The Darkest Magic (A Book of Spirits and Thieves)

by Morgan Rhodes

  Crys shrugged, a bit sheepishly. “Hey, I saw some stuff too. While you were gone. I believe it’s all possible.”

  “Really? You don’t even believe in tarot cards.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Have we moved on to a broader discussion of paranormal hocus-pocus in general? What’s next on the list? Ouija boards?”

  Becca kept her mouth shut. She knew exactly which button Crys was trying to press: A few years ago, on Halloween, they’d found an old Ouija board in the attic and decided to ask it questions at midnight.

  A believer in the supernatural from the beginning, Becca had asked if the bookstore really was haunted and what the spirits wanted. Crys had secretly moved the planchette to spell out K-I-L-L, and Becca freaked out. So much that she’d locked herself in the bathroom for an hour.

  At the time, and because it had been such a “Becca” thing to do, Crys had found it hilarious.

  “All right, all right,” Dr. Vega said. “That’s enough. Becca, this is all so fascinating. Now, can you tell me: In Mytica, who, exactly, has access to elemental magic? Is it just these two goddesses, or are there others?”

  “Um, well, no, actually.” Becca shot a quick glare at Crys before turning to Dr. Vega and pressing on. “There are also witches that can use elemental magic. But they have a much weaker hold on it.”

  “Witches! My goodness.” He jotted down more notes, shaking his head as his pen flew across the page. “Fascinating. It’s all so, so fascinating. I wish my father could be here to hear this! Finally, his life’s work is coming to fruition. We’re finally getting some answers about this book.”

  “All we really know about it is it’s dangerous,” Jackie snapped. She got up and moved toward the desk. “Too dangerous to be here—especially near Becca. Give me the book, Uriah.”

  “Jackie . . .”

  “I’m the one who stole it and sent it here. I take full responsibility for that thing being here in the first place. For everything it did to Becca. Give it to me. Please.”

  He hesitated for a long, tense moment before relenting. He unlocked the drawer, opened it, and gave one last pleading look to Jackie before pulling out the book. Becca inhaled sharply. While she’d felt its strange pull while it had been locked away, now that she could see it, that magnetic sensation had ramped way up. She forced herself to stay in place and not immediately go to it.

  “Are my eyes . . . ?” she asked, her heart pounding hard.

  “Still normal,” Crys confirmed steadily.

  “Good.”

  Jackie held the book and stared down at it as if she despised it every bit as much as Markus himself. “We’re only putting ourselves in danger by keeping this book near us. And damned if I’m ever going to let Markus get his greedy hands on it again.”

  Without a moment of hesitation, she opened the book and tore out the first page.

  Red hot agony sliced down Becca’s arm. A painful scream wrenched from her throat. She fell, hard, to her knees.

  “Jackie, stop!” Crys cried out. “Please! Becca! Look at her!”

  Crimson blood poured from the jagged wound that had been angrily scrawled down her forearm.

  Jackie gasped, a hollow look of horror overtaking her features. She dropped the torn page and staggered backward, stopping only when her back hit the study wall. She covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh, Becca. I’m so sorry! I had no idea!”

  Crys scrambled for some tissues and pressed a wad of them up against Becca’s arm. Dr. Vega dove to the floor, retrieved the torn page, and placed it carefully back into the book before closing the cover. He unlocked the desk drawer once again and moved to put the book away.

  “Wait,” Becca managed. “Don’t put it away yet.”

  Dr. Vega drew his brows tightly together. He looked to Jackie, still cowering against the wall, then back at Becca, concern in his eyes. “I think it’s best we do, Becca. If we’re to draw conclusions about what just happened, it seems that if the book gets damaged . . .”

  “Becca does too,” Crys said.

  There it was. All the proof Becca needed to understand that gnawing feeling in her gut. This was definitely so much more than a simple spell book.

  “I want to see it up close,” Becca said weakly.

  No one said a word as Becca approached the desk, one step at a time, slowly and cautiously.

  “Still no glowy eyes,” Crys said, and Becca was once again grateful for her unceasing effort to keep things light.

