The Darkest Magic

by Morgan Rhodes

  “I’ll get you both something to drink,” Adam said, rising from his seat.

  This kid’s seriously too good to be true. It’s all an act.

  A glass of champagne suddenly appeared on the table directly in front of Crys. Immediately, her neck grew tense, and she chanced a glance up and over her shoulder to see who had placed it there.

  Oh no, she thought, as her gaze locked with a pair of unforgettable hazel eyes.

  “No need, little brother,” Farrell said, his tone as smug as ever. “I’ve got it covered.”

  “I’m not thirsty,” Crys managed.

  She glanced at Becca. From the tightness of her jaw and the poisonous glare in her blue eyes, it was clear that she remembered Farrell from the theater that night. Crys had shared little else with her sister about that snake or the things that had happened between them.

  Farrell walked around the table so that he faced Crys and Becca. He looked far too relaxed and confident in his perfectly fitting tuxedo, and Crys imagined that this must be what the devil himself looked like when he got dressed up to go out on the town to devour some souls.

  “Don’t be silly,” Farrell said. “Everyone’s always thirsty for champagne.”

  “Farrell?” Mrs. Grayson said in the least convincing fake-nice voice Crys had ever heard. “Do you know these girls?”

  “Oh, sure. Crys and I, we’re practically the best of friends. Aren’t we, Crys? But I had no idea you were going to be here tonight. And Becca—so glad to see you’re feeling better. What a wonderful surprise to see you both.”

  Becca glared at him. “The feeling isn’t mutual.”

  “Oh—ouch.” He pressed his hand against his heart. “That hurts. Come on, Crys—that’s expensive bubbly. Drink up.”

  Crys finally grabbed the champagne by the stem and pulled it toward her. But she refused to take a sip.

  “It’s not poisoned,” he assured her.

  “Better safe than sorry,” she said.

  “Best of friends, you say?” Mrs. Grayson eyed them all with a furrowed brow. “Apparently, Adam invited Crystal and Becca to the ball without telling anyone.”

  “Hmm. Well, Adam’s in the habit of surprising the people he’s closest to these days. Aren’t you, Adam?”

  “I learned from the best,” Adam retorted.

  “Farrell, where’s Felicity?” Mrs. Grayson asked. Clearly she was accustomed to ignoring any tension between her children.

  “Somewhere,” Farrell replied, clearly untroubled. “I lost track of her a while ago after dealing with that little annoyance of ours, Mother, but I’m sure she’ll turn up eventually. She always does. In the meantime . . .”

  Crys eyed him warily as he extended his right hand to her.

  “What?” she asked sharply.

  “Dance with me.”

  “Hell no.”

  Mrs. Grayson responded to Crys’s rude reply with an audible gasp.

  Farrell’s smile grew wider. “Oh, come on. Humor me. We’re in a beautiful ballroom, and the band is playing beautiful music. You’re a beautiful girl, I’m a beautiful guy. Why let all this beauty go to waste? I’m sure Becca wouldn’t mind.”

  “Becca does mind,” said Becca.

  “Then luckily for me, it’s Crys’s decision.”

  “No,” Crys said again, more firmly.

  “Disgraceful,” Mrs. Grayson muttered.

  “Farrell,” Adam growled. “Leave her alone.”

  “One more try,” Farrell said, then he leaned over to hover above Crys’s ear. “Dance with me,” he whispered, “or I’ll go up to the microphone and tell everybody who you and your sister really are. There’ll be no more hiding then, will there?”

  Her heart pounded as she considered his ultimatum.

  She’d never been blackmailed before, and she hated to admit that it was incredibly effective.

  Forcing a smile of her own, she took his hand. “Fine. One song.”

  “That’s more like it.”

  With one last apologetic glance and a reassuring nod sent toward a worried-looking Becca, Crys let Farrell lead her to the crowded dance floor. He entwined his fingers with hers and placed his other hand on the small of her back.

  “You smell like strawberries again,” he said.

