A Book of Spirits and Thieves (9 page)

“I’ve tried my best to respect her wishes.”

“Well, Mom and me . . .” She bit her bottom lip. “We don’t get along that well. I know she thinks Becca’s the perfect one, and she’s probably right about that.”

It hurt Crys to say that because she believed this. It seemed as if her mother raved over every A-plus essay Becca brought home, over every accomplishment. Becca had been the one to figure out the new computer system to organize the shop and its accounting. The two talked about the books they’d read for hours on end while Crys tried to watch TV.

Practically the only time her mother ever spoke to Crys directly these days was to comment on something she’d done wrong.

“That’s not true,” her father said, shaking his head. “She loves both of you girls equally. Some of her rules might seem harsh, but they’re because she loves you.”

“Whatever. She expects too much from me. I know I’ll never
make her proud. I would have said yes, Dad. I would have gone with you. I would have joined this society that’s making such a big difference in the world.”

His jaw tensed up as he studied her, a frown creasing his brow. “You have to be sixteen to be invited in. You were only fifteen at the time.”

“Well, I’m seventeen now and . . .” She took a deep breath. “And I want in. I want to be a part of your life again, Dad.”

His brows drew together tighter. “Crystal—”

“I want to know more.” She cut him off so she could finish making her case. “Is there someone I can meet with? Someone I can persuade to let me join? I want this, Dad. I want to be a part of your life again. And if what you’re saying is true—that you’re, like, literally helping to save the world by being a part of this secret society, then I want to help, too.”

As she said it, she realized she wasn’t lying. She wanted to be part of her father’s life, and she wanted to know everything about this group that had stolen him away from his family.

Maybe he was right and her mother was wrong.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

Three years ago, when cash began disappearing from the till—five to twenty dollars a few times a week, Julia had accused Crys directly because she’d once been detained at the Eaton Centre on suspicion of shoplifting (which had actually been her friend Sara, not her). Her father had defended her. He and Julia had had a huge argument, their raised voices easily heard through the thin walls of the apartment.

It turned out that a part-time clerk had taken the money. She was fired, and since then, the running of the Speckled Muse had been kept in the family.

Her mother had never apologized, and Crys had never forgotten. Or forgiven.

Daniel Hatcher pulled his hand away from Crys’s, put the camera back on the surface of the table, and leaned back in his chair. “You mean this.”

“With all my heart.” Then she closed her mouth. She’d had her say, and now it was up to him.

Had she moved too fast? Would he think she was up to something?

“There is someone I can talk to,” he finally said. “His name is Markus.”

She went very still when she heard the name.

Markus King stole everything from us—including your damn husband—and now I’ve stolen something from him.

It was him. The man her mother thought might be able to help Becca. The man Jackie had somehow stolen the book from.

The man who had the answers Crys desperately needed.

“And I promise I will talk to him,” her father continued. “The society welcomes family members and . . . you’re my family, Crys. You’re my blood. I’ll do what I can to arrange a meeting, but I’m not promising anything beyond that. I can’t make demands; I can only make requests. The ultimate decision is out of my hands.”

She nodded, her heart pounding. “I understand.”

“I’ll be in touch as soon as I can.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “But I have to go now.”

“Okay.”

She stood up as he did, and, after a brief hesitation, he leaned over and kissed her cheek. “I’ve missed you, Crissy,” he said.

She watched him walk away until he was out of sight. “Me too.”

Chapter 8

FARRELL

T
he sound of persistent knocking woke him.

Morning light streamed through the sliver of window his blinds didn’t cover. He groaned and tried to sit up, shielding his eyes.

What time was it?

A glance at the clock on his bedside table informed him it was eight.

Eight?

Considering he hadn’t gotten in until almost five
A
.
M
., he was ready to kill whoever had stolen his sleep.

The door opened, and his father strode inside, went to the window, and pulled the blinds completely up.

“What are you doing?” Farrell demanded.

“Enough of this laziness,” Edward Grayson snapped. “It’s gone on for far too long. Get up.”

“I’ll get up when I’m finished sleeping. Not there yet.”

“You need to start thinking about your future, Farrell.”

He fell back down against his pillow and stared up at the ceiling. “Today?”

