“Go on,” Crys said after a few moments of silence. “What about Mythica?”
“Myt-i-ca,” Becca corrected. “Not Myth-i-ca.”
“Yeah, that’s what I said! What happened in the dream?”
A pained, faraway look filled Becca’s dark blue eyes, which were much more serious than any other fifteen-year-old Crys had ever known. But Becca had always been the more serious sister. She was also the one who liked to correct her older sister’s grammar and pronunciation way too frequently.
“I was watching. The whole time. I wasn’t part of it, but I could hear noises coming from this tavern. I could smell, like, sweat and smoke and other nasty things.”
“Nice,” Crys said, trying unsuccessfully to make Becca smile.
“Maddox’s mother . . .” Becca inhaled sharply, her eyes growing glossy. “She’s dead. Her . . . her throat . . . that man cut it. Oh God. Poor Maddox!”
“Whoa, wait a minute. Calm down. It was just a dream, remember? Only a dream. Maddox is fine.”
Maddox. Aka Becca’s boyfriend from another world. Whenever she talked about him, she got this dreamy look in those serious eyes—which was new for her. As far as Crys knew, or at least as far as Becca had ever shared with her, she’d never crushed this hard on anyone before now.
Dream Boy was the first.
Then again, Crys and Becca hadn’t exactly been super close for the last few years.
The thought of all the time they’d wasted dug a painful hole deep inside of Crys. No, the time that she’d wasted, being a brat and a lousy sister ever since their father had left them to join Markus King’s secret Hawkspear Society. She’d hated Daniel Hatcher for turning his back on them, and what had she done? Taken it out on her mother and sister, the two family members who hadn’t left.
But Crys had always been her dad’s shadow. They used to share everything—a love of photography, sushi, books, and foreign films. He even used to talk politics with her, and Crys couldn’t think of any other kid whose father trusted her knowledge and opinions enough to engage in any kind of serious debate. But all of that was two years ago, before he left everything and everyone behind just to please Markus. Crys had only reconnected with him to find out the truth about Hawkspear, about her father’s role in it. And about just how deeply entwined her entire family history was with that of an immortal “death god.” This was what Markus liked others to believe he was so that they’d allow him to carve magical marks into their forearms with his golden dagger, believing it brought good health and not realizing that the main reason Markus did it was to ensure their unwavering loyalty and obedience.
Now Becca kept saying that Markus had stolen that same golden dagger from Mytica, from an evil goddess who desperately wanted it back.
Damn. Crys wished she could believe Becca’s story completely. And it wasn’t that she didn’t trust her sister or thought she was going crazy. But Crys had always had a difficult time believing or trusting anything that she hadn’t seen or experienced for herself.
Which now unfortunately included knowing where her father was or whether he was safe. The last she’d seen of him, he was helping her and Becca escape from Markus with the Bronze Codex, the book that would allegedly restore Markus’s fading magical mojo.
Crys also had the book to thank for the fact that they weren’t at home above the bookshop right now and instead were crashing at a borrowed penthouse in Yorkville. The place belonged to one of Crys’s aunt Jackie’s associates, a British guy named Angus Balthazar, who had previously helped Jackie steal priceless artifacts—like the Bronze Codex—in Europe. After their near-death experience at Hawkspear, Jackie had called Angus at his London flat to see if they could stay at his house in Toronto and wait out the trouble.
Though he’d had absolutely no problem with them staying and had even asked the condo’s security team to watch over them, Crys wasn’t ready to call him a hero—not yet. She didn’t really trust anybody except her own family, but all the same she had decided to hold off on judging Angus until she met him. Which would be soon—Jackie had just told them yesterday that he was en route to the place now to lend a hand. Jackie said Angus was an expert in all areas of magic, which was why she’d gone to him for any helpful insight he could offer on the Bronze Codex and how to use it to stop Markus once and for all.
