The Darkest Magic (A Book of Spirits and Thieves) (13 page)

Julia frowned at her sister. “Jackie? What’s he talking about?”

Jackie twisted a section of her pale blond hair around her
finger. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to worry you. I was going to handle it on my own. Markus invited me to the society’s charity ball tomorrow night. A masquerade. I turned down the invitation, of course. But I’ve thought about it some more, and now I realize that going to the ball is the easiest—maybe the only—way to get to him.”

“And kill him,” Angus added.

“Wait a second,” said Crys. None of this made any sense to her. “Markus is immortal. He might be getting weak—might even actually be
dying
on his own because his magic is fading away—but do you honestly think that you can kill him? Without any magic? Why not at
least
wait it out to see if his lack of magic kills him first?”

“The dagger,” Angus supplied helpfully when Jackie didn’t respond. “Magic knives can kill magic men.”

“Oh yeah?” challenged Crys. “And you have proof of that?”

“What? You don’t believe me?”

Crys turned and stared at Jackie, needing to full-on ignore the loathsome, if somewhat informative, Angus before she devolved into a tornado of expletives. “So, what, Jackie? Your plan is to romance the dagger away from him and then shove it in his heart?”

“This conversation is officially over,” Jackie said, pointing at the door. “Crys, Becca, go upstairs.”

“Finally, someone’s talking some sense around here,” Angus said.

Crys was so furious that she could hardly see straight. To think, she’d once idolized Jackie Kendall, had wanted so much to be like her in every way. Jackie, who’d dropped out of high school to go off and have wild adventures in Europe. That’s all Crys had ever wanted—to be a free spirit who made her own rules, went where she wanted, when she wanted.

But now she knew the truth about her aunt.

Jackie had been a teenage mother who couldn’t handle the responsibility, so she’d dumped her baby on her more responsible older sister. All her life, all she’d done was blame others for her mistakes and then leave them for someone else to clean up. She’d turned into someone who thought that stealing and killing were perfectly good answers to any problem that might arise.

All this time, it was Julia that Crys should have been trying to emulate. Julia, her own mother, who was smart, capable, brave, strong, and fierce. It was her mother who’d been so patient with Crys all these years, who’d helped her through all of her ups and downs, and it was Crys who never acted like she appreciated it. And now it was her mother who needed her help.

She turned to Julia. “Mom, what should we do?”

“Look after Becca. Keep her safe. And try very hard to stay out of your aunt’s way while I’m gone, okay?”

She blinked. “What do you mean, while you’re gone?”

“Jackie’s already arranged for me to leave here today with Angus. He knows a place I can stay, away from the book, where I won’t be a burden to anyone and where I won’t be able to follow any of Markus’s orders to bring him the Codex.”

Crys’s chest tightened. “Mom, no. Please. We didn’t even discuss this.”

Jackie’s arms were crossed tightly over her chest. “Because I knew you’d disagree. It has to be this way, Crys. Not forever, but for right now.”

“Mom!”

Julia shook her head. “Please, honey, don’t worry. I’ll be fine. Let Jackie do whatever she feels she needs to do to make everything
right again, okay?” She grabbed Crys into a tight hug. “Everything I’ve ever done has been to protect you girls, and I’ll be damned if I’ll let Markus break my streak. I trust you, Crys. I know you’ll do the right thing.”

Hot tears streamed down Crys’s cheeks as her mother let go of her and turned to embrace Becca. Julia’s decision to take herself out of the equation was a complete surprise to Crys, even despite just yesterday witnessing her mother waving a gun around for those few horrifying moments—an image that would stay etched in Crys’s memory forever.

“Time to go then, Julia,” said Angus, Crys hating his voice even more now that it was the thing that pulled her mother away from her daughters.

Everyone followed Julia out of the study and toward the door. Silently, Dr. Vega brought up the rear, his expression somber.