“It’s been a difficult year. It’s been hard for all of us. But it’s time to be a man, time to start taking responsibility.”

He couldn’t deal with this right now. “How about I take responsibility in a few hours?”

His father moved toward the bed and, in one quick motion, yanked the covers off his son. “Get up. Or else.”

The words
Or else what?
rose in his throat, but he swallowed them back down before he could speak. What? Were they going to disown him? Cast him out onto the streets without a cent until he turned twenty-one and got his inheritance?

Not a chance.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked.

“School or work. Pick one, but you need to make a decision.”

“And I have to decide at this very moment?”

“No. But at this very moment you can make yourself useful by talking to your brother. He’s in his room, claiming he’s sick. He doesn’t want to go to school. It’s unacceptable.”

“If he
is
sick . . .”

“He isn’t.” His father’s lips thinned. Beneath the storm in his eyes, Farrell could see the worry there. “He isn’t taking the events of Saturday night as well as I’d hoped he would.”

Farrell took this in and then swore under his breath. “So what does that mean?”

“It means he needs his brother.”

Adam had kept to himself on Sunday, and Farrell had been out for most of the day and night anyway, partying with a friend who’d come home from college for the weekend. Most of Farrell’s friends had left town, scattered to schools all over the continent, leaving him mostly on his own to meet new friends each night he went out, whom he usually forgot by morning.

Farrell didn’t bother getting dressed. Wearing only his loose black pajama bottoms tied with a drawstring at his waist, he left his room barefoot and headed for Adam’s. Ignoring his throbbing head, he knocked on his brother’s door.

“Who is it?” Adam asked sullenly.

“Me. Can I come in?”

“No.”

Farrell pushed open the door. “Thanks so much. Good morning, sunshine.”

“I said
no
.”

He shrugged. “I’m a rebel.”

Adam sat in a chair by the window on the other side of the expansive room, which was decorated in the style of the rest of the Grayson estate—expensive and to their mother’s tastes, via her favorite interior designer. Only a couple of rock band posters taped to the gold-and-bronze designer wallpaper claimed the space as Adam’s.

“So what’s the problem?” Farrell asked, taking a seat on the edge of Adam’s messy king-sized bed.

“I don’t know.” Adam raked his hand through his light brown hair. Farrell’s was several shades darker and always a mess—luckily, it was a look that was currently in fashion.

In last year’s photo spread in the
FocusToronto
magazine, Adam had been referred to as the “angel” of the Grayson family because of his innocent, boyish looks and polite demeanor. Connor had been the “gifted artist.” Farrell hadn’t been referred to as anything except “the middle child” of one of the richest men in Toronto. And this was the publication that had removed his birthmark without question or consultation.

Asses.

“Come on,” Farrell prodded when Adam fell silent. “Talk to me. Something’s up.”

“I can’t stop thinking about when Markus stabbed that guy. I don’t want Dad to know I’m still messed up because of it, but . . . I don’t know. I don’t know what to think.”

“‘That guy’ was a murderer,” Farrell reasoned. “A drug lord. Who knows how many people he would have killed if he hadn’t been eliminated?”

“Okay. Maybe that’s true, but it’s just . . .” Adam hissed out a breath. “Why not call the cops? Give him a real trial? Life in prison?”

“That’s not how the society works,” Farrell explained calmly. “Everything has a reason, kid. Trust me on that. How’s that arm of yours feeling today?”

“Sore.” Adam ran his fingers over his forearm, frowning hard. “What was that symbol he carved into me? What does it mean? What does it do?”

Farrell spread his hands. “It’s protection—it keeps us from getting sick. No cancer, no diabetes, no nasty debilitating diseases. It’s his gift to us, exactly what he told you.”

“Who is he? I mean,
what
is he, that he can do something like that?”

They weren’t supposed to discuss any of this outside society meetings, but Farrell felt that he had to reassure Adam that everything was okay. “You don’t have to worry about any of this, Adam. Markus is what he is.”

“Which is? What? A wizard?”

“I don’t think he went to Hogwarts, no.”

“I can’t believe you’re joking around about this.”

