The Darkest Magic (A Book of Spirits and Thieves) (10 page)

“You . . .
need
to?” asked Farrell, this time certain that he was unable to hide the surprise he felt.

Markus regarded him calmly. “Spilling blood brings about blood magic. Blood magic gives me enough strength to make it through another night, another week, another month.”

“How often do you do this?”

“Whenever I feel the need.”

Farrell practically heard the
click
of a large piece of a very complex puzzle settling into place. “So this is the real reason why we hold executions at the society?”

Four times a year, Markus brought a criminal to trial at the society. A jury of Hawkspear members would sentence death by execution upon the guilty citizen, and Markus would stab them in the heart with his golden dagger. A swift death, followed by a wave of rapturous magic that swept over the entire society.
Addictive
magic.

“No, that’s not the reason. You know very well why we host the executions.” With that, Markus stood up to go. “Come on now. We have work to do.”

The two left the bar and walked out into the nighttime streets of Toronto. Farrell wasn’t sure what to think about learning Markus’s secret to permanent life, but he wasn’t about to argue or ask questions. Not when they were on the hunt for Markus’s next victim.

“There.” Markus nodded at a man twenty feet ahead of them on the sidewalk. “He’s a killer, walking among innocents, seeking another victim.”

“Him?” Farrell asked in a whisper. “How do you know? We can’t even see his face.”

“I can sense it. I can feel the evil emanating from his very soul.”

Farrell considered this for a moment. “I killed someone. What’s emanating from my soul?”

Markus cast him a sidelong look. “Loyalty belonging to someone I can trust to do what needs to be done for the good of the world, even if it is distasteful. The certainty I feel about your loyalty is unlike anything I’ve encountered since Jonathan was alive.”

Jonathan Kendall—Crys and Becca’s great-grandfather and the cofounder of the Hawkspear Society. It was the most meaningful compliment Farrell had ever been paid.

He narrowed his gaze at their target. “What do you need me to do?”

“For now, just keep following him. We need to get him somewhere private.”

They trailed the man down that same central road for fifteen minutes, until he stopped at the intersection of a small street. He turned left, and Markus and Farrell followed, finding themselves on a dark, narrow road, vacant except for the three of them.

Markus nodded at Farrell. “Go. Hold him in place. My strength—it won’t be enough tonight without help.”

Without a single question or thought, Farrell quickened his steps. He caught up and started walking next to the man, who looked up at him with a frown.

“Nice evening,” Farrell said.

“I suppo—”

Farrell grabbed the man’s arm. He wrenched it behind his back, and the man yelped out in pain. Quickly, without much effort at all, Farrell had both of his arms pinned securely.

“What the hell are you doing?” the man cried out.

“Shut up,” Farrell growled. “You know you deserve this. You know what you’ve done.”

“What have I done? I haven’t done anything! Do you want my wallet? My phone? You can have them—anything!”

A shadow crossed over them as Markus approached. He drew the golden dagger from beneath his coat. The man struggled even more at the sight of it, but Farrell easily held him in place.

“You are guilty of murder,” Markus told him flatly. “And so I
must sentence you to death. This world will be a better place without you in it.”

“
What?
What are you talking about? Murder? I haven’t murdered—”

Markus plunged the dagger into the man’s chest. His body went rigid, pushing back against Farrell, but without another word, not one more useless plea or argument, he slid down to the sidewalk.

And instantly, a wash of golden power hit Farrell with the force of a tsunami.

Pure pleasure flowed into him and saturated every limb, every cell of his body. So this was what it was like when he didn’t have to share it with two hundred other people.

“Do you feel it?” Markus asked.

“Yes.” Farrell had felt this magic before, but not until tonight had it made him feel like a god.

The wave of power began to fade, and Farrell gasped for breath. He shook his head and tried to focus on Markus. “Do you feel any better now?”

