The Darkest Magic (A Book of Spirits and Thieves) (6 page)

Adam scowled, not taking Farrell’s version of an olive branch. “You haven’t heard a thing I’ve said tonight, have you?”

This conversation was over. “Goodnight, little brother.”

Farrell turned and went out the nearest exit to join a handful
of club patrons smoking in a haphazard huddle. He lit his cigarette, then leaned against the cement wall.

He tried to relax, but the thousand questions zipping through his mind had other plans.

What
was
Markus waiting for? Why didn’t he just narrow in on the Hatchers, storm in, and take what was his?

And why the hell would he have handed the Codex over to Daniel as if it were nothing more than a used comic book just because he got a phone call from Jackie Hatcher?

Why did Farrell’s left forearm still burn like he’d survived a five-alarm fire, even though a whole week had passed since Markus had made the third mark?

The moment Farrell plunged a knife into Daniel Hatcher’s chest . . . why didn’t he feel any guilt? Why was he not even a little bit sorry, especially since he’d never killed anyone before?

And why were the girls who came to this club so damned superficial? It was a
birthmark
, not an oozing sore.

“Don’t!”

Farrell turned his head toward the voice, thankful to be distracted from his reeling mind. It was a girl on the other side of the smoking patio, berating the guy she was with. “Just don’t, okay?”

Farrell narrowed his eyes to get a closer look at the girl with platinum blond hair and black-rimmed glasses that reminded him unsettlingly of Crys Hatcher.

The girl’s muscle-head companion grabbed her arm and wrenched her back toward him. “You think you can just walk away from me?” he growled. “Behave yourself, you stupid little bitch.”

“Let go of me,” she snarled.

“Apologize, and maybe I’ll consider it.”

“
Apologize?
For what? I hate you.
You’re
the one who should apologize!”

He let go of her arm, only to smack her across the face, hard.

Before he knew what he was doing or exactly why, Farrell was upon him. He grabbed hold of the guy and threw him against the wall. He put his right hand around his throat and squeezed, then with his left hand took a drag from his cigarette.

“I agree with her. I think
you
need to apologize,” Farrell said.

“Let . . . go . . . of . . . me,” the guy gasped, clawing at Farrell’s arm.

“Not. Going. To. Happen. First, you’re going to apologize to the lady. After that, maybe I won’t choose to tear out your windpipe. Sound fair?”

The girl stared at them, eyes wide. “What are you doing?” she said frantically.

“Me?” Farrell glanced at her. “I’m being chivalrous, what does it look like?”

“Let go of him!”

“He hasn’t apologized yet. He knows the deal: He apologizes, and I don’t kill him. Simple as that.”

Her worried gaze flicked between the two them. “Why are you doing this?”

“Violence against women is one of my hot button issues.”

“Fine,” she breathed out. “Apologize, Larry. Do it!”

Larry’s face was bright red from Farrell’s hold on him, but his eyes were filled with fury as he spit with as much force as he could manage. It landed on Farrell’s cheek with a cold
splat
.

“Now that was just rude and disgusting. Luckily, I’m immune to all germs.” Farrell raised his shoulder to wipe off the saliva, then tightened his grip on Larry’s neck. Effortlessly, he lifted him a couple of inches off the ground. “Shall we try again?”

Now Larry was turning purple. “Fine . . . I . . . I’m . . . sorry.”

“And it will never happen . . . ? Go on, finish the sentence for me.”

“Never . . . happen . . . again.”

“Good.” Farrell let him go, and he dropped down to the ground in a heaving heap. The girl quickly scrambled to help Larry to his feet, and Farrell watched as they both scurried away, beyond the patio and out into the Toronto streets. “Yeah, you’re welcome,” Farrell called after them. “Anytime, really.”

Ignoring the small group of witnesses staring at him, he flicked his cigarette away and went back inside the club. He went to the restroom, stood in front of a mirror, and regarded his reflection. His heart pounded slowly, but so loudly he could hear it.

“Ugly bastard,” he told himself.

“
If you want to change something
,” Connor’s voice told him, “
do it. You are the master of your destiny. No one else.
”

“You said it, brother.”

