The Darkest Magic (A Book of Spirits and Thieves) (7 page)

“We had plenty of time to talk,” Barnabas said against a tense jaw.

“
Anyway
, Maddox, to answer your question: It would seem there are very few immortals who are kind and peaceful, which is said to be the fault of Eva’s twin. For every ounce of beauty and goodness that Eva was blessed with, legend says that her brother was cursed with just as much of the very opposite. He was a demon, who, with no weapon other than his dangerous, mystical words, brought destruction and chaos everywhere he went. Some say he was created from ice and darkness and that whatever he touched turned to endless winter.”

“Ice and darkness.”
Barnabas rolled his eyes. “Sure.”

“So where is this horrible immortal sorcerer now?” Maddox asked tentatively.

“The immortals rose up against him and killed him. It was the last thing about which they were all in agreement.”

“How do you know all of this?” Maddox asked.

“Witch legends,” Barnabas bit out. “Passed through generations of those who feel they’re connected to the immortals by blood and magic.”

Camilla grinned. “True enough. But that doesn’t make these legends wrong.”

“It doesn’t make them right either.”

“The goddesses are immortals . . . ,” Maddox said quietly. “Does that mean they’re as powerful as the ones who live in the crystal city?”

“No,” Barnabas said. “The goddesses stole the magic they possess. They’re nothing more than common thieves.”

Maddox took a moment to consider this. “The same stolen magic Valoria used to mark that assassin, so he could resist my magic.”

A solemn silence settled between the three for a moment as they continued to make their way away from the village where they’d spent the night with two more days of travel ahead. Maddox looked up at the clear sky, shielding his eyes from the sun, and watched a bird soaring overhead.
An eagle or a hawk
, he thought.

“Yes, that seems to be the case,” Barnabas finally said, his tone troubled. “I was not aware that she had that ability.”

“But it wasn’t enough. He chose to run away rather than stay and fight me. He knew he wasn’t strong enough to survive my magic, let alone stop me. I’m going to find him. And when I do . . .” Maddox set his jaw into a tense block of pure resolution. “I’m going to kill him.”

Barnabas stopped, turned, and grabbed Maddox by his shoulders. Anger flashed in his eyes, taking Maddox by surprise.

“You are going to kill no one,” he growled. “Do you hear me?”

Maddox glared up at him. “Why shouldn’t I?”

“Have you ever killed anyone? Ever used your
magic
to kill anyone? Pushed, shoved, choked, made unconscious, yes—you’ve done all that very well. But killed?”

Maddox’s chest tightened. “No. Not yet.”

“You are not a murderer, Maddox. You must never kill. Not ever.”

Barnabas had never made less sense. “How can you say that? You told me yourself what my magic made me—I’m a necromancer. My magic is
death
magic. Killing is one of the few things it lets me do.”

Barnabas’s expression grew haunted. “When I first found you, you were nothing like what I expected. I’d expected you to be . . . darker. Empty. Because wielding dark magic blackens the soul.”

Maddox was about to laugh; just the idea of a soul made “black” by a certain kind of magic was preposterous to him, but Camilla spoke before he could even crack a grin.

“It’s true, boy,” she said. “I’ve seen it happen to witches far less powerful than you, who’ve foolishly tried to strengthen their naturally given powers with blood magic. No matter how good your heart is, that kind of dark power will turn it black, cold, and shriveled.”

The urge to laugh had passed entirely. Maddox thought back to when he’d used his magic, to when he’d really channeled it for the first time to strike unconscious a guard who’d been about to execute an accused witch. The most vivid thing he could remember about it—other than his victim’s dull and lifeless appearance—was the sensation of a cold darkness rising up inside of him.

Even now, he wasn’t sure if he’d been scared of it or if he’d liked it.

“So, what then?” Maddox said in the most biting tone he’d used in days. “We just let Goran get away with it?”

“No,” Barnabas said. “Just like you, I plan to find him. And when I do, I’ll kill him myself. Don’t worry, I have no death magic to corrupt my already shadowy soul.”

“Then the matter is settled,” Camilla said, her kind smile returning. “Now, let’s focus on finding the goddess’s scribe so we can torture some information out of him, shall we?”

• • •

When they finally reached the palace, they found they were among at least a thousand other visitors, all milling about in the royal square.

The massive palace—a monstrous masterpiece of black granite set into the rocky cliffs—cast a jagged shadow over the crowd.

Maddox nudged a tall man jockeying for space beside him. “What’s going on?” he asked.

The crowd began to cheer.