Markus looked down grimly at the man’s dead body. “No. It’s not enough anymore. I’m not strong enough to face Jackie, to do what needs to be done to acquire the Codex—permanently this time. And the girl . . .”

If Markus failed, if he died, all of this would be over. Half of Farrell was concerned for Markus’s fate—and the fate of the world he wanted to help. But the other half was concerned purely for his own future, which was now tied up with Markus’s. The stronger Markus was, the stronger Farrell would be.

“What can I do?” he asked.

Markus looked up from the corpse. They’d need to dispose
of it quickly, Farrell thought. “There is something,” Markus said. “Something I’ve never tried before.”

“Tell me.”

“To gain my daughter’s dormant magic, I will need to give her a very special mark. But all of life is composed of magic—elemental magic. You have some of this magic within you to share, especially now that you are so strong.”

Farrell blinked, trying to sort all of this out in his mind. “So . . . you can give me another mark—a mark that lets me share my strength with you?”

“Yes. I would understand if you weren’t willing. This could take a toll on you.”

Farrell almost laughed aloud. “I have you and that dagger to thank for the strength I have. Of course I’m willing to do whatever it takes to help you.” Without another word, Farrell undid the button at his left cuff and pulled up his shirtsleeve to bare his arm.

Markus’s jaw was tense as he took the golden blade and wiped the man’s blood on a handkerchief. “I knew you were the one, Farrell. The one who could truly help me. Thank you for this.”

Farrell gritted his teeth as the tip of the blade sank into his flesh, still sensitive from the last time. He watched Markus carve the symbol, which was much more intricate than the previous ones. It was composed of loops and wavy lines, almost as if Markus were writing words in script, but it was in a language Farrell had ever seen before.

“The language from the Codex,”
Connor offered in his mind.

Yes, that was it. That’s what Markus was etching into his arm—a language of magic, whose twists and turns were far more painful than even the most complex tattoo. He watched his blood drip to the ground, forming black puddles in the moonlight, and the pain
was so strong and the mark so intricate that he thought Markus would never finish.

Finally, though, Markus was finished. He looked up, his forehead shining with perspiration and his hands smeared with Farrell’s blood. “Yes,” he said, looking at the finished mark. “I think that will do it.”

Farrell watched through a veil of pain as the foreign words etched into his arm began to glow with a golden light that seemed to come from within him. Markus reached over and covered Farrell’s forearm with both of his hands and, shuddering with the effort, summoned the little magic he had left to heal the wound.

When it was done, Farrell wiped the blood away, surprised to see that he could still plainly see the words—lightly, as if they were a scar from a years-old wound.

Markus looked exhausted and disappointed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s the best I could do.”

“It’s fine.” Farrell closed his eyes. He stood still and silent, trying to sense whether anything had changed within him, but he felt the same as before—strong, awake, alive.

Farrell opened his eyes to find Markus looking at him in a dead-on stare. His eyes appeared to glow softly, golden. “You will be greatly rewarded for this, I promise you,” he said.

Farrell was counting on it.

MADDOX

A
fter the beheading, Maddox couldn’t shake the strange feeling that someone was watching him. The feeling was fleeting, only lasting a moment or two, but long enough to notice the hawk that had come down to land in the center of the crowd in the palace square and that then took flight again the second he’d glanced at it.

Was it the hawk he felt watching him?

Perhaps Valoria was right: Listening to too many fantastical tales did numb the mortal mind. Such ludicrous theories as being watched by a hawk were the work of an overactive imagination.

But was it ludicrous? As soon as the hawk left, whispers of the name
Becca
began to stir in Maddox’s mind. Still, this kind of thing had been happening a lot lately, anytime he witnessed something that reminded him of his friend. Becca would have hated to witness this execution. In fact, she’d once told him that she hated everything about Mytica . . . except for Maddox himself.

She’d liked him when he hadn’t liked himself. She’d believed in him when he’d doubted every decision he made. She’d quickly become the best friend he’d ever had.