  “I feel fine,” Becca assured the room. “Not weird. Not yet, anyway.” She stood over the book and looked down at it. She studied the fading pebbled texture of the old brown leather cover, the well-made but not particularly handsome bronze hawk.

  Plain and simple. The perfect camouflage, she thought. What are you? And what do you want with me?

  She reached for the book.

  “Becca . . . ,” Crys began.

  “No,” Julia said. “Let her.”

  “But she might—”

  “Shut up, Crys,” Becca growled.

  “Wow. Um, rude much?”

  Becca shut her eyes and gave herself a moment to ignore everyone and everything around her. Summoning every last shred of courage she had, she brushed her fingertips over the worn leather. Smooth, cool. Nothing earth-shattering so far.

  She let out a little sigh of relief.

  Click. Then she heard a familiar—and not entirely welcome—sound. Click, click. She looked up with annoyance.

  “Crys, are you seriously taking pictures right now?”

  “I’m documenting a historically significant moment.”

  “Video would be much more helpful,” Dr. Vega suggested.

  “On it,” Crys replied.

  Her sister and her stupid camera—a gift from Farrell Grayson, which she refused to throw away despite hating the guy. So what if it was expensive and necessary for her future career? If it comes from your mortal enemy, it has to go.

  Becca inhaled sharply. That warm, sparkling sensation that had crept in and clouded her thoughts back up in the library began coursing through her, this time almost completely concentrated in her arm.

  She looked down. The wound on her forearm had completely healed.

  “Oh my God,” Crys whispered. She moved the camera closer. “Are you all seeing this?”

  Becca’s breathing quickened to match her heart rate as she turned back the cover of the Codex and opened it to the first page—the one that Jackie had ripped out. It had reattached itself and was now securely in the binding as if nothing had ever happened.

  “That,” Becca murmured, “is some serious magic.”

  She closed the book, feeling deeply weary all of a sudden, and absently brushed her fingers over the bronze hawk.

  In an instant, a funnel of darkness streamed out of the hawk’s talons, rising up to the ceiling where it swirled and gathered into a pitch-black whirlpool.

  Helpless, Becca stared up in stark horror.

  “Becca, what are you seeing?” Dr. Vega asked.

  She could only reply in stuttering fragments. “The—the spirit. The one that was t-trapped. It—it’s out!”

  “What?” Crys put the camera down and was at Becca’s side again. “Where?”

  “There.” Becca pointed at the ceiling.

  Crys looked up. “I don’t see anything. Mom?

  “Nothing,” Julia confirmed. She pressed her hand softly against Becca’s back. “What’s it doing, honey?”

  Becca’s throat had practically closed. She couldn’t speak. The thought of that creature, the one that had tried to devour her in Mytica, free and on the loose . . . here . . . it was too much. She was going to pass out.

  No, she told herself firmly. Remember—you were only a flimsy shell of yourself in Mytica, but you’re so much more than just your spirit now.

  She told herself that this thing had no power over her here. That it was as harmless as a shadow.

  Then, as if the thing had heard her thoughts, it grew comp
letely still. It stopped swirling and slithered down the wall until it reached the floor. It remained there, in the far corner, as a small, wispy patch of darkness.

  “What’s happening?” Crys asked, her voice pitchy. “Is it gone?”

  “It’s . . . not doing anything,” Becca said. “It looks like just a shadow now. It’s fine. I—I’m fine.”

  “Becca, I have more questions about all of this,” Dr. Vega said.

  “No,” Jackie said firmly. “That’s more than enough for one day.”

  Becca couldn’t have agreed more. She left the room first to let the adults talk among themselves, trying very hard not to notice that the shadow was following her.

  Chapter 4

  FARRELL

  It was shocking how easily Farrell’s mood could swing from heavenly to hellish. Lately all kinds of things were getting to him, but tonight his newly acquired superhuman sense of hearing was to blame.