“The goddess is about to make a speech,” the tall man said, nodding his head up toward a balcony chiseled high into the granite palace.

Maddox drew his hood closer around his face and looked up at the forbidding palace from their position at the back of the crowd. He had barely a moment to register the vast impressiveness of the craftsmanship when a flash of crimson appeared against the backdrop of blackest granite. It was the goddess, gliding out onto the balcony in a brilliant red gown. Her shining ebony hair cascaded over her shoulders, falling down well past her waist in waves. Even from a distance, Maddox could see the sharp and vivid boundaries of her dark red lips and emerald green eyes.

Unsmilingly, she raised her hand. The crowd went silent.

Maddox chanced a look at Barnabas, who glared up at the goddess with hatred in his eyes.

Valoria began to speak. “Much gratitude for your presence today, my citizens,” she intoned, her voice smooth yet menacing, like honey poisoned with venom. “I grow stronger through the presence of each and every one of you.”

The crowd chimed with respectful hollers of appreciation. She smiled, and Maddox wondered if he was the only one who thought it looked more like a grimace than a grin.

Valoria waited for the crowd to hush before going on. “I’m sure most of you have heard by now that I’ve decided to extend the commemorative celebrations until the end of the year.”

The crowd broke out in cheers, this time more joyful than reverent.

Valoria’s smile slipped. A flash of annoyance flickered over her lovely face. Suddenly, the ground began to tremble, the shaking quickly evolving into a rippling earthquake. The violent waves of stone and earth made their way across the square, knocking hundreds of people off their feet and injuring several others.

Camilla grasped hold of Maddox’s arm to remain on her feet. Barnabas simply glared up at the goddess, his fists clenched at his sides. He then sent a quick, concerned glance at Maddox. “You all right?”

Maddox nodded. “For now.”

The brunt of the quake passed, but the ground still shook with a buzzing tremor.

“Silence!” the goddess commanded. “I’ve more to say.”

The battered crowd—now moaning and sobbing instead of cheering—went silent in an instant.

The ground went still, and Valoria’s smile returned. “My decision to extend the celebrations is in gratitude to you all for your loyalty to me these past fifteen years. Today is a special day, for it is the day that I shall finally bless my kingdom with an official name.”

Valoria gazed down at her cowering, injured people. “Two words can express the way I rule this land:
strength
and
wisdom
.
Limo
and
rossa
, in the language of my people. And so this is why I have chosen to use my reign and my power to rename Northern Mytica . . .” Valoria paused here, allowing a sense of drama to hover over the square. Then, with a smile more insidious than Maddox had seen on her yet, she delivered her pronouncement.
“Limeros.”

The crowd below was motionless, silent. Maddox looked about to gauge their reactions, but all they did was stare, waiting.

“You no longer have to remain silent,” she announced with an arched brow.

The crowd erupted in a forced, whining cheer, while Barnabas just narrowed his eyes with even more hatred.

Maddox scrunched up his nose. “Strength and wisdom? That’s what
Limeros
means?”

Barnabas sneered. “For a woman who forces chastity on her people and values only abnegation and piety, she truly is the vainest person I’ve ever known.” He let out a groan as the people once again policed themselves into silence. “Oh my. It seems as though she’s not done yet.”

Indeed, the goddess was still on the balcony, poised to go on. “I spoke about the importance of loyalty,” she said, pacing the balcony as if to make sure everyone below her knew she was talking to them. “Indeed, there is truly nothing I value higher. Without trusted mortals at my side, without devotees who unquestioningly obey the commands that keep our kingdom fed, clothed, and housed—why, I could not rule at all. Over the last several days, some events have transpired that have tested this theory and proved that it has never been more true. It has recently come to my attention that one of the mortals I’ve come to trust more than anyone else is planning to betray me. His plot to rise up against me and in effect our entire kingdom has come to me in a clear vision of prophecy. As a suspected traitor, he shall be beheaded here today.”

Barnabas and Maddox shared a furtive look. Of all the things they’d prepared to do today, witnessing a public beheading was not one of them.

“Before the execution begins, I have another announcement to make. In light of this and other suspicions of betrayal, I have called for the immediate arrest of any and all witches who are breaking
the law by practicing magic in this kingdom. It has come to my attention that there are many more of these women than any of us previously thought, and we cannot tolerate their poisoning presence. Therefore, I am offering a reward for information that leads to the arrest of suspected witches and those accused of helping to house or protect these evildoers.”

Maddox shot a concerned look at Camilla, who gazed back at him with a smile. Her face was calm and resolute, but Maddox knew he saw alarm in her eyes.