Farrell drew a small folding knife out of his pocket and flipped it open. Leaning closer to the mirror, he pulled the skin beneath his right eye taut. Slowly and carefully, he sliced off his birthmark.

He should have done this long ago.

MADDOX

M
addox had always had a knack for memorization, but for whatever reason, he could never remember the names of trees. He could recite stories from his favorite books nearly word for word, but when it came to remembering specifics within larger categories—such as trees, rivers, or villages—he’d always struggled. His mother used to tell him it was because he didn’t care deeply enough about those things to take the time to learn.

But now he wanted to know.

A
willowbark
tree. Yes, that was it. He was standing before the largest willowbark tree he’d ever seen, where his mother had been buried. The tree was next to the river where she’d taught him how to swim when he was so young he had only barely begun to walk.

Maddox knelt down by her grave, the dirt still fresh, and placed a silverlily he’d picked from his mother’s garden on top of it. They were her favorite flower.

He wasn’t sure exactly how long he’d been there, only that the day had turned to dusk and the sky had begun to darken.

“Maddox, my sweet.” Camilla, Barnabas’s witch friend, placed her hand on his arm. “Can you hear me?”

“Give him another moment,” Barnabas said.

That moment passed. Then another, and another.

“It’s night, Barnabas. He needs to sleep,” Camilla said.

“Very well.” Barnabas let out a long sigh. “Maddox, come on. It’s time to go.”

Maddox nodded shallowly. He tried to push himself up from the hard ground, but he faltered on legs that had gone numb. Camilla was at his side in an instant, smiling at him comfortingly as she helped him to his feet.

“Up you go,” she said. “We’ll get you into a nice warm bed. Tomorrow will be a better day, I promise.”

There had been three tomorrows since his mother had been killed, and none had been better than the last. In that time, Barnabas had sent word to Camilla to join them in Silvereve. She’d arrived quickly, although Maddox had been too wrapped up in grief to register her presence. Camilla and her sister, Sienna, had tried to help Barnabas and Maddox in their confrontation with Valoria. Sienna had spent years working her way into the goddess’s circle of trust, all for the chance to use her own secrets to vanquish her.

But their plan hadn’t worked. Valoria was still out there, still after Maddox and the infinite power she believed he could offer her, still ready to kill any innocent who stood in her way.

Finally they returned to his mother’s house, and Camilla personally put Maddox to bed. He was so tired, more exhausted than he’d ever been before, but his body was fighting sleep. As he was lying there with his eyes closed, he could hear Barnabas and Camilla talking, most likely thinking he was asleep.

“You barely go near him,” Camilla whispered in an accusatory tone. “What’s wrong with you? You should be
comforting
the boy. He just lost his mother.”

“And I lost my sister,” Barnabas said. “That doesn’t change the fact that Maddox is—that we
all
are—in grave danger. I’ve no other choice but to be strong right now.”

“He hasn’t been hardened like you have. He hasn’t been through the same struggles. Traveling around with that nasty con man was nothing compared to what you’ve seen. You know this, and yet you’re still cold.”

“Camilla, I don’t know how to behave with him. Ever, and especially now. I don’t know how to be a father, all right?”

“You’ve had sixteen years to learn.”

“And yet I still fail.”

“Fine. Then don’t be a father to him. Be a
friend
.”

“I’ll try my best.”

“Of course you will. I have no doubt.”

Barnabas didn’t know how to be a father. Maddox took some solace in this since he didn’t really know how to be a son to anyone but Damaris.

But he also would try his best to be Barnabas’s friend.

Slowly, finally, sleep found him.

• • •

The next morning, it was time to bid farewell to Maddox’s village and his mother’s grave. He had no idea if he’d ever return. As soon as he woke up, he steeled himself against this day and promised himself he wouldn’t shed a tear—not today or any day after. He’d given in to crying too many times over the last few days and knew Barnabas must have thought him weak for it. He swore he’d never cry again.

He wasn’t a child anymore, was no longer innocent. Innocent children didn’t think of nothing but vengeance.

“I’m ready to go,” Maddox announced, his voice strong and steady, but it had a dull edge to it that even he could hear.