They’d been holed up in the huge apartment for a week, under strict orders not to leave for fear that Markus would be lurking nearby, ready to snatch the sisters up and use them to blackmail Jackie and Julia into handing over the Codex. Julia had gotten them out of school with some lame story about them having to take an unexpected family trip. Crys had to laugh at that—she now had enough family time to last her a couple of lifetimes. As nice and ritzy as this place was, she was itching to get out and breathe some fresh air again. Gigantic balconies on the fiftieth floor totally didn’t count.
Still, cabin fever aside, she knew enough to take their current situation seriously. Possibly even more seriously than Becca did, which was saying something. Because Becca hadn’t seen all that Markus was capable of, how he could get people to do what he wanted. How his marked society members followed his every order without stopping for a second to question his motivations.
Markus may have had his entire following convinced that he was a good man who wanted to make the world better, safer, more peaceful. But Crys saw him for what he really was: a power hungry freak who was beyond ancient, yet had the face and body of a young male model. And he wouldn’t think twice about killing anyone who got in the way of what he wanted most.
If he ever found out what Crys’s father had done . . .
Becca put her hand on Crys’s shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
“Hmm? Oh, nothing.”
“You’re not as good of a liar as you think.”
“Fine. I’m worried about Dad,” Crys admitted, her voice now hoarse.
“I know,” Becca said in her most comforting tone. “But he can take care of himself. He’s been doing that for years.”
“I’d still feel better if he were here with us.”
“You know Mom and Jackie would never be okay with that. He’s still under Markus’s control, right? He helped us, but who knows how much pain and resistance he had to go through to defy Markus just that one time. He’s still dangerous to us.”
“The logical mind of Becca Hatcher.” Crys nodded, swallowing past the lump in her throat. “Present and accounted for.”
She knew what Becca said was true, but she couldn’t get it out of her mind. What her dad had risked. What he’d done to save them . . .
“Let’s try to think about something else,” Becca said in an upbeat manner, though her expression was still haunted by her nightmare. “Like . . . Angus’s library.” She slipped out of bed and pulled on a fuzzy blue bathrobe. “Let’s go check it out again.”
The only thing that was almost as fancy as—and definitely more interesting than—Angus Balthazar’s penthouse was his personal library.
Angus had tons of rare and impressive early editions in his library—Jane Austen, Charles Dickens, even a signed UK first edition of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, which Crys personally coveted. But he also had many unusual titles in his collection, most of which shared an undeniable theme: magic.
There were big tomes on witchcraft, Satanism, paganism, voodoo, séances, hauntings, exorcisms. Handwritten grimoires in dozens of different languages. Journals of real people accused of being witches in England and the States, who were sentenced for crimes that no one could really prove.
She explored the library with Becca for a few minutes, but her buzzing head became so distracted that she had to take a seat on one of the oversized leather armchairs in the center of the room. Becca kept searching the shelves until a title caught her eye. She took the big volume and sat on the floor, cross-legged, in front of Crys.
Then, with a jolt of tension to her gut, she thought back to that day—that horrible day when Becca’s inte
rest was piqued by a different book, the Codex, which had arrived at the Speckled Muse wrapped in brown paper and string, mailed from England by Jackie herself. The book looked old, ancient, and was handwritten in a weird language Crys hadn’t recognized. She’d been unimpressed, but Becca was immediately taken with it. She’d grabbed hold of it, flipped though the pages . . . and then something had grabbed her, literally grabbed her, and she fell into a coma for over a week.
Well, to Crys it was a coma. To Becca, the Codex was a ticket to a magical place filled of witches, thieves, and beautiful boys.
Crys’s heartbeat quickly doubled, slamming against her ribcage. Her chest grew tight, and suddenly it became hard to breathe. It felt a whole lot like a panic attack—and she hadn’t had one of those since her father first left.
She tried to keep the thoughts at bay, but they stormed and whirled in her mind like a furious tornado.
Becca isn’t my sister. She’s my cousin.
Becca is Aunt Jackie’s daughter, not my mother’s. And her real father isn’t my father—it’s Markus King.
Half-immortal. Half-magic. And she has no damn idea.
