The Darkest Magic (A Book of Spirits and Thieves) (9 page)

The gun began to tremble in Julia’s grip, her entire body shivering while her eyes grew wider and wider.

“Mom!” Crys yelled, making Becca jump. “Drop the gun now!”

Finally, shaking, Julia dropped the book and the gun. She put her hands up and staggered backward until she hit the wall.

“Oh my God,” Julia said through a quaking voice. “What am I doing? What have I . . . Becca . . . sweetheart. I’m so sorry!”

Carefully, as if approaching a wild animal she didn’t want to startle, Jackie picked up the book and handed it to Dr. Vega, who took it in his trembling hands. She picked up the gun and checked the cartridge.

“It’s loaded,” she confirmed grimly.

“It’s for—for protection,” Julia said. “We need something to defend ourselves against Markus and his people.” Julia slid limply down the wall and to the ground, where she drew her knees up against her chest. “I’m so sorry. Why did I do that? I don’t want Markus to have the book! And I’d never want to hurt any of you!”

“Mom, think back,” Crys said. “When we were at the gallery. Who called you?”

Julia shot her tear-filled gaze to Crys. “I . . . I don’t remember.”

“She was on the phone,” Crys said, turning to Jackie. “She answered a call and then walked away for privacy. She left me alone long enough for Farrell Grayson to find and corner me. We had a very unpleasant conversation, but he didn’t try anything. He didn’t tell me anything
real
or actually helpful, but I definitely got the impression that Markus is biding his time, waiting for the right moment to strike.”

Jackie swore under her breath. “Jules, let me see your phone.”

Julia fumbled in her purse and pulled out her phone. Jackie took it and scrolled through the call list. “You’ve gotten several calls over the last couple of days from a blocked number. You don’t remember who it was?”

Julia shook her head, her complexion pale and her expression bleak. “If I don’t remember . . . if I just tried to murder my own family so I could take the book to Markus . . . Oh my God, Jackie—my marks. I never thought their effect was that strong, not even when I first got them, but he . . . he must still have some sort of power over
me!”

“That son of a bitch,” Jackie muttered. “Don’t worry, sis, I’ll figure this out. That might not even be what’s happening, so don’t make yourself sick.”

Julia nodded erratically. “But until you figure it out, what happens? No one’s safe around me.”

“Angus’s arriving today. He’s the magic expert, remember? He’ll be able to help.”

“The expert at stealing magic, you mean.”

“Honestly, at this point? I don’t care one way or the other. There’s no one else on the planet who’s better equipped to help with this kind of problem. He’s smart. As smart as you are, Uriah.” Jackie glanced at the professor. “Your specialty is ancient languages. Angus’s is magic. Real magic. And maybe it was his career as a thief rather than time spent at university that earned him that knowledge, but that doesn’t make it any less valid to me right now. If this really is the dagger’s spell working on you, then Uriah and Angus have got to be able to put their heads together and find something in that Codex that can break it. And if this
is
what’s going on and we
do
help you, sis, that means we have the information we need to help everyone else in the Hawkspear Society escape that evil scumbag once and for all.”

Becca watched the scene unfold in front of her, stunned, for the first time feeling solely responsible for every bit of drama the book—and the act of her touching it—had caused.

But no. Deep down she had a feeling that all of this would have happened with or without her.

All she knew for sure was that Markus King could never, ever get his hands on the book again.

FARRELL

A
nother night, another bar. Farrell was starting to question the utter lack of motivation he was experiencing this week. Even for him it seemed oddly unnatural.

He sat in a lonely booth in a lonely pub and raised his glass of vodka on the rocks. “To bleached-blond girls with ice blue eyes and miserable, judgmental scowls, especially the ones who hate my guts,” he said. “Yeah, I’ll drink to that.”

“
You’ll drink to anything
,” Connor’s voice said.

“True.” Farrell downed his drink in one gulp.

“You need to stop obsessing about her.”

“Obsessing? Me? That’s ridiculous.” A passing waitress sent him a confused glance, and Farrell flicked his hand at her. “Don’t worry about me. Just having a conversation with my dead brother, that’s all.”

“Uh . . . okay,” she said, then stopped reluctantly. “Another drink?”

“Absolutely.” He placed his empty glass on her tray. “Keep them coming.”

“Rough night talking to . . . a ghost?”

“Not a ghost.” Farrell leaned heavily on his hand as he gazed
up at the fuzzy image of the waitress. He’d never been to this generic bar before tonight, and at the moment he couldn’t even recall the name of it. The waitress was older, heavyset, and looked mean enough to take a bite out of someone if they gave her a hard time. “He’s my conscience,” Farrell went on. “My compass—albeit imaginary—that tells me what to do and what not to do. And since I seem utterly devoid of focus at the moment, it’s helpful.”

“Like an angel on your shoulder.”

“Actually, more like a devil.”

“If you say so.” She gave him an unfriendly scowl before she strode back to the bar.

He watched, annoyed, and annoyed that he was so annoyed tonight. What did he have to be annoyed about?

Everything.

Nothing.

His phone buzzed. He pulled it out to see a message from his very much alive younger brother, Adam.

Where are you?