“Now,” Valoria said. “Bring out the prisoner.”

Quiet commotion rustled through the crowd as three men—two uniformed guards flanking a restrained man wearing fine but soiled clothing—emerged from the palace. The two guards walked the restrained man to an execution platform constructed underneath the balcony, where a masked man waited before a heavy black block.

“Oh no,” Camilla murmured.

“Goddess,” the man cried out, straining his neck as the guards forced him to his knees behind the execution block. “My radiant, beautiful goddess! Please, don’t do this! I did not betray you—not now, not in the past, not in the future. I swear it—it must have been someone else you saw in your vision! I am nothing more than your humble servant. Please, forgive me for this crime—a crime that no one has yet committed!”

Valoria regarded the man coldly. “My decision is final,” she said, then nodded at the masked executioner. “Remove his head.”

The masked man took up his ax with a steady heave. The man continued to plea, and as the ax began to fall, Maddox looked away. Finally, mercifully, the man ceased his desperate cries.

The body was quickly carried away, but the man’s head was
mounted upon a tall spike on the platform: a warning for all to see.

Some looked up at it with solemn expressions, others with fear.

Barnabas winced, then turned to Camilla, speaking in a whisper. “Camilla, who was that? Did you recognize him?”

“Yes,” Camilla said. She sighed heavily. “That, I’m very sorry to say, was the goddess’s scribe.”

CRYSTAL

T
hey were only a block away from the art gallery when Crys stopped and grabbed her mother’s arm. “You’re sure about this?”

“Crys, we’ve already discussed this.”

“I know. But . . . you’re still sure that you’re sure?”

Julia raised an eyebrow. “When did you become the cautious one? Haven’t you been dying to go to this show?
And
to get out of that apartment?”

Crys looked around at where they were, surrounded by tall buildings, sleek steel and glass everywhere, in the city’s upscale Yorkville neighborhood. The sidewalks were busy with people shopping, heading in and out of restaurants, enjoying their weekends. Nearby, a driver was valiantly trying to parallel park in one of the only available spots, which was far too small for his client’s Mercedes SUV.

“Of course.” Crys frowned. “You’re right. When
did
I become the cautious one?”

Julia grinned. “The question of the day.”

“But what if—”

“Crys,” Julia cut her daughter off. “We’re not going to wear sandwich boards advertising who we are and where we’ll be for the next hour. We’re going to a photography show at a small art gallery, and then we’re going straight back to the apartment. No lurking around in dark alleyways, I promise.”

Crys exhaled shakily and forced herself to nod. “Fine. In and out. I’m not even going to try to meet Andrea and ask for her career advice, which is exactly what I’m dying to do.”

“That is entirely your prerogative.”

Why was her mother looking so . . . fierce today? She was dressed in a fitted black pencil skirt, a matching blazer, and heels, and looked ready to take on the world. While Becca’s spirit was off in another world, Julia had temporarily lost that shiny aura of confidence Crys had always loved in her. She was just starting to get it back, which is why it really bothered Crys to see it slip and falter after Becca’s little
incident
with the book yesterday. But Becca had made a quick recovery, and Dr. Vega had locked up the book to keep Becca away from it.

The thought of the book sending her sister’s spirit away again sent a shiver of dread coursing through her limbs. If that ever happened again, there was no guarantee she’d come back.

“If it helps,” Julia said as Crys continued to scan their surroundings with paranoia, “I did bring this along to give us a sense of protection.”

She slipped her hand into her purse, and there it was: a glimpse of the handgun that was normally kept locked away in a safe in the bookshop. Crys remembered the day her father bought it five years ago, after a string of burglaries on their street. She also remembered the loud argument they had about it, Julia berating him about how unsafe it was for them to keep a gun in the same house
as their daughters, and Daniel countering that the only reason he’d bought the gun was to protect his daughters and keep them safe.

“Great,” Crys mumbled, looking at the gun now as that shiver of dread made a swift return appearance. “My mother’s packing heat. I’m sure that has exactly what it takes to take down an immortal death god.”

“No matter what he might tell anyone, Markus King is no god,” Julia said with a sneer. “He’s nothing more than a fading fraud, and to hear Jackie tell it, he’s not far from a well-deserved death. That’s why he hasn’t dared show his face yet, even though that book is the puzzle piece he’s been dying to get his hands on for who knows how long. Looks like someone’s afraid we might have more power than he originally thought.”