Camilla was at the stove cooking
kaana
, a familiar breakfast dish created from mashed yellow beans. When she heard Maddox, she turned around and fixed a bright smile on him. Maddox had to suppress his instinctual flinch at seeing her now, the first time he’d been truly lucid since she’d arrived.

Poor Camilla—she was kind and smart and a gifted witch, but she had not been blessed with the beauty her sister, Sienna, had. Her eyes were lopsided, the few teeth she had were widely spaced and crooked, and her chin was a village of warts, black hairs springing forth from the majority.

Maddox smiled back at her.

“Hungry, my boy?” she asked.

“I suppose so.”

She brought him a bowl and spoon and patted him on the back. “There you go.”

“Thank you.” He stared down at the bowl of
kaana
.

Barnabas sat down in the chair across from him, eyeing him warily. “Camilla and I can go in search of Valoria’s scribe. You don’t have to join us for this part of the journey. I understand if you’re not feeling quite up to it.”

“I’m fine,” Maddox said calmly.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m
fine
,” he said, louder this time. “What’s the plan?”

Barnabas raised his brows. “Well, all right then. The plan is simple. We will go to Valoria’s palace, locate the scribe, bespell him with Camilla’s scented oils, and remove him from the palace to question him at our leisure. He’ll tell us how to most effectively bring an end to the goddess’s reign, and then all will be well and right in the land.”

Maddox glanced at Camilla, who was back at her station at the stove. “Scented oils?”

She stirred a second pot that was simmering next to the
kaana
. “I just need to infuse this with some air magic and a few other useful ingredients I picked up on my way here. Then it’ll be potent enough to knock out any man or woman for at least half a day with just one whiff.”

“Your skills impress me more every time I see you,” Barnabas told her.

Maddox eyed the brew warily. “A half a day, huh?”

“Any longer would need much more simmer time,” Camilla said. “I’ll pour a little of this in a vial, and we’ll be ready to leave. Nothing to worry about.”

He appreciated that this witch, who was brewing a knockout potion to aid in a kidnapping, was assuring him that all was well. Then again, both she and Barnabas had been treating him like a fragile object, ready to shatter at any moment. But he wasn’t fragile; he was strong. Every moment, every day, getting stronger.

Maddox knew he would be a major asset in this journey. And he knew he would soon avenge the death of his mother. The deaths of both of his mothers: Damaris and Eva too.

• • •

Maddox remained mostly silent and introspective for the first day of their three-day journey by foot to the palace. On the second day, Camilla managed to coax conversation from him, telling him she wanted to know more about Damaris.

“Was she a good cook?” Camilla asked as they ventured out that
misty morning from a small inn that had served them a barely palatable breakfast of burnt eggs and runny
kaana
.

He nodded. “The best cook. She made a lamb stew that was so phenomenal she could have sold the recipe for a couple years’ worth of coin. She always managed to get bread—still warm, with a crisp crust, but soft in the middle, and it melted in your mouth—for us every day, no matter how rough our circumstances. Sometimes we ate it for breakfast with honey.”

“I’m getting hungry just hearing about it,” Camilla said kindly. “She was a very good mum, it seems.”

Maddox nodded. He let a peaceful silence settle between them before he worked up the courage to ask a question that had been on his mind for a while. “I’ve been wondering a lot about . . . well, about what my birth mother was like. Did you know her?”

“Eva?” Camilla asked. She cast a cautious glance toward Barnabas, who walked about five paces ahead of them—certainly close enough to overhear. He didn’t turn around or slow his steps, so Camilla turned back to Maddox and lowered her voice to just above a whisper. “I never met her personally. But I have heard many stories. It hasn’t been all that long, really, since she . . . passed.”

“Valoria and Cleiona killed her,” said Maddox matter-of-factly. “Yet Valoria denies she had anything to do with her murder. Is Cleiona solely to blame?”

“Don’t you dare say that name again,” Barnabas growled.

“What name?” Maddox asked. “Eva?”

“No. The name of the southern goddess.”

“Why not?”

Barnabas groaned. “Camilla?”

Camilla cleared her throat. “Well, there are rumors, you know. She is the goddess of fire and air, and some say that with air magic as powerful as hers, she can hear the sound of her name no matter where, when, or by whom it’s spoken. This is how she comes to know her enemies.”

