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.”
“If it works—if you start to feel better—then it’s all worth it.”
Markus took Farrell’s hand in both of his in a collegial kind of handshake. “You are a true friend, Farrell. I haven’t had one of those for a very long time.”
Farrell didn’t say it aloud, but he genuinely felt the same way. Instead he just nodded, then made a subtle gesture to the rest of the ballroom. “I’ve been keeping watch, but I have to say, I haven’t seen anything strange.”
Markus nodded. “That’s good. I would prefer to have my suspicions disproved, of course.”
“Of course.”
Markus raised a brow and looked out toward the podium. “Well, I suppose it’s time for me to get up there. Wish me luck.”
“You don’t need luck.” Farrell grinned. “You’re Markus King.” Markus returned the smile and crossed over toward Isabelle Grayson, who was already making her way toward him, her teeth bared in a shark-like grin.
Isabelle escorted Markus up to the front of the room as masked faces turned to watch, hushed whispers following him the whole way. Isabelle showed Markus to a seat behind the podium, then stood at the microphone to introduce him.
“Welcome, everyone. I am Isabelle Grayson, one of the organizers of tonight’s ball. I hope you are all enjoying yourselves. It is my great honor and privilege to introduce Markus King, whose incredibly generous donation made tonight’s event possible. This means that one hundred percent of all proceeds from ticket sales and new donations go directly toward literacy programs and an effort to make art grants available to struggling poets and writers in this talented city. Please, join me in giving a warm welcome to Markus King!”
Farrell had wondered how his mother would introduce a millennia-old god of death. Now he knew: as generically as possible.
Isabelle left the podium to the tune of applause for Markus, who gave Isabelle a kiss on the cheek and a thank you that only Farrell’s enhanced hearing could pick up. He stood at the podium and smiled, already perfectly playing the part of the young heir whose passion for reading translated into a philanthropic dedication to literacy.
“It is my honor to be here tonight, Isabelle. To say that books are a vital part of my existence would be a great understatement. I think you could say that without certain books in my life, I might actually die.”
Was it Farrell’s imagination, or was Markus actually making a joke? The man was full of surprises. And either way, the crowd before him chuckled.
“I am lucky enough to have the funds to help such important charities, and I want to thank you all for delving into your hearts, digging into your pockets, and making tonight so special and so important. Because of your generosity, Isabelle has informed me that we have raised over one hundred and fifty thousand dollars for our chosen charity.
“I’m so inspired by this that I would personally like to match this amount and put it toward providing books, tutors, and special programs to underprivileged children who struggle with learning disabilities. Every one of you has helped to make this world a better
place, and for that you have my eternal gratitude.”
Markus swept his cool but kind gaze over the crowd as the applause swelled once again. Farrell looked on, his chest swelling with pride in time with the applause. But a moment later, all of that pride and confidence slunk away as he watched Markus, still up at the podium, freeze completely, his regal smile dropping into a grim line.
Farrell turned around, trying to see what could have caught his attention and caused such a chilling reaction. It took only an instant for him to identify the cause: a beautiful blond woman in a short black sequined dress standing at the back of the ballroom, near the entrance. Unlike the other women here, she wore no gaudy jewelry draped around her neck or wrists. No mask to hide her identity or her stunning face. Her lips were bright red and curled up in a half smile.
It seemed as though the whole room noticed at the same time and that the crowd had parted to make room for the creature that had left Markus King dumbstruck and paralyzed.
Jackie Kendall, Farrell thought.
She’d accepted Markus’s invitation. He never would have guessed in a million years that she’d actually show up here tonight.
Based on Markus’s stunned expression, he must have felt exactly the same way.
Markus left the podium and moved toward her through the crowd. After a moment, the rest of the partygoers went back to enjoying the ball, the band began to play at Isabelle’s signal, and conversation rose up again. Many people took to the dance floor, beneath the sparkling lights cast from the chandelier.
Farrell focused his enhanced hearing, muting out every sound but Markus and Jackie’s conversation.
“Jackie . . . ,” Markus began in a hushed voice as he reached the woman. “You’re here. I can’t . . . I can’t believe you actually came.”
“Yes, I’m here,” she replied stiffly. “And we need to talk.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” He started to lead her toward the exit, but she stopped him, her hand on his elbow.
“No. I want to stay out in the open. With all these people.”
“All right, but let’s move off to the side.”
Farrell sought to keep them in view—his hearing only seemed to work if his targets were still in sight—but he lost them in the crowd.
So that was the infamous Jackie Kendall. The keeper of the Codex, mother of the secret baby, had arrived. Was this a good development or a bad one?
“Are you kidding?” not-Connor asked him. “This couldn’t be worse. That woman has power over Markus whether he realizes it or not. He’s exposed himself here tonight, something he never does. All for the chance that she might stroll in. And when she does, you just let them walk away.”
He was failing Markus by not keeping a close eye on him.
Farrell took one step, ready to follow, and then, a deep frown claiming his face, he stopped. Above the lingering scents of the evening—crème brûlée, fresh coffee and espresso, and imported French perfume—he smelled the unmistakable scent of strawberries.
He swiveled on his heels, immediately pinpointing the source of that familiar scent.
“Well. Looks like we have a number of late arrivals tonight,” he said to himself.
Past a dancing facade of ornate masks and formal wear, Farrell watched Crystal Hatcher and her sister, Becca, enter the ballroom.
Chapter 13
MADDOX
Unsatisfied after a dinner of half of one small warlog—and still reeling from that truly surreal moment when Maddox mistook a hawk for Becca Hatcher—the ground felt particularly hard on this chilly night. As he lay there unable to sleep, all he could do was wonder what it said about his mental state that for even one instant he’d allowed himself to believe that Becca had been watching him through the eyes of a hawk.
