s. “I will make haste in my attempt to translate these pages. In the meantime, I’ll try my best to come up with some hypothesis of what’s happened to your sister.”

Anxiety welled in Crys’s chest. “You’ll try your best? I thought you were the expert here. You have to give me more than a maybe.”

“I am the expert. But it doesn’t mean that I know everything about it, especially having only had these photocopies in my possession for less than two weeks. I can’t possibly unravel an enigma like that in such a short amount of time.” His expression softened. “I’m sorry, Miss Hatcher. I wish I could tell you something that would ease your mind.”

Crys stood up, her legs now weak. “Me too.”

Of course she wouldn’t find an answer so easily. Dr. Vega might have a bunch of theories about the book, but if he didn’t know it was capable of doing something like this, he might not be as useful as she’d hoped.

But yet again Markus King’s name had come up in a conversation about the book. The way Jackie and Vega talked about him made him sound terrifying and evil, but it didn’t make sense. Why would her father not only trust him, but also think he was capable of saving the world, if he were such a monster?

It didn’t match up.

“I promise to call as soon as I have more information,” Dr. Vega promised.

All she could do was nod. Just then, there was a knock at his door. Dr. Vega tentatively moved toward it, unlocking it and peering outside. It was a student, asking for time to talk about an assigned paper. Without another word, Crys slipped past them and left the office, her head in a fog.

She’d received so much information, but none of it helped.

Magic languages. Spell books from other worlds. Immortals.

If this were any other week, she might laugh off everything Dr. Vega said as ridiculous ramblings—just another fantasy from one of Becca’s favorite books.

She shoved open the main door and emerged from the Anthropology Building into the cool air. It was overcast again, no blue sky showing at all. The city seemed gray and bleak. And to think, only a week ago little green buds were emerging on flowers and trees. Now it felt as if winter was threatening to return.

A hand on her arm stopped her in her tracks. She turned, finding herself face-to-face with a boy wearing a black leather jacket and a red scarf.

“You know . . . ,” he said. Fashionably messy, mahogany-brown hair, hazel eyes, a killer smile. “You look really familiar to me. Do I know you?”

“I don’t think so.” Although, she had to admit, he also looked vaguely familiar to her, too.

He’d caught her at a moment when she was incredibly close to the edge of her patience, but she didn’t want to take out her frustration on a stranger.

“I’m thinking about taking a few classes here,” the boy said. “I could use some tips from someone in the know. Are you free right now? This might sound crazy or impulsive, but can I buy you a coffee? I’d love the chance to talk to you.”

His smile was charmingly lopsided. He had a mark under his right eye, which some might think marred his looks but which Crys found interesting. His nose seemed a little crooked, as if it had been broken once or twice. But that, combined with the birthmark, kept his face from being too perfect, too symmetrical.

Comparing him with the golden boy from earlier, she found this one much more interesting, and definitely worthy of her camera. She’d love the chance to take his picture.

But not now. Not ever, actually—she had far more urgent needs to focus on.

“I don’t go to school here,” she said. “Sorry.”

“But—”

“Someone else will help you, I’m sure. Good luck.”

Before she turned to walk away, she couldn’t help but notice that his friendly and flirtatious expression had darkened a shade.

It was then that she knew where she recognized him from.

Farrell Grayson—the middle son of one of the richest men in Toronto. She remembered paging through
FocusToronto
magazine
last year and seeing the feature on the Grayson family and their three gorgeous sons. But something was different . . .

The mark under his eye. He didn’t have it in the pictures.

I can’t believe I remember something like that
, she thought.

Farrell Grayson, the overprivileged rich kid whose handful of arrests and bad boy ways landed him regularly in the Toronto headlines. Yes, she definitely knew who he was by reputation alone.

Crys glanced over her shoulder at the boy in black and red standing in the same spot she’d left him. Perhaps she should have taken it as a compliment that he wanted to buy her a coffee, even if just to pick her brain.

But she had way more important things to do than pay attention to boys. Especially ones who had trouble written all over them.

Chapter 14

FARRELL

I
t didn’t cost much to bribe high school students for information. Sixty dollars, and Farrell had everything he needed.

Tuesday morning, he went to Sunderland High and learned that Crystal Hatcher had managed (barely) to maintain passing grades, despite missing nearly three weeks’ worth of classes since January. Her favorite and best subject was art and her worst and least favorite was calculus.

She lived with her sister and mother in the apartment above the Speckled Muse Bookshop, a small local business that had been in Crystal’s family for several generations. The bookshop was a downtown tourist attraction not only because the building that housed it was one of the oldest in the Annex, but also because it was rumored to be haunted. Sales had slowed in the last few years with the growing popularity of e-books and the lower prices and larger selections of big bookstore chains and online retailers.

On a more personal level, there was some speculation among her classmates over whether or not Crystal had seen her father since her parents separated two years ago.

Out of the six senior students Farrell had questioned, only two considered Crystal a friendly acquaintance, but not a close friend. Crystal’s two closest friends had recently moved to Vancouver and Miami. Three informants admitted they didn’t know her very well at all. And one—a girl with a sneer and a sour attitude—thought she was a “total bitch.”