Farrell ignored the message, switched the phone to Do Not Disturb, and tried to summon his inner cheerleader. He needed to figure out what he wanted to do next.

He’d been gifted with good looks, perfect health, newly ramped-up senses, plenty of leisure time, a substantial allowance to be followed by an enormous inheritance in less than two years, and a gift for being charming even when he wasn’t really feeling it. He had the world at his fingertips. How had he ended up all alone tonight at some random dive bar, without even a hot cocktail waitress to flirt with?

“
Chin up, kid
,” Connor told him.
“All is well. A couple more drinks and you’ll be feeling just fine.”

“Who murdered you?” Farrell mumbled. Not too long ago, this was the one question that drove him not only to find answers, but to find meaning in his lifestyle and daily activities. But recently that drive had faded. Why was that?

“
I wasn’t murdered
,” Connor said.
“I committed suicide. I was depressed after Mallory dumped me, so I killed myself. You know what a tortured artist I was, always taking everything so seriously. You know I wasn’t murdered. You’re the one who found me.”

It was a blood-streaked memory, which Farrell preferred to repress whenever possible.

He shook his head. “Smash some windows, raise some hell, mope for a year, and treat everyone around you like crap—I can understand that. But slit your wrists? At home, in your childhood bed? It just wasn’t like you.”

“People are capable of extreme acts of despair when they’re depressed.”

“You didn’t seem particularly depressed to me.”

Actually, around the time of his death, Connor had seemed just the opposite. Six months earlier Markus had taken him on as part of his inner circle, a fact revealed to Farrell only recently, when Markus chose him to take his brother’s place. But when it was still Connor in there, life for him seemed perfect. So what changed? Sure, there was Mallory. Farrell didn’t know too much about their relationship, but from what he could gather, Connor’s girlfriend of three years had dumped him for being cruel and unemotional. Farrell was more certain than ever that his cold behavior was probably a side effect of the second and third dagger marks. He knew exactly how his brother must have felt carrying around those invisible scars that made the world so black and white that it was difficult to suffer fools any longer. That feeling was why imaginary Connor had suggested that Farrell try to beat people with the charm stick
rather than say whatever withering comment came into his mind.

The darker the thought, the more vital it was to cage it. Trapped in his mind, it could be observed and appreciated but couldn’t bite anyone with its razor-sharp teeth. Plus, he was a better help to Markus if he didn’t draw too much attention to himself.

The waitress brought Farrell his next drink. He studied it for a long time, willing himself not to finish it all in one go, then took a modest sip from the glass. Why was he relying on booze to make himself feel good? Just being the new
him
should have been more than enough.

The world was his to lose, and all the power and respect he’d ever wanted were practically already in his grasp. He could have anything he asked for.

“
Except Crystal Hatcher
,” Connor commented.

“As if I give a damn about her. All she is to me is a pain in my ass.”

“She’s under your skin.”

“Yeah. Like a splinter.” He took a larger sip of his drink. “I killed her father and feel no remorse about it.”

“True. And you promised Markus you’d have no problem killing her too if she causes him any more problems. Remember that?”

Farrell tightened his grip on his glass. “I remember.”

“The only reason you want her is because she doesn’t want you. She sees you for what you really are, and your fake charm won’t work on her. Well, who the hell cares? You have Felicity at your beck and call, and if you don’t want her then just choose any other girl in this city. Crys isn’t worth your time or energy. Get over her.”

“I should have grabbed her and taken her to Markus when I saw her at the gallery.”

“But you didn’t.”

With one steady motion, Farrell drained his glass.

Seeing her there, out in the open, was as big of a surprise to him as it must have been to her. There she was, nothing more than a means to getting the Bronze Codex for Markus, exposed and vulnerable.

Yet he let her slip away.

It was a choice of weakness.

Surely the others in Markus’s circle—whose identities he still didn’t know—wouldn’t have failed him like that.

A chill rippled down his right arm. He glanced to his right and received a shock so cold he almost dropped his glass. Walking straight toward him Markus King. The real Markus this time, definitely not some sort of illusion.

Tonight Markus didn’t shine with the golden light of the young, vibrant man he appeared to be—despite the fact that he was ancient. Tonight, there was no glow. There were circles under his eyes so dark and heavy that it was as if he hadn’t had a moment’s rest since the last time Farrell had seen him. His posture was slightly hunched as he walked, and his hair appeared lank, its normally radiant shade faded to a dull blond color. His tan and golden skin was now ashy and pale, and even his eyes, usually an intense shade of dark blue, seemed muted somehow.

“From your shocked expression, I take it that I look as bad as I feel,” Markus said, breaking Farrell out of his trancelike stare.

“Possibly a bit worse,” Farrell admitted.

Markus glanced around the bar with distaste. “So this is where you spend your free time? Filthy establishments where you can drink to excess?”

Farrell raised his glass. “Yes. And I seem to have a lot of free time. Please, join me.”

Markus slid into the other side of the booth.

Markus was silent for a few moments while Farrell was bursting with questions. He tried to be nonchalant, to wait for Markus to speak, but he couldn’t fake any charm or cool this time. “What’s wrong with you?” he blurted.