  She looked up at him, surprised to discover that at this close vantage point she could see dark circles under his eyes. “And you look like you haven’t slept in a couple of days.”

  “Can you blame me? I’ve been tossing and turning all night, thinking about you and how to win you back.”

  With anyone else she’d reply with a polite laugh, but there was nothing remotely funny about this. “Where’s my father?” she said bluntly.

  “Not here.”

  “Then where is he?”

  “No idea. I’m not his personal assistant.”

  She wanted to scream. “Is this fun for you? These games you play?”

  “So much fun. And what game is it you’re playing tonight? Don’t tell me you’re only here to ask around about your father. I know there’s something else that drew you into this sticky little spider web. Or is it just what my mother thinks, that you’re here to celebrate literacy because your family owns a local bookshop?”

  She tried to look anywhere but up at him, dismayed at being stuck so close to him. “That’s the first true thing I’ve heard you say all night. Yes, we do own a bookshop.”

  “A famous bookshop that’s currently closed until further notice. All those poor readers, hungry for books, but no one to buy them from.” Reluctantly, she listened to him talk as he slowly moved her around the dance floor—with far more skill than she might have guessed. “You know, this is the perfect song.”

  “What song is it?”

  “‘The Look of Love.’” He smirked. “See? That look you’re giving me right now . . . it’s sizzling.”

  “That’s probably because I’m trying to burn your eyeballs out of your head with the power of my mind while I wish I’d never met you.”

  His expression grew more pensive. “Our relationship started off so much better. You were real with me. Believe it or not, that’s not something I experience too often. That . . . realness. I liked it.”

  “Everything that comes out of your mouth is a lie.”

  “Not everything. Eighty-eight percent, tops.”

  “You blackmailed me to get me onto this dance floor.”

  “Desperate times call for desperate measures. Maybe I wanted the chance to talk to you without my mother and both of our siblings listening in.”

  There was a strange weight to his words now that was absent before. Suddenly, that weight grabbed hold of her full attention.

  In mere seconds, her heart rate had doubled. “So talk. If you have something important to say, say it. Are you actually going to tell me where my father is? Can you help me? Would you even be willing to help me?”

  He wouldn’t meet her gaze. “Maybe I’m still lying. Maybe the only reason I wanted you to dance with me is to make Felicity jealous.”

  Crys tried to pull away, but he held on tight.

  “Sorry,” he said. “That’s my defensive-asshole mechanism kicking in. For what it’s worth, she means nothing to me.”

  She glared up at him. “You’re not making this any better.”

  “I guess what I’m trying to tell you is . . . you don’t have to be afraid of me.”

  “Who said I was afraid of you?”

  He laughed, but the sound was humorless. “I’m not exactly good at being genuine, so just try to take me at face value tonight. Maybe I deserve your hatred, but that doesn’t change the fact that I don’t want you to hate me.”

  This was the point when she should have been pushing him away and storming back to Becca at the table, but something held her in place. Her hands rested lightly on his shoulders, and from a distance, she was sure they looked like any other couple on the dance floor.

  She searched his face, his intense eyes—a swirling mix
of taupe and emerald—framed with thick black lashes, his dark brows drawn together into a serious expression. Her gaze came to rest on the spot under his right eye where his birthmark used to be.

  “Why did you have it removed?” she asked.

  He blinked. “It was ugly.”

  She disagreed, but she wasn’t about to admit it out loud. “It healed fast.”

  “Accelerated healing comes with the territory.” His jaw tightened. “Actually, I sliced it off myself.”

  She regarded him with horror. “What?”

  “I only wish I could cut every ugly part out of myself, but then I guess there’d be nothing left.”

  For a moment, she found herself utterly speechless. “Farrell, my God, why would you even tell me something like that, let alone think or do it?”

  “Because sometimes I speak the truth. Don’t ask me why I chose to reveal that in particular.” His gaze became clouded with confusion and his frown deepened. “No damn idea, really.”