Crys’s heart sunk even further to see that Julia had already packed a bag, which was waiting for her just outside the study door. She grabbed it and straightened her shoulders as Angus opened the door to the hallway.

“You have my number,” Jackie called after them. “Don’t hesitate to call for any reason, okay?”

“Got it,” Angus replied, then smirked. “Uriah, keep at that translation. I have absolute faith that it’s only a matter of time before you’ll crack it.”

“I appreciate your confidence,” Dr. Vega said coolly with a nod.

“I love all of you,” Julia said. “Don’t ever doubt it okay?”

Crys wanted to say something, to protest again. But she knew no one would listen to her, and anyway she couldn’t find the words.

And then they were gone.

Crys spun around to face Jackie, her hands clenched into fists.

“Don’t,” Jackie said, shaking her head. “Don’t start with me. I’m not in the mood.”

“I couldn’t care less what kind of mood you’re in. This is
my
family you’re destroying—”

“Crys.” Becca grabbed her arm. “Come on, let’s go upstairs.”

Reluctantly, with one last sneer at Jackie, Crys allowed Becca to lead her away and up the stairs.

There was so much Crys wanted to say to her aunt. She wanted to remind her that this was all her fault. That all of Jackie’s bad decisions had led up to this one horrible moment.

“This is ridiculous,” Crys snarled. She was upstairs now, pacing back and forth in Angus’s library, forcing Charlie to dodge around her quick steps on the floor. “Mom’s gone, who the hell knows where. Angus is as trustworthy as a bag of lying snakes, and Jackie is almost definitely going to get herself killed tomorrow night if she goes to that ball.”

At the mention of Jackie, Becca snapped her gaze to Crys’s and locked her in a skeptical glare.

Crys looked back at her sister. “What? You think she has a snowball’s chance in hell against Markus?”

“Honestly?” said Becca. “No.” She bit her bottom lip and gently pet Charlie, who had grown tired of making way for Crys and was now sitting on Becca’s lap.

“Exactly! Yet we’re just supposed to let her go on this idiotic mission all alone, while we wait here with Dr. Vega. It’s insane.”

“That’s not what we’re going to do,” Becca said calmly.

“What do you mean?”

Becca just gazed back at Crys, all of a sudden seeming very serene. Considering how serene Crys
wasn’t
, this was making her seriously uneasy.

“I need to talk to Markus myself,” Becca said.

Crys was sure she’d heard her wrong, but all she could do was gape while Becca went on talking.

“I don’t think killing Markus will do anything to help Mom,” she said. “I’m sure that the magic within the marks comes from the dagger—lives inside the dagger—and it’s the dagger that needs to be destroyed to break the spell.”

“How are you so sure?”

“That goddess from Mytica—Valoria. She wanted the dagger. And maybe even more than the dagger itself, she wanted to make Markus suffer for stealing it. If I were him, I’d want to know about her plans. That she knows what he did and where he is now. Maybe if I tell him, he’ll choose to help us.”

Crys didn’t know what to say. Becca sought her gaze, her blue eyes serious and haunted. “I keep dreaming about Mytica . . . about Maddox,” she said. “It has to mean something.”

“And you think it means you should walk on up to Markus King and have a friendly heart-to-heart with him?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. But if Markus is going to be at this ball that Jackie’s going to . . .”

“Then what, Becca? What are you saying?”

Crys had never seen such determination in her eyes before. “Then we’re going too.”

FARRELL

F
arrell was all but certain that his mother had been the one to choose the theme of this charity ball, which was already in full swing not half an hour after the official start time. Mrs. Grayson was a fierce lover of Shakespeare and always had season tickets to the Stratford Festival. So even though it was barely spring, Farrell found himself in the midst of Hawkspear’s
A Midsummer’s Night’s Dream
Masquerade Ball to Benefit Literacy.

Thanks to his mother, the usual parade of sparkly masks, Oscar-worthy face paint, outrageous ball gowns, and tailored tuxedos now included countless pairs of glittery fairy wings.