That didn’t sound much like the ruthless, sociopathic man who terrorized Crys and her sister mere days ago. “Markus is afraid?”

“Sure seems like it. Either that or maybe he’s deluded enough to think that Jackie is still madly in love with him and that he can charm her into just handing over the book.”

“Yeah. Good luck with that, right?” Crys grimaced, not able to concentrate on anything other than the glint of the gun, which was still visible in Julia’s open purse. “Put that thing away, would you?”

She closed her purse, then hooked her arm through her daughter’s. “Come on. Let’s try to go ten minutes without thinking or talking about that evil creep. Teach me more about photography and why you love it so much, okay?”

Crys fought off one last urge to scurry back to the relative safety of the penthouse before she finally nodded. “Okay.”

As soon as they walked through the glass front doors and entered the gallery, Crys was hit with a palpable sense of excitement.
The place was as busy and buzzing as she’d expected—probably more so—and she stopped to take a deep breath of gratitude beneath the sign announcing the title of the show: “The Passion of Andrea Stone.” The main exhibit space was open and airy, with high ceilings and crisp white walls that showed off fifty framed photos, each one chosen carefully by a curator as representative of various stages in Andrea’s career. The first photo in the exhibit was a self-portrait of Andrea looking down, her frizzy, graying hair in a massive bun, her face set in a serious expression, and her chin resolute.

Crys read the little placard next to the portrait.
“Photography isn’t a job, it’s a true calling. A passion one cannot ignore.”

Someone in the gallery let out a loud, ringing laugh, causing Crys to turn and look across the crowd. There, in person and only twenty feet away, was Andrea Stone, the photographer herself, standing at the center of a group of people, dressed head to toe in all black, no makeup except for her trademark slash of bright red lipstick.

“Oh my God,” Crys said out loud. Julia heard her and turned to look as well.

“Not terribly glamorous, is she?”

Crys shrugged. “I think she looks super glam.”

“If you say so. I will admit that she looks wise, though.” Her mother nodded up at the self-portrait. “It’s all in her eyes. You can tell that she’s seen a lot, experienced a lot, and not all of it was good. I know exactly how that is.”

Crys touched her mother’s arm, finally tearing her gaze away from Andrea. “You can talk to me, you know. About anything you want.”

A shadow crossed over Julia’s expression. “I know you’re worried about Becca. As worried as I am.”

Crys nodded. “I have a million questions about what she is,” she said in a lowered voice. “I can barely sleep thinking about them all, but . . . but then I wake up, and I see her, and I know she’s my sister, no matter what. She’s
his
daughter, but she’s not like him a bit.”

All of a sudden, Julia looked very tired. “I feel the same way.”

“You can talk to me about other stuff too,” Crys said. “Not just about Becca. Like . . . what it was like back when you were in the society. About what you went through with the marks and dealing with all of the craziness that came with them. Even how you feel about . . . Dad.”

Her mother gave her a weak smile. “It’s still all so painful to think about those days, especially when it comes to your father. But . . . I know you love him. I do too—in a different way, mind you, but still. The fact that he helped you—you and Becca”—she shook her head—“that was so brave. I didn’t think he’d be willing to help, even though it was his own children who were in danger.”

Crys’s throat closed up at the reminder of her father and what he’d risked. “We have to help him get away from Markus,” she said. “I asked him to come with us that night, but after giving us the book and helping us escape, he went back to that freak. He’s not safe with Markus, Mom. And the fact I haven’t heard from him in a week, not even a text . . . I’m so worried about him.” Her voice caught, and she forced herself to take a deep breath. She didn’t want to break down in the middle of the gallery.

Julia grabbed hold of her hand and squeezed it. “Have you tried to get in touch with him?”

Crys shook her head. “No. I’m afraid if I call or text and Markus sees the message . . .”

“That your father will be punished.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll tell you something about your father, Crystal. He’s smart. And resourceful. And he’s a damn good liar when he needs to be. When we were younger and still together, whenever he got himself into tight situations, he always managed to wiggle out of them. My father wasn’t exactly a great fan of me dating someone who . . . well, someone who wasn’t part of our social circle. But in two meetings, Daniel had convinced Dad that he was the perfect match for me because he lied through his teeth about his family. He did so well that my father even personally invited him to the family Christmas party, which, trust me, he
never
did for any of my other boyfriends. I admired Daniel for the way he made all of that up just to get in my father’s good graces—just to get me—and, well, I guess I hated him a little for it too. And it’s that same ability that makes me believe that, right now, he’s doing and saying whatever he has to in order to survive. If he’s not getting in touch with you, there’s a reason for it. And once things settle down a little, I swear to you that we will do whatever it takes to bring him back to us.”