Markus managed a small smile, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. “I’m dying.”

Farrell’s stomach flipped. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not? It’s true.”

“You’re not dying. You just need that damn book.”

Markus began to laugh, a chilling sound low in his throat. “Yes, I damn well do.”

More proof that Farrell truly had failed him by walking away from Crys Hatcher. “I’ll get it. I promise. It’s the least I can do after all you’ve done for me.”

“Jackie Hatcher won’t let you get within twenty feet of that book. Or her daughter.”

“She’s
your
daughter, too,” Farrell said.

A shadow crossed over Markus’s already dark expression. “Yes.”

The waitress returned to the table and turned to Markus. “What can I get you?”

Markus glanced at Farrell’s glass. “I’ll have whatever he’s drinking.”

“I’ll need to see an ID first, honey.”

Markus turned a blank stare up at her before he started to laugh in that scary, hollow way again. She waited patiently, her hand out.

“I’m thousands of years old,” he told her.

She smirked. “And I’m sure you have a driver’s license to prove it. Come on now. No ID, no drink. Don’t think you’re the first college kid to try.”

“How about a ginger ale?” Farrell suggested. “It’s a delicious alternative to alcohol.”

“Fine,” Markus sighed, and the waitress disappeared.

“I despise carbonated beverages,” Markus mumbled. “I despise so much about this world. All I’ve ever wanted for this place is to make it better—to make it like my world was so long ago, before everything fell into chaos. Yet I am opposed at every turn.”

Farrell watched him with growing dismay. Who was this broken man across from him? He was nothing like the powerful, enigmatic, and ruthless leader he’d come to know over the last three years.

“
She
could have helped me, you know,” Markus continued. “
She
had the book. But she thinks I killed her family—her grandmother, her parents. I always thought she’d come back to me, but it’s been years and—nothing. Not a word until last week, when Jackie came back into my life to tell me she hated me, that I shouldn’t come anywhere near her or her family. But I need to see her. So I invited her to the masquerade ball.”

Farrell grimaced, then quickly recomposed himself.
What was Markus thinking?
He tried to hide his surprise, however, and instead chose to focus on how much he was dreading the upcoming masquerade ball, an annual charity event organized by a group of women, including his mother, from the society. Tickets were expensive and almost impossible to get, snapped up immediately by Toronto’s elite, which baffled Farrell, considering how deadly boring the ball always was.

Markus went on. “It would have been the perfect place for us to speak—both public and anonymous. I need her to give me a chance to mend our mistakes and clear up all the misunderstandings that occurred between us in the past.”

“
Would have been
the perfect place?” Farrell said. “I assume she declined the invitation then?”

“She might change her mind.”

“You really think so?”

The waitress returned with the ginger ale and fresh vodka for Farrell.

Markus waited for her to depart before responding. “If there’s one thing she knows about me it’s that I’m not a fool. I’ve now seen my daughter in the flesh. I know Becca is mine.”

“And . . . you want to . . . be a father to her?”

There was that haunted laugh again, raising the hair on Farrell’s arms.

“Jackie knows that that girl is as valuable to me as the Codex is. The magic that lies dormant within her . . . it’s magic I can use. That I can take.”

“And that would help you survive.”

“Yes.”

Was this really happening? Was this man—this immortal—really admitting all of this to him?

“
Well, look at that
,” Connor whispered.
“Seems like there’s no one else in this world that he trusts. Only you. You can use that to your advantage. If you help him, listen to him, be there for him, he’ll give you anything you want. If he can take magic from someone else, maybe he can give it away too. To you.”

Yes, Farrell liked the idea of that very much. He wanted whatever he could get to make himself more powerful.

“So what’s the plan?” Farrell asked. “What are the odds she’ll come to the ball?”

“Knowing Jackie as I do, I believe the odds are high,” Markus said, and Farrell responded with a furrowed brow. “A chance to see me, face to face, in public, where she can hide behind a mask and have her say without any repercussions? It’s an opportunity she’d be a fool to pass up.” He was silent for a moment. “I need you there.”

Well, there goes my chance at backing out of this thing at the last minute
, Farrell thought. “Of course I’ll back you up in case she tries something.”

“No, that’s not why I need you there. If I’m preoccupied with Jackie, I’ll need you to watch everyone else. I believe we have a traitor in our ranks. Someone—possibly even a member of my circle—who wishes to destroy the Hawkspear Society from the inside. If Daniel was a turncoat, there could be others. Will you help me find this traitor?”

Farrell found that he was suddenly speechless.

It was Adam who was the traitor. Adam, who was unaffected by the Hawkspear marks. Adam, who had already defied Markus and helped Daniel. Adam, who was too young and stupid to realize where his actions could lead.

“It would help if I knew who else was in the circle,” Farrell finally said. “Are you ever going to tell me who the others are? There are three others, right?”

“No, only two now. And I will tell you, just not yet. I want you to watch everyone with unbiased eyes and report back to me what you see, if anything. You will do this?”

“Of course I will,” Farrell said immediately.

“Good.” Markus pushed his glass away. “Now let’s go.”

“Where are we going?”

“I need to spill blood tonight.”