Maddox had never heard this rumor before. Then again, it was forbidden to publically discuss the southern goddess in the North.

“All right then. I’ll never say her name again,” he agreed. “But please tell me more about what really happened to Eva.”

Camilla sighed, but not unkindly. “No one knows exactly
who
was responsible for killing her. But it is rumored that, at almost the exact moment of her death, she uttered a prophecy.”

“What prophecy?” Maddox prompted when Camilla went silent.

A moment passed before Camilla continued. “She allegedly foretold that, in a thousand years’ time, her magic would be reborn in the form of a mortal sorceress. It’s said that Eva was by far the most powerful immortal of them all—a truth I’m sure Valoria’s scribe would like to scrub from history—and for that reason she was the envy of many of her kind. When she found herself with child—a
half-mortal
child—some say that the pregnancy made her . . . vulnerable.”

All this information—whether it be rumor or truth—had made Maddox’s head start to spin.

“I should have protected her,” Barnabas growled.

“How?” Camilla’s voice turned harsh. “With your bow and arrow?” She scoffed. “You weren’t much more than a child yourself at the time, Barnabas. And you did what you could. You must stop blaming yourself.”

“Never. She’d lived thousands of years before she met me. If it wasn’t for me, she’d still be alive.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. I know it as well as I know I’m the greatest hunter Mytica has ever seen.”

Maddox had heard this lofty claim enough times to know not to argue with it.

Barnabas turned to Camilla, his expression tense, his fists clenched. “All of this talk of the past reminds me. Do you still have it?”

Camilla raised her chin. “Yes,” she said, her tone empty of the confusion that had suddenly gripped Maddox.

“Right now? On your person?”

“I always keep it with me. Just as you asked me to.”

“Show me.”

She blinked. “Are you sure?”

He nodded. “I want to carry it with me now.”

“My hope was that all those years of traveling overseas would help you find some peace. But it seems that isn’t the case.”

“There can be no peace as long as those two monsters rule this land.” Barnabas stopped, turned to Camilla, and held out his hand, palm up. “Please.”

“Very well,” she sighed. She tucked her hand underneath the neckline of her blouse and, after a moment’s fishing, pulled out a gold necklace strung with some kind of charm or pendant. She unfastened the delicate chain, removed it from around her neck, and placed the necklace in his outstretched palm.

It was only exposed for a moment before his father closed his fist around it, but that was long enough for Maddox to catch a glimpse of the pendant, which looked like a brilliant purple stone in some kind of golden setting.

“What is that?” he asked.

Barnabas tucked the necklace away in one of his many well-hidden pockets. “A ring that once belonged to Eva.”

Maddox’s heart skipped a beat. “May I see it?”

“No.” Barnabas’s jaw tensed, and he glanced at Maddox. “Apologies—I don’t meant to sound so harsh, but . . . not now. Perhaps someday, but not now. All right?”

A hundred questions about Eva and Barnabas appeared on the tip of Maddox’s tongue, but the fresh look of grief on Barnabas’s face at seeing her ring again for the first time in ages made him back down.

“All right.”

“Thank you, Camilla,” Barnabas said.

“You won’t be thanking me when the nightmares begin again.”

Barnabas arched an eyebrow. “Oh, I’m sure there’s some kind of a potion to cure that.”

“There is,” Camilla said. “It’s called ‘wine,’ and it’s being administered free of charge all across this kingdom for the rest of the year.” She winked at him, then returned her attention to Maddox. “Never mind old Barnabas. He gets morose when he reminisces. Back to the more important matter at hand: your birth mother. She was a brave woman. Legend says that she survived many battles and hardships, including the wrath of her twin brother and the destruction of her original world, and was only made stronger for it.”

“
Wrathful twin brother?
” Maddox said. “Are
any
of the immortals actually kind and peaceful?”

“More legends,” Barnabas said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “What brother? She never mentioned any wrathful twin to me. Let alone anything to suggest that immortals have ever had another home besides a massive crystal city in another world where, I assume, they are to this day.”

“Granted, I know very little about your relationship with her,
Barnabas, but my impression was that all that passion you two shared didn’t leave much time for long conversations about life and family.”