And
countless
almost wasn’t an exaggeration—this year, tickets had sold out as soon as the news spread that Markus King himself would be attending in a rare public appearance to make a speech about the power of books and literacy.

Farrell had already decided to stick with club soda tonight, to keep his head clear. Nevertheless, he stuck close to the bar, where he could get a good view of the full room, every square inch of which was pinned, taped, or draped with some sort of fairy-themed decoration.

If there really was a traitor in their midst like Markus believed there was, Farrell swore he’d find them.

He was having a silent laugh at a middle-aged man dressed up as Bottom, the half-man, half-donkey character from the play, when a dark-haired woman approached him. Her ornate mask had peacock feathers and a veritable rainbow of sequins, which in Farrell’s opinion made her outlandish emerald green ball gown look incredibly age inappropriate.

“
Try not to say that out loud
,” Connor reminded him.
“Charm, remember? Even with her.”

“Mother, I must tell you again that you look absolutely gorgeous tonight,” Farrell said, forcing his most innocent smile on his face.

Isabelle Grayson’s expression changed from pinched to calm, as if surprised by the compliment. She then patted her hair, which was swept back in a tight bun, a fancier version of her signature, everyday style.

“Thank you, Farrell,” she said. “By the way, look who I found sitting all by her lonesome at our table.” Mrs. Grayson turned and gave a ladylike nod of her chin toward the girl who had followed her over to the bar.

Felicity Seaton’s grin was five times brighter than the white pearls she wore at her throat. Her pale pink gown shimmered in the dim candlelight, and she wore a fuchsia mask lined with crystals and even more pearls.

“I thought you were getting us drinks,” Felicity said.

“I was,” Farrell lied, trying to cut her off before she could mention that he’d left the table more than thirty minutes ago. He’d excused himself so that he could make another sweep of the room, taking note of who was seated at which tables and ascertaining whether any ticketed guests were absent. “The line was killer; it’s
only started to settle down just now.” He turned and signaled to the bartender for two glasses of champagne, which he offered to Felicity and his mother. “Ta-da.”

“Have you seen Markus yet?” his mother asked eagerly.

“Not yet.”

“Do you know when he’ll be making his speech?”

“Soon, I’m sure.” Dinner had already been served. Society members now picked at their plates.

Farrell leaned against the bar and took yet another look around the large ballroom. His eye landed on Adam, who was speaking with two elderly women Farrell didn’t recognize—rich ticket-holders who weren’t part of the Hawkspear Society. He was smiling and nodding, surely bored out of his mind by those two old bats, and Farrell couldn’t be bothered to focus his excellent ears in on the conversation.

Old ladies loved angelic little Adam.

“
Not so fast. Adam could be the one and only traitor Markus suspects
,” Connor said.
“If that’s so, and if Adam’s up to more nefarious behavior, would you turn him in?”

It was a question Farrell was reluctant to ponder. He knew what Markus did with traitors, and when it came to imagining Adam in those scenarios . . . The thought made him wonder if even the new-and-improved Farrell was ruthless enough to hand his kid brother over for a swift trial and certain execution.

“The band is excellent, Mrs. Grayson,” Felicity commented.

Farrell tried to mostly block out the string quartet playing classical-style renditions of pop songs for those who ventured onto the dance floor.

“They certainly are,” Isabelle agreed. “I selected them myself after hearing them play at a gala in New York.”

“An excellent choice. I adore dancing and haven’t done nearly enough of it tonight.” She looked pointedly at Farrell, who tried very hard not to meet her gaze.

“Yes, you were a student of ballet, weren’t you? Your mother has told me how incredibly talented you were. Such a pity you didn’t pursue it further.”

Felicity frowned apologetically. “It just wasn’t my calling. But I certainly hope Farrell will be interested in joining me on the dance floor later.”

Kill me now
, Farrell thought, draining the last of his club soda in one gulp and wishing more intensely than he had all night that there were vodka in it.