  It was as if everyone else on the dance floor had vanished and she and he were out there alone. She was staring up at him—his perfect face, perfect hair, gorgeous eyes, tailored tuxedo that felt like the softest silk beneath her touch. And his scent—some musky cologne or aftershave that she hated herself for appreciating even a little.

  Was she starting to feel something other than loathing for him? She couldn’t be. That would require her to care in some way about the fate of Farrell Grayson, marks or no marks.

  All she cared about right now was her family. To hell with everyone else.

  You don’t really believe that. Farrell needs your help—just like your mother does—with the marks that control him, that make him do such awful things. You know you can’t turn your back on someone in that great of need.

  “Fine, I’ll admit it,” she said after another long pause between them. “I did like you when we first met, and I don’t think I hid it very well. Was any of that really you?”

  “More than you might think.”

  “I know what the marks do,” Crys said, her throat tight. “They change you. They mess with your head, with your morals. Markus controls you now—you and everyone in his society.”

  “Markus doesn’t control me. No one is in control of me except me.” Farrell had stiffened at the accusation, but he didn’t draw back from her.

  “Look at me,” she said. Finally, he met her gaze, and she searched his eyes for some clue as to what he might really be feeling. “He made you do something you didn’t want to do, didn’t he?”

  His brow furrowed. “Why would you say that?”

  “Call it a hunch. Was it . . . something really bad?”

  “The worst,” he whispered so quietly that she could barely hear him over the crowd.

  “Tell me.”

  After a long pause, he answered. “You know, these eyes of yours—this pale, icy blue that bores right into my soul—they’ve haunted me since the first day we met.”

  No one had ever said anything like that to her. Again, he’d rendered her completely speechless.

  This is bad, she thought. Very bad. I can’t let him get to me like this.

  And what would be the worst thing to happen if you did?

  She didn’t have the energy to push the thoughts away this time. When Farrell drew her even closer to him, she didn’t immediately pull away.

  “Your eyes are just like your father’s, aren’t they?” He leaned closer to whisper in her ear. “Becca also has her father’s eyes—dark blue, like the ocean at dusk.”

  That was all it took to shock her out of whatever spell she’d fallen under. Her mind snapped back into clear focus as she tried to break away, but he only tightened his hold.

  “That’s right,” Farrell said evenly. “Markus knows the truth. And he needs that book.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she managed, but already she knew that she’d lost this battle.

  “Huh. It seems I’m not the only liar here tonight, am I?”

  “Let go of me,” she snarled, and she tugged away as hard as she could.

  Finally, he released her, just as the song was dying down but before the band had come to a complete stop. She turned and headed right toward the table where she’d left Becca.

  But Becca was gone.

  Chapter 15

  BECCA

  The shadow that was invisible to everyone but Becca remained with her, even here at the ball, so far away from the book. Right now it lurked beneath the round dinner table at which she sat, while she tried to feel at ease in her fancy clothes and high heels—a big departure from her usual style, which consisted primarily of jeans, sneakers, and sweaters. She felt like a completely different person tonight.

  “What on earth is going on?” Isabelle Grayson muttered under her breath a moment after Farrell and Crys took to the dance floor.

  The haughty woman gave Becca a bad vibe from the first moment she saw her, even before Adam introduced them. Even from a seated position, she’d managed to look down her nose at them.

  “What do you mean?” Adam asked.

  “Farrell and that . . . girl. They’re not . . . involved, are they?”

  “It’s just a dance, Mom.”

  “Doesn’t look like just a dance to me.” She eyed Becca. “Let me guess: You have your sights set on Farrell’s younger brother?”

  “Um,” Becca stumbled, “I barely know Adam.”

  Thankfully, a tall willowy blonde approached the table before Mrs. Grayson could counter. The blonde held two glasses of champagne, one of which she gave to Mrs. Grayson.

  “Felicity, darling,” Mrs. Grayson said after taking a sip. “Have you heard that my Adam has gone out of his way to bring two young booksellers to this event? Quite a foolish way for him to spend his allowance, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose it depends on how much he likes the booksellers,” Felicity replied, eyeing Becca. “Where is Farrell?”