Crys stared at her, shocked and wondering if she’d heard her mother correctly. “Are you serious?”

Julia nodded, her eyes glossy. “I sure am.”

“Thank you,” Crys said, resisting the urge to hug her mother in front of all of these sophisticated, decidedly unsentimental art enthusiasts. “Thank you for listening to me.”

“I admit, I haven’t been so great at that lately.”

Crys managed a shaky grin. “Ditto.”

Julia’s cell phone started to ring. She fished it out of her jacket pocket and glanced at the screen.

“Give me a sec, Crys. I need to take this.”

“Okay.” Any other day and Crys would have chastised her
mother for being rude and answering a call in the middle of an important cultural event, but she was still riding high from the news about her father, so she let it go. “I’ll be over here drooling at literally every single piece.”

Julia nodded, then turned and walked away a few paces. “Yes?” she said into the phone. “Yes, I can talk now. Go ahead.”

Crys distractedly wondered who had called her mother. Maybe Dr. Vega with news about the book, but Julia’s tone was a little too formal to be talking to him. Maybe it was Angus Balthazar, the penthouse owner extraordinaire who was supposed to be able to help them with all things magical. She wasn’t sure how convinced she was of his unparalleled expertise, but she had to admit: The guy had a great apartment.

Still, there was one thing about Angus that kept nagging at her: He was a thief. More than that, he was a thief who was so accomplished and successful that he could afford a lavish, professionally decorated home. So why was Jackie so ready to trust him with something as precious and valuable—and dangerous—as the Codex? What was to stop him from stealing it and selling it to the highest bidder, no matter how close he and Jackie were?

Stop thinking so much
, Crys told herself. Of all the people involved—her well-connected aunt with the somewhat sketchy past, her former-society-member mother, and her half-immortal-and-touched-by-magic sister—she was the least qualified to question any aspect of the situation. She was merely related to these people.

Nothing special.

It was something she’d never admit to anyone else, but this thought—that she was an ordinary nobody in a family full of extraordinary somebodies—had become a recurring one lately, and conjuring it now gave her an unpleasant twisting feeling in her
gut. Becca had been through a laundry list of madness, and after witnessing what happened yesterday, even the most skeptical bones in Crys’s body were starting to believe her story.

Becca was special. Important. Probably magical. Potentially powerful, Crys supposed, even if Becca herself didn’t realize it yet. Her sister was a secret that needed to be kept.

And Crys . . . well, she was just taking up space and getting in the way.

No. She refused to feel weirdly envious that she hadn’t been the one to get jerked out of her world and sent on a roller coaster ride to another world. Crys liked it when her world made sense. She actually enjoyed planning for—well, daydreaming about, mostly—a solid future. It was funny, really. She hadn’t even known that about herself until recently.

I am Crystal Hatcher
, she thought.
And I love it when things are boring and predictable.

She guessed that made her boring and predictable too, but she was pleased to find she didn’t even care.

She tried to clear her head and focus only on the photo in front of her: a black-and-white image of a perfectly ordinary person. According to the museum label, the subject was an old woman who was raised in Montana on a horse farm where she’d lived all her life, through summers of blazing sunshine and winters that ranged from bitterly cold to devastatingly harsh. Each of her eighty-some years showed in the depth of her expression and the wrinkles, sunspots, and smile lines on her face. Her eyes told a story that could fill many books. By physical description alone, she appeared to be perfectly normal, yet that didn’t keep her from being—or Andrea from capturing her in such a way that she appeared—magical in her own way.

Crys knew her father would have loved this show, especially since he was the one who’d introduced her to photography in the first place. Her heart ached as she wished he were here to share it with her too.

“Call me crazy, but this? This
has
to be fate.”

In an instant, Crys’s blood to ice. Every single shred of substance—words, thoughts, images, memories—fell out of her mind as she shut her eyes and braced herself against the sound of Farrell Grayson’s voice.

Fate indeed.

As her heart violently played bongos against her rib cage, Crys struggled to remind herself that they were in public. Which was a good thing—nothing bad could happen here. Nobody was going to get hurt.

Which was too bad, since she really, really wanted to hurt him.

“Look at her,” Farrell continued, speaking in a mock-lofty tone. “So enraptured by this photo that the rest of the world fades away, becomes meaningless. She’s truly a sight to behold.”

“I swear to God,” Crys growled, “if you take another step closer to me I’m going to start screaming.”