The Darkest Magic (A Book of Spirits and Thieves) (14 page)

“If it works—if you start to feel better—then it’s all worth it.”

Markus took Farrell’s hand in both of his in a collegial kind of handshake. “You are a true friend, Farrell. I haven’t had one of those for a very long time.”

Farrell didn’t say it aloud, but he genuinely felt the same way. Instead he just nodded, then made a subtle gesture to the rest of the ballroom. “I’ve been keeping watch, but I have to say, I haven’t seen anything strange.”

Markus nodded. “That’s good. I would prefer to have my suspicions disproved, of course.”

“Of course.”

Markus raised a brow and looked out toward the podium. “Well, I suppose it’s time for me to get up there. Wish me luck.”

“You don’t need luck.” Farrell grinned. “You’re Markus King.” Markus returned the smile and crossed over toward Isabelle Grayson, who was already making her way toward him, her teeth bared in a shark-like grin.

Isabelle escorted Markus up to the front of the room as masked faces turned to watch, hushed whispers following him the whole way. Isabelle showed Markus to a seat behind the podium, then stood at the microphone to introduce him.

“Welcome, everyone. I am Isabelle Grayson, one of the organizers of tonight’s ball. I hope you are all enjoying yourselves. It is my great honor and privilege to introduce Markus King, whose incredibly generous donation made tonight’s event possible. This means that one hundred percent of all proceeds from ticket sales and new donations go directly toward literacy programs and an effort to make art grants available to struggling poets and writers in this talented city. Please, join me in giving a warm welcome to Markus King!”

Farrell had wondered how his mother would introduce a millennia-old god of death. Now he knew: as generically as possible.

Isabelle left the podium to the tune of applause for Markus, who gave Isabelle a kiss on the cheek and a thank you that only Farrell’s enhanced hearing could pick up. He stood at the podium and smiled, already perfectly playing the part of the young heir whose passion for reading translated into a philanthropic dedication to literacy.

“It is my honor to be here tonight, Isabelle. To say that books are a vital part of my existence would be a great understatement. I think you could say that without certain books in my life, I might actually die.”

Was it Farrell’s imagination, or was Markus actually making a joke? The man was full of surprises. And either way, the crowd before him chuckled.

“I am lucky enough to have the funds to help such important charities, and I want to thank you all for delving into your hearts, digging into your pockets, and making tonight so special and so important. Because of your generosity, Isabelle has informed me that we have raised over one hundred and fifty thousand dollars for our chosen charity.

“I’m so inspired by this that I would personally like to match this amount and put it toward providing books, tutors, and special programs to underprivileged children who struggle with learning disabilities. Every one of you has helped to make this world a better place, and for that you have my eternal gratitude.”

Markus swept his cool but kind gaze over the crowd as the applause swelled once again. Farrell looked on, his chest swelling with pride in time with the applause. But a moment later, all of that pride and confidence slunk away as he watched Markus, still up at the podium, freeze completely, his regal smile dropping into a grim line.

Farrell turned around, trying to see what could have caught his attention and caused such a chilling reaction. It took only an instant for him to identify the cause: a beautiful blond woman in a short black sequined dress standing at the back of the ballroom, near the entrance. Unlike the other women here, she wore no gaudy jewelry draped around her neck or wrists. No mask to hide her identity or her stunning face. Her lips were bright red and curled up in a half smile.

It seemed as though the whole room noticed at the same time and that the crowd had parted to make room for the creature that had left Markus King dumbstruck and paralyzed.

Jackie Kendall
, Farrell thought.

She’d accepted Markus’s invitation. He never would have guessed in a million years that she’d actually show up here tonight.

Based on Markus’s stunned expression, he must have felt exactly the same way.

Markus left the podium and moved toward her through the crowd. After a moment, the rest of the partygoers went back to enjoying the ball, the band began to play at Isabelle’s signal, and conversation rose up again. Many people took to the dance floor, beneath the sparkling lights cast from the chandelier.

Farrell focused his enhanced hearing, muting out every sound but Markus and Jackie’s conversation.

“Jackie . . . ,” Markus began in a hushed voice as he reached the woman. “You’re here. I can’t . . . I can’t believe you actually came.”

“Yes, I’m here,” she replied stiffly. “And we need to talk.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” He started to lead her toward the exit, but she stopped him, her hand on his elbow.

“No. I want to stay out in the open. With all these people.”

“All right, but let’s move off to the side.”

Farrell sought to keep them in view—his hearing only seemed to work if his targets were still in sight—but he lost them in the crowd.