  For the last week he’d been practicing singling out specific conversations occurring between small groups of people in crowds, and he’d become remarkably good at it. Just now he’d blocked out all extraneous noise and chatter so he could clearly hear the two attractive girls sitting in the far corner of Karma, his third-favorite Toronto bar, who probably thought that they were well out of earshot of tonight’s conversation topic.

  “What do you think?” the brunette said to the blonde.

  “Of what?”

  The brunette gave a subtle nod in Farrell’s direction. “Mr. Trust Fund over there. Think you have a chance?”

  The blonde swept an appraising glance over Farrell and smirked. “I heard he’s dating Felicity Seaton.”

  Interesting, he thought. They knew who he was. That would definitely save some time.

  “Technically, maybe. On paper. But from what I’ve read, Farrell Grayson isn’t exactly into monogamous relationships—especially with someone as dull as that second-tier socialite.”

  He couldn’t say she was wrong, exactly. His mother had thought Felicity, a pretty enough girl from a good enough—read: acceptable—family would be the perfect girlfriend to help her delinquent son regain the good reputation he’d worked so hard to sully.

  Farrell had spoken to Felicity just a couple of hours ago, to tell her that he wasn’t feeling well, which was why he’d been able to come here solo on a Saturday night. Also, it wasn’t exactly her kind of bar. She preferred much more upscale nightclubs, the kind that had bouncers out front and a hefty cover charge. He’d appeased her—thrilled her, really—by promising to take her somewhere special tomorrow, just the two of them.

  As for tonight, getting to know both the brunette and the blonde much better was his top priority.

  He would start with champagne—they looked like the champagne type. Farrell moved to signal to the bartender, but the girls’ continuing conversation distracted him.

  “Trust fund, huh?” the blonde said, her voice twisting with interest. “Can you put a number on that?”

  “I heard a rumor that Grandmother Grayson left her entire fortune to Farrell. No one else got even a cent. Unfortunately, he has to wait until he’s twenty-one to get his hands on it.”

  “That can’t be too much longer, can it?” the blonde replied with a smile. “It’s just too bad he’s not nearly as hot as his brother. I’d be all over that one.”

  The brunette snorted. “Do you mean the sixteen-year-old? Little young, don’t you think? Then again, I hope you mean the kid brother and not the older one who killed himself last year.”

  “I’m not exactly into necrophilia.” The blonde rolled her eyes and snuck what she clearly thought was a furtive glance at Farrell. “You know, maybe it’s just that ugly mole on his face that throws me off. Otherwise, Mr. Trust Fund is good looking enough.”

  There it was—the moment when Farrell’s mood took a sudden dive into the fiery pit below. His cheek twitched, and he forced himself not to touch the birthmark under his right eye.

  He glared at the bartender and tapped his glass. “Another.”

  The bartender refilled his double vodka. Farrell swished it around in the glass before taking it all down in two swallows, closing his eyes to better concentrate on the familiar burn coursing all the way down his throat.

  “Hi there.” He turned to see the blonde standing next to him, hand on her hip, smile on her lips. “I’m Brittany. Why don’t I buy the next round?”

  He glanced at her. “Pretty desperate opener, don’t you think?”

  Her smile fell. “Excuse me?”

  “I’m all for gender equality, but Why don’t I buy the next round? Pathetic. Bye now.”

  She stared at him for a moment, eyes narrowed then widened in shock, before she turned around and returned to her friend in the corner.

  “Grumpy, are we? Is some meaningless girl’s opinion really enough to dent that fragile ego of yours? Or are you just having a bad night?”

  Farrell’s subconscious had been talking up a storm lately, and unfortunately it had chosen the familiar voice of his dead brother, Connor.

  He pushed a twenty-dollar bill toward the bartender, who poured him another drink.

  “Don’t make the same mistake I did, kid,” not-Connor said. “Plaster on a charming smile whether you mean it or not. Make them know you don’t care.”

  “I don’t,” he mumbled.

  “Remember, you want a girl who wants you for more than your bank account or your looks. She should value your shining personality and kind heart.”

  Farrell couldn’t help but chuckle at that. He raised his glass. “To Connor Grayson, long may that dumbass’s gift for sarcasm haunt me.”