  Mrs. Grayson flicked her hand toward the dance floor. “Having a spin with the other one.”

  Felicity peered through the crowd with widening eyes. “I know her,” she said after a heavy pause. “We met at the photography show on Sunday. She’s Farrell’s ex-girlfriend.”

  “Whoa, what?” Becca blurted, horrified at the suggestion. “She’s definitely not his ex-girlfriend.”

  Mrs. Grayson straightened her shoulders even more. “I should certainly hope not.”

  “I think I need more champagne,” Felicity said weakly and turned away.

  “As do I.” Mrs. Grayson made a little huffing noise in the back of her throat. “If you’ll excuse me, I see some colleagues I need to say hello to.”

  She stood up and left them alone at the table, disappearing into the crowd.

  “So . . . ,” Becca said. “She seems nice?”

  Adam snorted. “Sorry about her. She’s kind of, uh, how do I put it . . . ?”

  “Not super open to adding to her friend group?”

  “I was going to say a major snob, but that works too.”

  Becca’s heart raced. Every cell in her body wanted to get up, move around, search for Markus, and do what she came here to do before she chickened out.

  She knew Crys thought she was crazy. Hell, she probably was. But what was that saying? She’d read it once in a novel about the Civil War, and it had stuck with her ever since: The enemy of my enemy is my friend. She knew Markus was no one’s friend here, not really. But she also knew for a fact—had seen it with her own eyes—that Valoria was obsessed with seeking vengeance on him for stealing the dagger. And from what little Becca knew about Valoria, she was fairly certain that the immortal didn’t have any plans to cease her hunt for Markus, no matter what world she might find him in. She also knew that, Codex or no Codex, Valoria would be after Maddox for his rare magic that could help open the gateway between worlds.

  Which only made Becca worry more about Maddox than she already did. It was so strange—the whole time her spirit w
as in Mytica, all she’d cared about was finding a way to get back home. Now, she felt completely different. She didn’t want to go back there, of course . . . but she did wish there was a way to communicate with him.

  The shadow was no help at all—unless the definition of help had been changed to include constant and unnerving distraction.

  Please be okay, Maddox, she thought, her heart twisting.

  “You still with me?” Adam asked, pulling her away from those clinging thoughts.

  “Mostly.” Becca gave him a weak smile, then turned her gaze again on Crys and Farrell, who were still dancing. She was surprised that her sister hadn’t stormed off the floor yet or kicked him in the groin. She’d even give away her cherished signed copy of The Fault in Our Stars to witness that.

  “Why would that girl Felicity think that Crys is his ex?” Becca mumbled. “As if that could ever be a possibility. Crys hates your brother.”

  “Doesn’t look like it to me.” Becca glared at him, and Adam flinched. “Sorry,” he said. “I mean, I totally understand why you hate him. Why she hates him. He’s made a pretty terrible first impression on both of you. But all of that—the things he’s been doing and saying lately—that’s not really him. It’s those marks.”

  “So I keep hearing. The marks.” She’d really come to hate that previously common word. “Those marks are the reason my father left to be with Markus and Hawkspear instead of with us.”

  Adam nodded apologetically. “They’re powerful. Even just one is enough to trap you and make you completely deny that anything’s wrong.”

  “You don’t deny it, though. And you’re in the society.”

  “I’m different from the others, I guess,” he said, glancing around nervously.

  “And Farrell hasn’t sold you out yet?”

  “No.” He shook his head grimly. “And he won’t.”

  “Don’t be so sure.”

  “Yeah, well, you don’t know him like I do. He’s actually pretty decent. Well, most of the time. I think all the power and importance he’s been feeling recently have messed with his head—along with everything else that’s been going on. I’m not surprised. My mother’s always treated him like a second-class citizen, always telling him he’s a disappointment. He shrugs it off, but I know it hurts him.”