“I’d love to,” he lied.

As he turned and placed his glass back on the bar, he spotted his father standing near the podium where Markus would be speaking, talking on his cell phone.

“
Good old Dad
,” Connor commented.
“Always on the clock, even at a party. Wouldn’t want any business opportunities to slip past him.”

That may have been Connor’s take, but all that seeing his father on the phone made Farrell think of were his mother’s recent paranoid suspicions that Edward Grayson was having an affair. Farrell concentrated. He honed in on his father’s voice while consciously muting all others, straining himself to see if he could tell who was on the other end of the line.

“Yes, all is well,” Farrell heard his father say. “My family is here with me tonight. We won’t be leaving for quite some time. Yes. Yes, I understand. I’ll let you know when to arrive.”

Farrell was so deep in concentration, trying but failing to hear the voice on the other end of the line, that it took him a moment to see Edward flick his gaze up and look at him. When he finally
did lock eyes, his father nodded at him, and Farrell nodded back.

Must be Sam
, he thought.

Sam was one of the Graysons’ chauffeurs. Lately, he was Farrell’s exclusive driver—he needed one ever since his DUI rendered his license useless. And since the family chauffeur was on vacation this week, Sam stepped up to fill in. It made perfect sense that his father would need to speak with him in the middle of a party.

His mother still had no real proof of a mistress yet, and the thought that his father might possibly be faithful to his mother landed as a strange relief.

“Oh, excuse me,” Felicity said, glancing across the room. “I just spotted a friend. I’ll be back soon.”

“Take your time,” Farrell said under his breath as the girl scurried away, her satin skirt swishing in her wake.

“Farrell, are you sleeping all right?” his mother asked suddenly.

He glanced at her quizzically, as if just remembering she was still standing there. “No worse than usual. Why do you ask?”

“You look absolutely dreadful.”

He kept his grimace and sarcastic retorts on the inside as he remembered his pledge to be as amiable as possible, even to his mother. “I guess I’ve been feeling a little tired the last day or so.”

The sleeves of his tuxedo covered up the dagger scars, which still hadn’t completely faded—not with Markus’s magic or his own accelerated healing ability. It wasn’t just that the marks were still visible; they
hurt
. Even the application of light pressure on his forearm caused him searing pain, and trying to fall asleep last night was a challenge that he had failed because of it.

To make matters worse, he also felt a cold, dull ache in the center of his chest. No matter how much ibuprofen or antacid he took, he couldn’t shake the overall feeling of unwellness. He could
only describe it as something akin to a harsh hangover, one that had lingered far longer than even his worst hangovers ever did.

His mother placed a cool palm on his cheek, surprising him. “You feel fine, darling. That’s a relief.”

Darling?
She hadn’t called him that in years. “I am fine.”

She studied him, frowning. “I can’t believe you had your birthmark removed.”

“Glad it’s gone,” he scoffed. “It was ugly.”

“It was part of you.”

“It was an
ugly
part of me.”

She shook her head. “Without it, you look so much like Connor. I can’t believe I never realized the similarities until now.”

A familiar shadow of grief slid behind her eyes as she mentioned her deceased eldest son. As if responding to a command, Farrell placed his hand on top of hers.

“What can I say? You gave birth to three very good-looking sons.”

This made her smile, just a little. “This is true.”

“I think more champagne is in order.”

She nodded.

He wanted to be cold and unfeeling toward her, to summon up hatred for this woman who spent so much of her life refusing to offer him any kind words, but tonight he found he didn’t have the energy even for apathy.

Seeing her display her grief in front of him, unshielded, made a deep-down part inside of him twinge with sympathy. Because he felt that same grief too.

“
How sweet
,” Connor said.
“Mother and son bonding over little old me. Unsettling, of course, and kind of pathetic, but sweet. Still, you’re not exactly doing your job. If you don’t find a traitor tonight, Markus will be disappointed in you.”