So that was the infamous Jackie Kendall. The keeper of the Codex, mother of the secret baby, had arrived. Was this a good development or a bad one?

“
Are you kidding?
” not-Connor asked him.
“This couldn’t be worse. That woman has power over Markus whether he realizes it or not. He’s exposed himself here tonight, something he never does. All for the chance that she might stroll in. And when she does, you just let them walk away.”

He was failing Markus by not keeping a close eye on him.

Farrell took one step, ready to follow, and then, a deep frown claiming his face, he stopped. Above the lingering scents of the evening—crème brûlée, fresh coffee and espresso, and imported French perfume—he smelled the unmistakable scent of
strawberries
.

He swiveled on his heels, immediately pinpointing the source of that familiar scent.

“Well. Looks like we have a number of late arrivals tonight,” he said to himself.

Past a dancing facade of ornate masks and formal wear, Farrell watched Crystal Hatcher and her sister, Becca, enter the ballroom.

MADDOX

U
nsatisfied after a dinner of half of one small warlog—and still reeling from that truly surreal moment when Maddox mistook a hawk for Becca Hatcher—the ground felt particularly hard on this chilly night. As he lay there unable to sleep, all he could do was wonder what it said about his mental state that for even one instant he’d allowed himself to believe that Becca had been watching him through the eyes of a hawk.

“I don’t know how you do this, Barnabas,” Maddox grumbled into the darkness, drawing his still-damp tunic closer around him for warmth.

“Do what?” Barnabas replied gruffly.

“Sleep outside all the time.”

“Well, pardon me, Lord Maddox. I looked high and low for you, but it seems the forest is fresh out of feather beds and personal attendants eagerly waiting until dawn with silver trays filled with pastries.”

Maddox picked up a small rock and hurled it at Barnabas. He heard a yelp of pain, but not from the mouth of his target.

“Sorry, Alcander,” Maddox muttered.

“It’s quite all right. In the morning it’ll be nothing more than a small bruise, young man. All is well. And please—do call me Al. Alcander is so formal—I really only use that name to sign my work.”

Maddox nodded. “All right then, Al.” Al had made every effort to be pleasant and helpful since, in exchange for his knowledge of Princess Cassia’s whereabouts, they’d agreed to keep him . . . well,
alive
didn’t seem to be quite the word.

Conscious? Sentient?

Maddox still couldn’t believe it had worked. That he’d actually
breathed life
back into a severed head. Thinking about it for too long—especially the part about how it had barely taken any effort for his necromancy to have such a drastic effect—disturbed him on such a deep and basic level that he’d already learned to keep these moments of wonder short.

“Thank the goddess you’re a lousy shot,” Barnabas said. “Sleep well, then. Don’t let the night-maggots bite.”

Maddox tensed. “Er, sorry. What’s a night-maggot?”

“Oh, you know. Those gigantic worms that come out at night to feast on sixteen-year-old boys who complain about not getting enough dinner.”

“Very amusing, Barnabas,” Al said, chuckling softly. “I can tell by your imagination and way with words that you would make an excellent scribe yourself.”

“No thank you.”

With everyone settled in for the night, a surprisingly soothing kind of quiet set into the campsite. Maddox closed his eyes, crossed his arms over his chest, and tried to sleep.

The storm started only minutes later. After a solitary rumble of thunder as the only bit of warning, rain began to slam down upon their campsite in torrents. Their fire was doused in
seconds, robbing them of their only flicker of light and warmth in the dark forest.

With grumbles and grunts, Maddox and Barnabas rose and quickly gathered up Al and their scant supplies. Together they stumbled through the forest, and though they were purposely trying to avoid towns on their route, they were grateful that there was one not too far away. When they reached the edge of the forest, Barnabas pointed to a dim grouping of lights about a half mile off.

“There. That’s got to be an inn,” Barnabas said.

Maddox nodded as they set out for the rest of the miserable trudge.

They entered the first inn they came across, trailing water in their wake. Maddox held tightly to the sopping-wet canvas sack containing Al, taking a quick peek in to make sure he was breathing.

“You all right?” he asked.

“Yes, fine!”

“Tell him not to say anything for a while,” Barnabas suggested.

“Don’t say anything for a while,” Maddox told him.

“I can hear him. And I won’t. Do whatever it takes to keep us out of this horrid rain before I drown!”