  But his dead brother’s advice did help bring him back to the present. He’d come here to have fun, and that was what he was going to have. He got up and went to a nearby table and, despite the many protests hollered by its occupants, climbed on top of it.

  “May I have your attention!” Farrell called out. “All of you, look at me. Over here. Come on. Focus, people.”

  It only took a few moments before the sight of him standing on a table, waving his drink around and shouting, brought the room to a standstill.

  “Someone lower the music, please?” He waited until the booming pulse of the speakers eased off to a quarter of the volume. “Much better.”

  He could hear people whispering, many asking each other who this whack job was. It didn’t take long for the response to filter around the bar, that he was Farrell Grayson, the middle son of Edward Grayson, one of the wealthiest men on the continent.

  With the mention of his name came the recognition of Farrell’s reputation as the black sheep of his family, and he could only imagine what they expected of him as he stood before them in the middle of the club. Likely they were expecting a drunken tantrum or some other form of public embarrassment. But behavior like that had no place within his brand new philosophy.

  Kill ’em with kindness. Just like Connor suggested. He’d lost his composure with the blonde, but he’d recently decided to believe in the chance for new beginnings. He paused to let the whispers hush, took a deep breath, and smiled.

  “Today is my birthday,” he said. “You’re all now looking at a wise and ancient man of twenty years.”

  “Happy birthday!” someone shouted.

  Farrell raised his glass and smirked at the crowd. “In celebration of this milestone, the next round is on me. Drink up, everyone!”

  The crowd cheered, the music returned to full volume, and everyone started moving toward the bar. A group of guys congregated around Farrell and started to sing “Happy Birthday.” Farrell found his smile again—he’d lost it at some point as he watched the revelry unfold around him—and he got down from the table.

  Now back on ground level, a hint of a familiar face caught his eye. He turned sharply, his breath catching in his chest.

  Markus?

  Was he here now, watching him? Waiting for him to slip up?

  The tall blond guy moved past the c
rowd that was blocking him, and Farrell realized it was just some random guy, with only a passing resemblance to Markus King.

  He hadn’t seen Markus in several days. After the drama of the previous weekend, Farrell had chosen not to go in search of his new boss and instead let Markus seek him out.

  In the meantime, he was in the habit of checking his phone every few minutes. He flashed the screen on now and was greeted by nothing but the time and a text from Felicity telling him she hoped he was feeling better. He rolled his eyes and clicked his phone off again.

  “So it’s your birthday, huh?”

  Farrell snapped his gaze up to look at the speaker. It was Adam, his light brown hair neat and glowing like a halo, making him seem the angel to Farrell’s mussy, dark-haired devil. His little brother had come from out of nowhere and was now standing right in front of him. He swore that the kid had grown at least half a foot over the last year, making them both the same height, dead-on six feet. They also had the same taste for expensive clothes and custom-made leather shoes.

  “That rousing chorus of ‘Happy Birthday’ would suggest as much,” Farrell replied drily.

  “Your birthday isn’t until November.”

  “Really? What’s today’s date?”

  “April eighth.”

  “Wow. I was way off, wasn’t I?”

  A guy in a too-shiny dress shirt passed by and raised his glass at him, giving a big grin that Farrell returned. Who said that you can’t buy friends?

  Farrell kept the smile on his face as he turned to regard his younger brother. “How’d you get in here, anyway? Did you finally get a fake ID?”

  Adam shook his head. “Hundred-dollar bill.”

  “Nice move.”

  “I learned from the best.”

  “Let’s try to think of something other than bribery as our go-to example of lessons I’ve taught you.”

  Adam crossed his arms. “What’s with the fake smile?”

  “Fake? What’s fake?” He pointed at his face. “This baby is the product of nothing but pure, unadulterated happiness. Life is good. There’s nothing to frown about. Maybe you should remember that from time to time.” He knew he was playing his part convincingly, but his cheeks were starting to cramp up from the effort. “Anyway, great to see you. I wish you could stay, but I’m sure you have to be going home by now. Bye-bye then.”