“And what would you suggest?” Barnabas asked Camilla. “Should
we go ahead and demand information from a severed head?”

“Yes,” Maddox said, suddenly drawn out of his memories of the spirit girl. “I think that’s exactly what we should do.”

Both Barnabas and Camilla shot him a startled look, as if they’d forgotten he was even there.

“The head doesn’t look very receptive to such a suggestion,” Camilla said gently, placing a hand on Maddox’s shoulder. She turned to Barnabas. “Perhaps we should leave and find ourselves a nice meal somewhere.”

“I’m a necromancer,” Maddox explained. “I vividly recall raising skeletons from their graves not so long ago.”

“That’s true,” Barnabas replied, studying him with a serious look. “Do you believe you could use that kind of magic on purpose, not by accident?”

“I’m not sure,” he said honestly. “But I could try.”

Barnabas looked up at the crowd around them, then drew Maddox and Camilla off to the side of the square, away from the ears of any curious passersby. “Even if you
did
raise those dead, all you rose were a bunch of shuffling, mindless corpses who didn’t seem very open to conversations about revolutionary actions.”

“Those corpses had all been long dead,” Camilla said. “Some of them for centuries, I’m sure. The scribe only just died. He’s still”—she grimaced—“
fresh
. That could make all the difference.”

“I don’t know . . .”

“Don’t discount the potential of this without careful consideration,” Camilla said. Her lopsided eyes were narrowed and curious. “I know you’re afraid that if he goes too far, dark magic will consume him. But he’s strong and capable. He’s already shown us that. And if this doesn’t work, we’re no worse off than we are now. At the very least, it will be a great test of what is and isn’t possible.”

Barnabas’s expression grew tense. With a furrowed brow, he studied Maddox for so long it seemed as if the man might never speak again.

“If you really won’t agree to this,” Camilla said, “then there’s always my plan.”

“Not a chance,” Barnabas said through gritted teeth.

“What plan?” Maddox asked.

Camilla raised a patchy eyebrow. “To go to the South and seek audience with Cleiona. Her infamous hatred for Valoria could prove useful to us.”

“You said her name,” Maddox pointed out.

“Yes, and perhaps she’ll hear me and agree to help. Save ourselves a trip to the South.”

“No,” Barnabas said firmly. “As much as I despise Valoria, you’ll never get me to agree to beg that
other
one. Not for anything. Ever. Those two are equally vile and equally in need of being destroyed.”

“Well then.” The witch spread her hands. “It seems you have limited choices, doesn’t it?”

Barnabas fell silent again, face reddening and jaw clenched. “Very well, Maddox,” he said finally. “You can try to coax answers out of the head. But the moment I feel it’s too much, that it’s getting too dark, you will stop. Do you hear me?”

Maddox just looked at him, barely repressing a smile.

“What?” Barnabas demanded.

“You sound a little like a . . . a
parent
. If I were anyone else, would you be so protective?”

Barnabas grimaced and then swore under his breath. “I do, don’t I? Telling you what to do and what not to do. My apologies.”

“No, it’s fine. I just meant . . .” What
had
he meant? He hadn’t expected Barnabas to suddenly take on a fatherly role; it was
coming as quite a surprise. “It’s fine,” he said. “This time, I suppose.”

“This”—Camilla clasped both of their arms, grinning widely—“is adorable. Shall we all embrace?”

Barnabas shot her a dry look. “Not when we have to find a way to steal a freshly severed head in front of a large crowd.”

Camilla winked. “I can help with that.”

• • •

They waited until night had fallen like a dark blanket over the kingdom. The first part of Camilla’s plan to steal the head was for Barnabas to cause a distraction that would draw the attention of the guards and any citizens milling about at that late hour. As soon as it was time, Barnabas set off for the square just in front of the palace, playing the part of a dangerously drunk reveler on the verge of causing great destruction. Just as Camilla had promised, a group of guards heard his racket and rushed over to investigate. While they were preoccupied with Barnabas, Camilla summoned a gust of wind that, miraculously, was strong enough to dislodge the scribe’s head from the spike. Off it flew, and landed directly into the canvas sack that Maddox was waiting with below.