To the right of the entrance was a set of stairs leading up to the rooms. To their left was a wooden archway leading into a tavern. They entered the busy tavern, taking the first available seat at a heavy wooden table. The delicious scent of roasted pheasant and boiled potatoes drifted under Maddox’s nose, making his stomach growl. At least twenty others were also in the tavern, drinking and eating in this shelter from the storm. A fire blazed nearby, its heat helping to take the chill from Maddox’s bones.

He never wanted to leave.

A weathered-looking man came over to their table, eyeing
their soaking clothes with either annoyance or pure distaste. “The kitchen’s closed for the night.”

Maddox tensed and shared a pained look with Barnabas.

Barnabas straightened his shoulders. “I realize it’s getting late, but the boy and I need a hot meal and a dry room.”

“We’re full up tonight. You should have arrived earlier.”

“I’m sure you must keep one or two rooms vacant at all times? For emergencies?”

The man blinked. “I don’t see any emergencies here.”

“I have coin,” Barnabas said. “We can pay.”

“That may be, but I don’t have any rooms to sell you. Apologies, but it’s late, and I’m very tired.” The man then gave them a cold smile. “Be on your way.”

Maddox was determined not to spend the night in the cold, wet, and completely dark forest.

Just then, a shadow moved along the floor and caught his eye. He turned to see what cast it but saw nothing.

Strange.

“Can you suggest another inn, then?” Barnabas persisted.

“I’m afraid we’re the only inn in town. Only one within a day’s journey, in fact.”

As Maddox’s hopes were rapidly starting to sink, a plump woman emerged from the kitchen, wiping her greasy fingers on her apron. “What’s going on?” she asked.

“These two,” the innkeeper told her, “want us to produce rooms that don’t exist. Perhaps they think we’re witches.”

Barnabas gave the woman his most charismatic grin—the one Maddox had seen work wonders on the fairer sex. “Lovely lady,” he said in a honeyed tone, “I hope you might have the heart to give us a place to stay while we wait out this fierce storm. Young Maddox,
well . . . he’s very sickly. If I keep him outside any longer in this rain, I shudder to think of the state I might wake to find him in tomorrow morning.”

Barnabas shot Maddox a pointed, urging look.

“Yes,” Maddox said, then let out a pathetic-sounding cough. “Very sick.”

The woman pursed her lips. “You’re not sick. I know sick, and you’re not it. We have no place for liars here—in our rooms
or
in our tavern. Be gone with you.”

Maddox then spotted the strange shadow again, moving swiftly along the edge of the room.

His gaze was then drawn by a glint of metal. Around her neck, the woman wore a charm Maddox had seen many times before: a crescent moon within a circle stamped upon a round piece of silver.

The shadow crossed his periphery again, and the answer to their problem landed squarely in Maddox’s mind.

“How many spirits haunt this inn?” he asked the woman as he gently placed Al’s sack down on the seat beside him.

She gasped. “What did you say, boy?”

Barnabas looked at him with alarm in his eyes. “Maddox . . .”

Maddox glanced again toward the corner where the inky darkness now perched. He was surprised he hadn’t sensed it the moment they stepped foot in the inn, but he set that aside for now. “There are spirits in this inn. There’s one in this tavern with us right now, but that’s not the only one that resides here.”

His statement had reached the ears of other patrons, who had stopped eating and drinking and were now silent, their wide-eyed gazes fixed on him.

“Did he say
spirits
?” one patron said to a friend.

The woman clasped her hand to her mouth, clearly in shock.
The innkeeper put his arm around her and drew her closer as he studied Maddox intensely.

“How could you know this?” he demanded.

“I can see them,” he said simply.

The woman shook her head as she put her hand to her throat and twisted around her charm, meant as a totem to protect against evil spirits. It was really nothing more than a useless scrap of tin made by profit-hungry witches, which Maddox knew because Livius used to sell these charms to anyone superstitious enough to believe his claims.

No mere charm could repel or vanquish a dark spirit.

“I was right!” the woman practically hollered. “All this time, I was right. The creaking sounds, the cold drafts, the horrible sense of despair that follows us around. What are we going to do?” She looked around at the shocked faces. “Don’t tell anyone what you’ve heard here tonight! If word gets out, we’re ruined! No one will dare enter these cursed doors!”

Barnabas watched Maddox curiously, not daring to interrupt.

“I can help you,” Maddox told them.

“Help us?” the woman said. The pair exchanged a frenzied look. “How?”

“The same gift that allows me to see the spirits also allows me trap them.” He stood up and held his hand out to the woman. “Give me your charm, please.”

She yanked the charm—chain and all—right off her neck and offered it to him with a shaking hand. “If it will help, take it!”