“I don’t know how you do this, Barnabas,” Maddox grumbled into the darkness, drawing his still-damp tunic closer around him for warmth.
“Do what?” Barnabas replied gruffly.
“Sleep outside all the time.”
“Well, pardon me, Lord Maddox. I looked high and low for you, but it seems the forest is fresh out of feather beds and personal attendants eagerly waiting until dawn with silver trays filled with pastries.”
Maddox picked up a small rock and hurled it at Barnabas. He heard a yelp of pain, but not from the mouth of his target.
“Sorry, Alcander,” Maddox muttered.
“It’s quite all right. In the morning it’ll be nothing more than a small bruise, young man. All is well. And please—do call me Al. Alcander is so formal—I really only use that name to sign my work.”
Maddox nodded. “All right then, Al.” Al had made every effort to be pleasant and helpful since, in exchange for his knowledge of Princess Cassia’s whereabouts, they’d agreed to keep him . . . well, alive didn’t seem to be quite the word.
Conscious? Sentient?
Maddox still couldn’t believe it had worked. That he’d actually breathed life back into a severed head. Thinking about it for too long—especially the part about how it had barely taken any effort for his necromancy to have such a drastic effect—disturbed him on such a deep and basic level that he’d already learned to keep these moments of wonder short.
“Thank the goddess you’re a lousy shot,” Barnabas said. “Sleep well, then. Don’t let the night-maggots bite.”
Maddox tensed. “Er, sorry. What’s a night-maggot?”
“Oh, you know. Those gigantic worms that come out at night to feast on sixteen-year-old boys who complain about not getting enough dinner.”
“Very amusing, Barnabas,” Al said, chuckling softly. “I can tell by your imagination and way with words that you would make an excellent scribe yourself.”
“No thank you.”
With everyone settled in for the night, a surprisingly soothing kind of quiet set into the campsite. Maddox closed his eyes, crossed his arms over his chest, and tried to sleep.
The storm started only minutes later. After a solitary rumble of thunder as the only bit of warning, rain began to slam down upon their campsite in torrents. Their fire was doused in seconds, robbing them of their only flicker of light and warmth in the dark forest.
With grumbles and grunts, Maddox and Barnabas rose and quickly gathered up Al and their scant supplies. Together they stumbled through the forest, and though they were purposely trying to avoid towns on their route, they were grateful that there was one not too far away. When they reached the edge of the forest, Barnabas pointed to a dim grouping of lights about a half mile off.
“There. That’s got to be an inn,” Barnabas said.
Maddox nodded as they set out for the rest of the miserable trudge.
They entered the first inn they came across, trailing water in their wake. Maddox held tightly to the sopping-wet canvas sack containing Al, taking a quick peek in to make sure he was breathing.
“You all right?” he asked.
“Yes, fine!”
“Tell him not to say anything for a while,” Barnabas suggested.
“Don’t say anything for a while,” Maddox told him.
“I can hear him. And I won’t. Do whatever it takes to keep us out of this horrid rain before I drown!”
To the right of the entrance was a set of stairs leading up to the rooms. To their left was a wooden archway leading into a tavern. They entered the busy tavern, taking the first available seat at a heavy wooden table. The delicious scent of roasted pheasant and boiled potatoes drifted under Maddox’s nose, making his stomach growl. At least twenty others were also in the tavern, drinking and eating in this shelter from the storm. A fire blazed nearby, its heat helping to take the chill from Maddox’s bones.
He never wanted to leave.
A weathered-looking man came over to their table, eyeing their soaking clothes with either annoyance or pure distaste. “The kitchen’s closed for the night.”
Maddox tensed and shared a pained look with Barnabas.
Barnabas straightened his shoulders. “
I realize it’s getting late, but the boy and I need a hot meal and a dry room.”
“We’re full up tonight. You should have arrived earlier.”
“I’m sure you must keep one or two rooms vacant at all times? For emergencies?”
The man blinked. “I don’t see any emergencies here.”
“I have coin,” Barnabas said. “We can pay.”
“That may be, but I don’t have any rooms to sell you. Apologies, but it’s late, and I’m very tired.” The man then gave them a cold smile. “Be on your way.”
Maddox was determined not to spend the night in the cold, wet, and completely dark forest.
Just then, a shadow moved along the floor and caught his eye. He turned to see what cast it but saw nothing.
Strange.
“Can you suggest another inn, then?” Barnabas persisted.
“I’m afraid we’re the only inn in town. Only one within a day’s journey, in fact.”
As Maddox’s hopes were rapidly starting to sink, a plump woman emerged from the kitchen, wiping her greasy fingers on her apron. “What’s going on?” she asked.
“These two,” the innkeeper told her, “want us to produce rooms that don’t exist. Perhaps they think we’re witches.”
Barnabas gave the woman his most charismatic grin—the one Maddox had seen work wonders on the fairer sex. “Lovely lady,” he said in a honeyed tone, “I hope you might have the heart to give us a place to stay while we wait out this fierce storm. Young Maddox, well . . . he’s very sickly. If I keep him outside any longer in this rain, I shudder to think of the state I might wake to find him in tomorrow morning.”
Barnabas shot Maddox a pointed, urging look.
“Yes,” Maddox said, then let out a pathetic-sounding cough. “Very sick.”
The woman pursed her lips. “You’re not sick. I know sick, and you’re not it. We have no place for liars here—in our rooms or in our tavern. Be gone with you.”
Maddox then spotted the strange shadow again, moving swiftly along the edge of the room.
His gaze was then drawn by a glint of metal. Around her neck, the woman wore a charm Maddox had seen many times before: a crescent moon within a circle stamped upon a round piece of silver.
The Darkest Magic Page 15