Crys lurched to her feet. Becca looked up at her with surprise.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Crys said quickly. “Nothing, really. You . . . you keep looking at the books. I’m going to go see what Mom and Jackie and Dr. Vega are up to downstairs.”
She was out of the library before Becca had a chance to respond.
Downstairs was a living room, a large study, and a kitchen that put the one they had in their small apartment above the bookshop to shame. Crys headed directly to the study, which was piled high with everything from Dr. Vega’s office at the university. Inside, she found Jackie sitting next to Dr. Vega, both of them bent over a thick manila file folder.
Dr. Uriah Vega, a renowned language expert and professor at the University of Toronto, was an old friend of Jackie’s. He had been trying valiantly to decipher the book. A week ago, he’d been beaten within an inch of his life by Markus’s minions, so he’d been invited to stay with Crys’s family as he healed and recovered his strength.
“Where’s Mom?” Crys asked.
Jackie looked up from the papers. “She went to the convenience store downstairs. For supplies.”
Her aunt was tall, blond, and beautiful. Just like Becca. The dark circles that had taken up residence under her eyes for the last couple of days marred her looks only a little.
“Good morning, Ms. Hatcher,” Dr. Vega said. He gave Crys a bright smile despite the fading bruises and bandages on his face. “You’re looking quite determined today.”
“I think I am. Jackie, can I speak to you privately please?”
“Of course.” Jackie’s smile was strained as she followed Crys to the kitchen.
Crys reached into the fridge to grab a can of Diet Coke.
“What is it?” Jackie asked.
“You need to tell Becca the truth,” Crys said. She liked to think of her characteristic bluntness as a personal virtue that saved everyone valuable time.
Jackie’s expression was suddenly pinched, and Crys knew her aunt knew exactly what she was talking about. “Not yet,” Jackie said.
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not ready.”
“Not ready to . . . what? Face the truth? Admit to your past mistakes and live with the consequences? Take responsibility for your daughter? Let me know if I’m getting warmer.”
“Lower your voice,” Jackie hissed. “She might hear you.”
“Good, I hope she does.” Crys hesitated then. Her bluntness was usually a good thing—in her opinion—but even she knew that sometimes she could be too harsh. And she didn’t want to chase after a butterfly with a baseball bat, especially not now. “Look,” she said. “I don’t mean to be a bitch. Well, mostly I don’t. But I’m sick of waiting around for something to happen, for life to go back to normal around here. Or is normal life just an impossible wish at this point?”
Jackie twisted a long piece of blond hair around her index finger. “I promise that I have a plan.”
“Oh? And what is it?”
“I understand that you’re anxious and want answers, but, Crys, it’s only been a week. And Dr. Vega is still working with the book.”
“I know. Okay? I know that.” Crys started pacing back and forth, not even taking a sip of her pop, instead trying to focus on the feel of the surface condensation on the can to help cool her off a bit. Her frustration had a tendency to grow so intense that it just exploded, like fireworks. Or a bomb. People anywhere near her might get hurt, including herself. “You’ve been avoiding her,” she said finally.
“No, I haven’t.”
“Yes, you have.”
Jackie sighed. “I hate that you know the truth about me now. I hate that anyone knows it.”
“Which part of the truth? That you were madly in love with Markus King? That you still are?”
Her eyes went wide. “Is that what you think? That my life is some kind of romance novel come to life? That I was just some cliché of a naive teenage girl falling for a powerful immortal? That I’m still that cliché?”
“Yes, actually. You should write it all down. You could make millions. Those kinds of stories sell like crazy.”
“How wrong you are. How horribly wrong.”
Crys flinched at Jackie’s reaction, but she quickly regained her sharp composure. She felt she was close to a truth that hadn’t yet been shared. “When you called him that night, when he had Becca and me, it was like he forgot everything except you,” she said. “He probably forgot his own name. He handed the Codex over to Dad like it was a box of tissues, like it wasn’t important to him at all. If you have that effect on him, all these years later . . . There’s obviously something still there.”