“Thank you.” He squeezed the charm once before placing it in his open, upturned palm. He’d done this many, many times before, and the muscle memory came back to him as if he were with Livius just yesterday.

He picked up Al’s sack and handed it to Barnabas. “Best keep you-know-who away from this vanquishing, just in case.”

Barnabas nodded. “Good idea.”

He got up and moved, with Al, toward the archway, as far away from Maddox as he could get.

Then Maddox walked in a circle around the tavern, knowing that each and every patron watched him intently. He tried not to be distracted by this—or by the half-eaten pheasant on their plates and the ache of his empty stomach.

It didn’t matter where the spirits were located, Maddox always started a vanquishing the same way: by looking up. In this case, at the wooden rafters of the tavern’s ceiling.

“Dark spirits who reside in this inn: I command you to obey me!” he said. “You are troublesome to these good people, whose greatest want is to help the tired and hungry citizens who come to them in need of food and rest. I command you to obey me. Come to me, dark spirits.
Now.
”

This was a part of the act he was used to with Livius. Really, he didn’t have to say anything externally, just in his mind, to summon the spirits.

Maddox concentrated hard, until his magic became a magnetic force, forcing obedience. He now directed his gaze to the floor and held very still as three shadows slithered toward him, winding themselves up his legs, around his arms, their sheer proximity cloaking him in an icy chill. They kept writhing all around him, rising up as if heading for his neck, until they reached the level of Maddox’s palm and then dove, disappearing into the silver amulet.

All went quiet for a moment, and Maddox sensed nothing except the sound of rain outside and the scent of delicious food.

“It is done,” Maddox said. “The spirits are trapped and will never bother you again.” He returned the amulet to the woman, who accepted it from him gingerly. “Bury this deep in the earth as soon as you can and know with certainty that you are now safe from harm.”

That part, of course, was a lie. The spirits he’d encountered in his life couldn’t harm the living—they could only scare them. But telling that truth to the innkeeper and his wife wouldn’t elicit the response he was aiming for.

Silence hung in the air for several tense moments. No one in the tavern spoke a single word, but then the woman’s face lit up with a wide smile, causing Maddox to exhale a big sigh of relief. “You are a miracle, young man,” she cooed. “A true miracle!” She grasped his face and kissed both of his cheeks.

“Incredible,” a man at a nearby table agreed, nodding. “I’ve never witnessed anything so brave!”

The other patrons also voiced their enthusiasm and awe.

“Alas,” Barnabas drew closer to Maddox, holding the sack, muting the cheer surrounding them with his grave tone of voice, “now we must begin our search for a place to lay our weary heads tonight. Come, Maddox. Let’s be on our way.” Barnabas put his hand on Maddox’s shoulder and turned him toward the door.

As they walked, Maddox slowly counted:
one . . . two . . . three . . .

“Wait!” the innkeeper called out just before Barnabas grasped the door handle. Maddox grinned—he knew they’d never make it past three. “We can’t let you go back into that storm. You have more than paid for lodging here tonight, as well as a fine meal.”

Barnabas frowned. “That’s very kind of you, but I thought you said you had no more rooms.”

The innkeeper’s cheeks reddened. “We have but one left, and it’s yours. You’ll have to share it with your son, but it’s a very fine
space. Please, take a seat again, and my wife will bring you something to eat while I prepare your room.”

Barnabas turned to him, now smiling. “You are too kind.”

Maddox tried to lose his big grin as he and Barnabas sat back down at their table, people murmuring with awe at what they’d seen tonight.

“I’ve heard rumors of the witch-boy before,” Maddox heard one man whisper. “Figured they were nothing but legend.”

Maddox caught Barnabas stealing a glance at the whispering man. “Exactly why I wanted to avoid taverns and inns,” he said. “Best to leave here very early in the morning, lest news of this real-life legend starts to spread.”

“A legend indeed!” Maddox started at the sound of Al’s muffled voice from inside his sack, which Barnabas had placed on the tabletop. “Well done, young man.”

“Are you all right?” Maddox asked, nudging the edge of the canvas aside to glance at Al. “My magic . . . did it affect you in any way?”

Al blinked. “No, I don’t think so. I didn’t even feel a tingle!”

“Good.” This was a relief. As gently as possible, he gestured to Al to keep quiet again. He then looked up to regard a surprisingly sour expression on Barnabas’s face. “What’s wrong? You don’t look nearly as thrilled as everyone else does about my performance tonight.”

“I’m not.”

“Is it because I used my magic in public? Or that you fear this has brought my soul one step closer to being corrupted by darkness?”