That one caught his interest.

Crystal Hatcher, the bitchy loner who liked art and not much else. According to her friendly acquaintances, she didn’t have a boyfriend, but one girl noted that she’d mentioned somebody named Charlie with great affection in recent weeks.

And none of them had seen her at school since last Thursday.

He’d found a yearbook photo of her that showed an unsmiling girl with jet-black hair and unusually pale eyes. He tore it out and pocketed it, then headed over to Bathurst, a little north of Bloor Street, to lurk outside the bookshop until he saw her leave.

She looked a lot different from her yearbook photo. Her long hair was tied in a messy ponytail that cascaded down her back, and it was bleached so blond it was nearly white. She wore black-rimmed glasses that were far too large for her face. Faded jean jacket, ankle-length black skirt, black steel-tip boots. A flash of color came from her bright fuchsia bag. As she passed him without even glancing in his direction, he caught the scent of strawberries.

Strawberries were his favorite fruit.

Feeling confident, he followed her to the U of T campus, then waited for her to come out of the building she’d disappeared into before going in for the kill. When it was time, he approached her with his very best smile in place and poured on the charm. . . .

And was quickly discarded like yesterday’s news.

This never happened to him.

As such, he wasn’t sure what to do about it other than stare after her in disbelief as she walked away.

Darkness stirred within him in reaction to his failure, and the scent of strawberries stayed with him for hours afterward as he tried to figure out what he’d done wrong.

“Are you listening to me?”

Felicity Seaton gazed across the table at Scaramouche—a high-end French-inspired restaurant with a stunning view of the city—over her glass of club soda and cranberry juice.

“Of course I am,” he replied, indicating to the waiter that he wanted another vodka on the rocks. It would be his third since this blind date began.

He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t canceled. It wasn’t as if his mother could be any more disappointed in him than she already was.

For some reason, this had seemed like a good idea. A date with a suitable girl who could give him the air of respectability that he sorely needed, in the eyes of both his parents and everyone else in the city.

Felicity raised a thin, penciled-in eyebrow at him. “Then what did I say?”

“That you’re going to France next week.”

She smiled. “That’s right. You’ve been there, of course?”

“As a child. I don’t remember much except being dragged around to art galleries and having to eat a lot of cheese.”

“You must go again. Marseille at this time of year is an absolute jewel.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” He gave her an even smile in return, one that he only felt on the skin-deep level, and tried to ignore
the rancid scent of her perfume. The scent likely cost hundreds of dollars an ounce, but Farrell thought she should save her money and buy something cheaper and less offensive.

Something more . . . fruity.

Was Felicity every bit as beautiful as his mother had claimed? Sure. Even though she did have sharp features that reminded him of a fox. Felicity had modeled at sixteen, but decided it didn’t truly interest her. Instead, she wanted to devote her life to charity work. She had perfect shoulder-length blond hair with subtle highlights that likely came from the salon rather than from the sun, and makeup so precisely applied it gave the impression that she was naturally flawless.

She wore a black satin dress that was a tad too elegant for an eighteen-year-old on a Tuesday evening, but to each their own.

As they made pleasant conversation, Farrell felt that he was suitably holding up his end of this deal with his mother, even though his mind was a million miles away. Finally they finished with dinner, and then turned down dessert.

“If I eat another bite I’m going to burst,” she claimed.

She’d barely picked at her plate of sea scallops.

Farrell tucked his credit card into the bill holder, not bothering to glance at the amount on the check.

“It’s been so wonderful getting to know you,” she said.

He resisted the urge to yawn. “I couldn’t agree more. I hope to see you again soon.”

“Yes, absolutely.”

He fixed another cool smile on his lips during the drive to her parents’ Rosedale estate. “Till next time,” he said.

“Next time,” she agreed.

“Unless,” he began, “you don’t want this night to end so soon?”

She turned and met his gaze with interest. “You couldn’t stay here tonight. My parents would lose their minds to find a boy in my room—whoever he is. We’d have to go to a hotel.”

He widened his eyes. “Why, Miss Seaton, whatever did you think I was suggesting?”

Her cheeks flushed. “I . . . I mean, I—”

He leaned closer and gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek. “Best to take things slowly, I think. If that’s all right with you.”

“Of course. More than all right.”

He walked her to her front door, said another gentlemanly good-night, and then made his escape.

Girls were all the same. It was so much fun to toy with them.

The unexpectedly wicked thought made him grin.

“She seems nice,” Sam said as he stood by the open back door of the limo.

“Yeah, she’s a peach.” Farrell swung himself into the backseat. “Let’s go get some drinks.”

“I can’t drink, sir. I’m driving.”

“Then you can drink chocolate milk and watch me drink vodka.”

“Very well,” Sam agreed. “Chocolate milk it is.”

On the way to the Raven Club, Farrell decided to check up on his little brother, maybe see if he wanted to catch a late movie.

The phone rang twice before Adam answered.

“Yeah?” he yelled. The music was so loud on the other end that Farrell could barely hear him.

“Where are you?” Farrell asked.

“What?” Adam shouted, and Farrell let out a frustrated sigh.