Maybe there was no traitor in the society like Markus believed there was. Maybe the treason started and ended with the dearly departed Daniel Hatcher, and Markus was only being paranoid.

And Adam had only been a helper, not an instigator.

Markus could be wrong.

“Ah, you know better than that,”
Connor said.
“Markus is never wrong. And the second you agreed to get that fourth mark on your arm, you became his best friend forever. Remember, as long as you follow his lead, it’s all going to be worth it, kid.”

Farrell really hoped he was right.

“Oh my God,” Isabelle gasped, pulling Farrell out of his head. “How dare she show her face here!”

Farrell calmly turned around to see what scandalous wardrobe choice or other minor offense had caused such a dramatic reaction in his mother. But his jaw dropped along with hers when he saw whom she was looking at: Mallory, Connor’s ex-girlfriend.

“Farrell . . . ,” Isabelle began, her voice breaking. “I can’t bear it. It’s too much.”

He nodded. “I’ll handle it.”

“Handle what? What’s wrong?” Felicity asked as she returned from speaking with her friend, trailing after Farrell as he crossed the room to block Mallory’s path.

Farrell tried to ignore her.

“What are you doing here?” Farrell asked Mallory sharply, before she could get out so much as a hello. There was absolutely no reason for him to use any charm with this girl. Felicity was behind him like a shadow, and he could feel her trying to peek around and get a good look at the girl who’d caused the uproar.

Beneath her sparkly mask, Farrell watched Mallory’s eyes widen and her pretty face go pale. “Farrell, I . . . I’m here with friends
who work with a small independent publisher in the city. They bought a table and offered me a seat.”

“How generous of them. Why don’t you have a glass of champagne and whatever shrimp or crab cakes are left over on the cold buffet, and then I suggest you leave.”

Felicity touched his arm and stared up at him, a flash of horror in her eyes. “Farrell, don’t be rude.”

“I’m sorry, I should have introduced you. Felicity, this is Mallory. Otherwise known as the reason my brother killed himself.”

Mallory went a shade paler. “Don’t say that,” she said quietly.

“Why not? It’s true. He was happy, successful, on his way to becoming a famous artist, but you broke his heart. You may as well have slit his wrists yourself. Hell, maybe you did.”

She shook her head, her eyes welling with tears. “I loved him.”

“Yeah? You had a really great way of showing it. Now get the hell out of here, or I promise to make you very sorry you even got out of bed this morning.”

Mallory took a shaky step back from Farrell. From what he could see behind her mask, her widening eyes had filled with a satisfying amount of fear.

Finally, she turned and fled.

All Farrell could see was fiery red. In mere moments, his mood had shifted from attentive and slightly bored to furious.

Murderous.

Felicity touched his tense arm, and he flinched.

“Don’t start,” he snarled. “I won’t stand for it tonight.”

He risked looking right into her eyes, but instead of the outrage or accusation he expected, he saw only patience. “You did the right thing, getting that nasty girl out of here,” she said. “And I’m pretty sure you need a drink. I’ll go get you a vodka?”

He nodded stiffly. She smiled and headed toward the bar.

“What a helpful and attentive girlfriend you’ve got there.” Farrell nearly jumped at the unexpected sound of Markus’s voice. “Excellent choice.”

“She is,” Farrell replied. “Thanks.” He raised a brow at the society leader. “You look . . . much better.”

“I
feel
much better. Thanks to you.”

Much better
was an understatement. The circles under Markus’s eyes had been erased, and his hair was back to gleaming. His sickly, pallid skin had been revived with its golden flow, as if it shone from within.

Markus King looked like at least a billion bucks, and it was all thanks to the newest scars on Farrell’s arm.

“And how are you?” Markus asked.

“Oh, fine. Only a little worse for the wear. I’d say I’m running on about eighty percent of my recently acquired amazingness. But you’re more than welcome to that remaining eighty.”

Markus nodded grimly. “It won’t be for long, I promise. This is only a temporary solution to my ills.”