As the head sunk heavily into the sack, all Maddox could think of were the times he went to the market with his mother. She would pick ripe melons and gourds, then toss them over her shoulder without a glance, knowing that Maddox was ready with a basket to catch them. He’d never dropped a single one.

Swiftly, they left the square and made their way to the nearest stretch of forest, where they’d made camp the night before. Camilla started a fire with flint from her pocket, while Barnabas hunted for a rabbit for their dinner.

Maddox sat on a fallen log and stared at the sack.

What had he been thinking suggesting such a horrific thing? Accidentally raising a full graveyard of corpses from their resting places was strange and unnatural enough, but doing it to a severed head? On purpose?

Doubt, that familiar yet unwanted friend, came to sit next to him.

Soon Barnabas returned with the game. “Do we even know what his name is?” Maddox asked hoarsely as he approached.

Camilla nodded as she poked at the half-cooked rabbit on the spit. “It’s Alcander Verus,” she said.

“
Alcander Verus
,” Maddox repeated, nodding.

“If you’re having second thoughts . . . ,” Barnabas began, but then stopped himself. “Well, I’ve been wondering whether there’s another way to find out that wicked creature’s weaknesses, but I’ve come up blank. What we need are the answers that live in that head.”

Maddox nodded. “No need to worry about sounding like a father now. Or are you so sure that I’ll fail that you find yourself less concerned about how I’ll fare against the dark magic?”

“What troubles me most, my young friend, is that I don’t think you’ll fail.” There was a sense of gravity and worry to his words that Maddox couldn’t ignore—and that made him certain he wasn’t joking.

Playing with life and death wasn’t a game.

And his power, should he be able to harness it, would be impossible to fully comprehend.

“If this works,” Maddox said so softly he doubted the others could hear him, “I could bring my mother back to life.”

Barnabas said nothing, but Maddox heard his breath catch in his throat.

Camilla came to sit next to Maddox and gently took his hand in hers.

“Look at me, sweetling.”

Maddox forced himself to meet her troubled gaze.

“I know you miss your mum,” she said. “As much as I miss my own, I’m sure. It’s a shame Damaris is gone. But she’s gone to a place beyond here, a wonderful place of peace and light. She’s had some time now to settle into that place of paradise, and to attempt to wrench her out of there now . . .” Camilla shook her head. “You’d be bringing back something else. Something as dark and twisted as the spirits you’ve faced.”

“But how do you know that for sure?” he said, his voice breaking. “That paradise beyond this world—isn’t that just another old legend?”

“Many legends only become legends because the stories are true. Death is nothing to tamper with, even if you have the means within you to switch life for death. Even this”—she glanced at the sack—“is a dangerous use of your magic.”

He was hit with a sinking feeling in his chest, because he knew deep in his heart that Camilla was right. For a moment, just one wonderful, hope-filled moment, Maddox had thought it might really be possible to bring his mother back to life.

Maddox allowed a second wave of grief to tear through him, bearing the pain silently and stiffly, before it receded like a cold tide on an icy shore.

“The rabbit is nearly ready,” Camilla said softly. “First we’ll eat, then we’ll discuss this more.”

“No,” Maddox said. “No more discussion. I want to do it now.” Camilla nodded quietly and gazed at him with serious but supportive eyes.

Summoning as much bravery as he could, Maddox untied the canvas sack. He reached in slowly, his fingertips grazing a patch of dry hair and a cold scalp. His skin crawled, and he pulled his hand back a bit. Bracing himself again, he reached in further. He got a strong grasp on a handful of hair and pulled the head out. He held it up. There it was, the scribe’s head dangling before him, its expression slack, its eyes open and glazed. Staring.