“Where. Are. You.”

“Firebird! I’m at Firebird with some new friends! They’re great!” Adam’s words were slurred.

Firebird was a new dance club on Lake Shore Boulevard near the exhibition grounds, one that Farrell knew for a fact didn’t cater to the underage crowd.

His grip tightened on the phone. “You’re drunk.”

“You’re, like, psychic! Hey, everyone, my brother is psychic. He knows I’m wasted!”

“I’m coming to get you.”

“Oh, please. Are you seriously giving me a hard time about this? So I’ve had a few drinks and maybe, I don’t know, maybe I did a line or two. I’m having fun.”

A line or two?

Farrell reached forward to knock on the partition, which then rolled down immediately. “Sam, head to Firebird instead.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Adam, stop whatever it is that you’re doing,” Farrell said into the phone. “Go outside and wait for me.”

“No way,” Adam replied. “I’m not going anywhere. Why are you being such a jerk about this? You party all the time. I’m just following in your footsteps. You should be proud of me.”

At the beginning of the call, Farrell thought he’d be furious at his little brother, but a cool sensation flowed over him instead. A calmness that slowed his heartbeat and ramped his senses up. He smelled gasoline, the rubber of the limo’s tires. He could pick out individual voices beyond the blare of music. “I expect better from you, and so do Mom and Dad.”

Adam just laughed and hung up without another word.

Farrell and Sam arrived at the dance club fifteen minutes later.

“You need help?” Sam asked.

“No, stay out here. This won’t take long.”

Farrell entered the club, wincing as the loud dance music
assaulted his enhanced sense of hearing after the comparable silence of outside.

Firebird’s decor lived up to its name. Everywhere he looked, he saw flames—painted on the walls, flickering in the gigantic digital displays hanging over the bar, stitched into the fabric of the chairs and sofas. Under the strobe lights, the dance floor was a glittering mosaic depicting a phoenix, its feathers made of fire as it rose from the ashes.

The place was packed, the scents of body odor and cheap cologne assaulting Farrell’s sensitive nose. He scanned the club, trying to hear his brother’s voice and pinpoint his face in the crowd.

And there he was, in the center of the dance floor, grinding against some trashy-looking girl who was at least twice his age.

He made a beeline for Adam and grabbed his arm. “Time to go, kid.”

His brother turned a sullen, unfocused glare on him and yanked his arm away. “I’m not a kid.”

“You’re right. You’re actually acting more like a baby right now.”

“I’m having fun.”

“I don’t care.”

“You can’t make me leave.”

“Sure about that?” He grabbed Adam’s arm again and pulled him off the dance floor. Adam swore and swung his fist but didn’t make contact.

“You’re hurting me,” he yelped.

Farrell let go of him, noticing that his fingers had left red marks on his brother’s arm. “Sorry.”

Adam rubbed the marks. “I don’t know why you’re being such a dick. You do this all the time. You did this when you were my age.”

“Maybe I want better for you.”

“Maybe I don’t care what you want.”

Farrell studied him. The kid’s face was flushed and sweaty, his pupils dilated. He wasn’t just drunk; he was high.

“Who gave you the coke?” he asked, his voice low and even.

“What does it matter? I could get it anywhere, anytime, if I wanted it. As long as Markus doesn’t kill off every drug dealer in the city.”

Farrell glanced around to make sure no one was listening. “I know you’re still having a hard time with what you saw at the meeting, but that’s no reason to lose control of yourself and act so recklessly.”

“That has nothing to do with this.”

“Doesn’t it?” People always turned to vices to escape, to forget. Farrell knew that better than anyone.

Adam was visibly messed up after seeing that execution. Farrell had understood to a point, but now he had no idea why it had affected his brother so deeply, far deeper than it had ever affected him. No other society member he knew of had reacted like this to the trial and Markus’s dagger marking.

Adam sneezed.

“That’s what happens when you stuff white powder up your nose,” Farrell said.

“I think I’m getting a cold. Or the flu. Something’s going around.”

Farrell eyed him, confused. “That’s impossible.”

Adam had been given the gift of Markus’s first mark, which meant he should be in perfect health from now on. He shouldn’t be able to get the common cold ever again.

“What’s happening over here?” A guy Farrell had never seen before joined them, his grin toothy and unpleasant.

“Who are you?” Farrell asked.

“Adam’s good buddy. Michael.” The grin widened. “You’re Farrell, Adam’s brother. Glad to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“How old are you?” Farrell asked, ignoring the introduction.

“Twenty-one.”

“And you’re hanging around with a sixteen-year-old?”

Michael shrugged and slung an arm around Adam’s shoulders. “Adam’s my boy. He’s a part of my pack now.”

“Is he.”

“Come on, man. Let’s go back to my table. I got some candy there I’m happy to share with my friends.”

“Candy.”

“
Nose candy
. You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I do.”

Farrell grabbed Michael and drove his knee into his gut. Michael let out a grunt of pain, his gaze clouding over with confusion.

All thoughts escaped Farrell’s mind, leaving only cold certainty. This kid had given Adam drugs, encouraged him to use them frequently. To party. To have fun.