Jackie’s cheeks flushed bright pink—but not from embarrassment. A look of sheer outrage clouded her face. “That man murdered my grandmother. He murdered my parents. He stole our family’s fortune. And you think I still have a thing for him?”
Like a threatening storm cloud that had decided to show mercy, Crys lost her bluster. “I’m not saying it isn’t complicated,” she said quietly.
“He marked me, Crys. I was sixteen years old, and he carved symbols into my flesh with a knife to make sure that I did anything he told me to. I looked at him with awe, this handsome man who made time for me. Thousands of years separated us, but he looked no more than five years older than me. He took me into his confidence. And yes, I believed I loved him. Hell, maybe I did, for a time. But our . . . relationship wasn’t natural—it was forged out of magic. Out of coercion. Do you see how messed up that is?” She thrust her forearm, bare and clear of any scars or blemishes, toward Crys. Crys knew how Markus’s magic worked, that he could heal the dagger’s marks as soon as he made them, leaving no trace behind. “I had no choice but to do as he said,” Jackie went on. “Whether I truly believed at the time that I actually wanted him, that I actually loved him, makes no difference. I was under his influence, and he used me. For that, I can never forgive him. For that, I’ll always hate him.”
“I’m sorry,” Crys said. It was all she could say—even though she did want to congratulate Jackie for making her feel like a complete ass in record time.
“So am I. Believe me. But I’m not sorry that Becca exists. If there’s one good thing that came out of that twisted relationship, it was her. But he can never know that she’s his daughter. For her own safety.”
“Agreed.” Crys worked all of this over in her head as she took a shaky sip of her drink. “I know it’s not easy for you to talk about, but . . . Jackie, he was visibly distracted when he learned you were on the phone. He still has feelings for you.”
“Perhaps,” Jackie admitted reluctantly, but in a tone that told Crys she wasn’t surprised. “And perhaps I can use those feelings against him. If I need to.”
“What did you say to him on that phone call?”
> Jackie blinked, regarding Crys with her arms crossed tightly over her chest.
“Jackie, please,” Crys said after a short silence.
“I told him that I know his magic is fading. That he needs the book, this book he’s been obsessing over for years. He thinks it will make him the god his society believes he is. I told him that if he comes anywhere near me or my family, I would tear the pages from it one by one and burn them all. I didn’t know he had it in his possession at the time.”
“Oh,” Crys said. She was looking at her aunt with growing awe. “I imagined that conversation going a totally different way.”
“I’m sure you did.” Her aunt’s expression remained uncharacteristically grim. “Luckily, the book is with us now.”
Julia Hatcher entered the kitchen carrying two plastic bags, interrupting them. “What’s going on in here?” she said, eyeing her sister and daughter warily.
“The usual,” Jackie said. “Your daughter is grilling me to make sure my loyalties lie with the family instead of my true and everlasting love, Markus King.”
Julia nodded. “Good for her.”
“Oh, shut up.”
Julia’s cell phone rang, and she scrambled to pull it out of her pocket.
“Hello?” After a pause, she glanced at Jackie and Crys. “I’ll be right back,” she said, leaving the room.
Crys began to put out the contents of the shopping bags. Three bags of potato chips, a large package of M&Ms, a variety of frozen meals, and two plastic containers of sushi. She eyed the sushi with equal parts disgust and gratitude.
Her mother was trying to make her happy. With convenience-store sushi, but still.
“So you really had no choice back then,” Crys said quietly to Jackie. “You had to do what he said, like . . . like some kind of puppet.”
“It didn’t feel like that,” Jackie said without a pause. “At the time, when I was doing those things, it felt like I had free will. Like I wanted to be doing them. But looking back at it . . . I know I didn’t.”
Absently, Crys pressed her hand against her ribs, still bound with bandages and sore from where one of Markus’s minions had kicked and beaten her, all while Farrell looked on without stopping him.
The Darkest Magic (A Book of Spirits and Thieves) Page 3