“How do you feel so far?” Barnabas asked.

“Like I’m going to be sick.”

“Understandable.”

Repressing a retch that rose in his throat, Maddox placed the head down on the ground, where the firelight flickered warmly against its grayish complexion.

Maddox breathed in, inhaling a mix of mossy forest and roasting rabbit, and tried to find his focus. He’d found that his magic tended to work best when he was angry or frightened or whenever his emotions were otherwise elevated. Right now he didn’t feel much of anything. Sickened, uncertain, sad, and numb didn’t seem to be the right ingredients.

But the magic was still within him. It
was
him. And there were many roads to take to access it.

He forced himself to think of Goran, ending his mother’s life in a crimson trail of blood. He let his hatred for that cowardly assassin, his need for vengeance, flow through him in a fiery rage.

There it was: a quiver, a chill, racing through him, and then a shadow creeping into the periphery of his vision. As soon as he spotted the shadow, he let his hatred for Goran guide him toward the magic, drawing it into a ball of darkness, molding it into the shape his strange instincts told him he needed.

His racing thoughts grew quiet, and a somber stillness slid
through him like thick, icy sludge, filling his veins, his heart, his mind.

For a moment, there was only his magic; everything else in the universe ceased to exist. He took this magic, which he’d condensed by now into a swirling, smoky ball, in his hands and pushed it toward the scribe’s head.

Wake up
,
Alcander Verus,
Maddox thought in an echoing monotone filled with all the power and strength he didn’t normally feel.
Wake up and talk to us. Tell us what we need to know.

The ball of shadows burst into dozens of spidery wisps. As they separated, they flew right into the corpse head, entering through its eyes, nostrils, mouth, and ears. And then they disappeared.

All was still and quiet. Maddox watched, trying to will the head to reanimate but not trying to scare the effect away by hoping too hard. So he watched.

And watched.

And then watched some more.

“Maddox?” Barnabas asked after quite some time.

Maddox tore his gaze away from the head to glance at him. “What?”

Barnabas didn’t reply right away, but he shared a concerned look with Camilla, his jaw tight.

“How do you feel?” Camilla asked Maddox evenly.

“Fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Am I sure?” Maddox frowned. “Of course I’m sure. But I need to try again.”

“No,” Barnabas said. “That’s enough for tonight. More than enough, I—”

The muffled sound of a grunt rose up in between them, causing Barnabas to stop midsentence.

Maddox craned his neck, eyeing the dark forest around them. “What was that?”

Camilla’s eyes grew wide as she stared at a spot on the ground. “The head . . .”

Maddox shot his gaze back to the severed head. “Did it just grunt?”

“I—I think so.”

Barnabas drew closer, crouching down next the head. “I don’t know. Perhaps there’s just a warlog nearby, digging up night grubs.”

Then, in a quick fit of motion, the scribe’s eyelids fluttered.

Maddox stopped breathing.

The eyes shot wide open and began darting from side to side.

And then the head began to scream.

Barnabas jumped up from the ground, staggering back from the head and covering his ears. “Make him stop, will you?”

“You’re asking me?” Maddox shouted, also on his feet now. “I haven’t any idea how!”

“Oh my! Do something! Maddox, stop him!” Camilla’s lopsided gaze darted all around, her hand clamped over her mouth in shock.

“Why do you think I can do something?” Letting out a long, shaky breath, Maddox tried to summon his composure. “Hey! Head, listen to me. Listen to me! Stop screaming!”

The head stopped screaming.

Barnabas nodded in relief. “Well done.”

“Wh-wh-what?” it sputtered, eyes still darting and clearly struggling to understand why its neck wasn’t doing its job of turning. “Wh-what’s going on? Where am I? Who are you?”

Twisting her hands in front of her, Camilla took a step closer to it. “Greetings, Alcander. My name is Camilla. This is Barnabas and his son, Maddox.”