Farrell sighed, then sat down on the edge of Adam’s bed.
“Look. I don’t know for sure what’s myth and what’s real, but the story goes that the original cofounder of the society once had a dream about a god of death. He took the dream as a prophecy and started hunting down murderers and other bad people and going all vigilante justice on their asses. Then he met Markus, the very same god he had dreamed about. They partnered up, started the society as a more organized venture, and recruited members—rich ones, since they both knew that money talks when it comes to trying to make a difference in the world.”

Adam stared at him as if he were a complete stranger. “You’re saying that Markus King is a god.”

“I don’t know. You’ve seen him. You’ve seen what he can do. . . . Don’t you think it just might be possible?”

“I don’t know what I think right now. How are you okay with all this, like it’s no big deal? You’re the one who’s always asking questions about everything. Why is this different?”

Farrell shifted his bare feet uncomfortably. Was he okay with it? Yeah . . . he was. He’d made his peace with what happened at the meetings because he believed in Markus’s mission—to protect the world from evil.

But he’d had three years to come to accept it as something right and good. Adam had barely had a weekend.

“You’ll get used to it,” he said. “I promise you will.”

“I don’t want to get used to seeing people killed right in front of me, no matter who does the killing, or why.”

Farrell tried to stay calm, but the thought that his kid brother was having a meltdown over this troubled him deeply. This could cause serious problems, not only for Adam personally, but also for the Graysons as a family.

“I get that you’re feeling uneasy,” Farrell said, forcing himself
to sound calm. “I sort of felt similarly after my first meeting. But you need to hear what I’m saying to you. Are you listening?”

Adam turned his pale face to Farrell. “Yes.”

“You agreed. When Markus gave you the choice to stay or go, you chose to stay. You got to the point of no return, and you went beyond it, kid.”

Weakness was unacceptable. The weak didn’t survive very long—not in the society, not in the world at large.

He hated that Adam’s attitude this morning had started questions coursing through his own head, questions that had faded in the time since he’d been initiated.

Who was Markus King? Who was he
really
? Where had he come from? And how was he able to do the things he did?

Maybe he’d learn the truth if Markus accepted him into his inner circle.

The thought sent a shiver of anticipation down his spine.

“Always keep one thing clear in your head, Adam. The magic that Markus can do—it’s for good.”

“Good magic. Public executions. Prophecies. Gods of death.” The pain and doubt on Adam’s face had swiftly been replaced by fierceness. “Do you even hear yourself? Taking the law into your hands, whether you’re waving around a magic knife or not, isn’t
good
. It doesn’t make him any less evil than that guy he had on the stage.”

Farrell rubbed his temples. It was too early for this talk, and it had succeeded in making his hangover that much worse. This conversation was pointless, but he had to keep trying. He didn’t want his little brother to get himself in trouble by asking too many questions.

He narrowed his eyes and threw some fierceness back at Adam.
“It’s over. You need to accept that you made a binding agreement to the man who gave you this.” He squeezed Adam’s forearm and his brother gasped in pain. Even though there wasn’t a scar or mark, Farrell remembered how extremely tender his wound had been for weeks afterward. “You’re going to screw it up, for yourself and for all of us, if you don’t get a grip on yourself. Hear me?”

Adam’s face had gone pale, his dark eyes standing out like burning coals. “I’m done talking about this.”

“You might be pissed at me right now, but I’m here for you whenever you need me. I’m your brother. I’ll always be your brother. Remember that, okay? Now quit this sick act and get to school before Dad comes in and dishes it out way worse than me.”

Farrell left the room feeling furious and helpless and like he’d only made Adam feel worse than he already did.

He made his way down the hallway, then froze as he reached a closed door at the end. He eyed it before trying the handle. It was unlocked.

He pushed the door open and glanced inside Connor’s old bedroom. He felt at the wall for the light switch and flicked it on.

His mouth went dry.

This was where Farrell had found him, lying on that bed. Now it was made, its sheets and duvet perfect and pristine.

A year ago, they’d been covered in blood.

Other than that, the room was exactly the same. Even Connor’s art, including an unfinished oil painting propped on an easel by the window that looked out at the back garden of their Forest Hill estate, hadn’t been changed. It was a shrine to the firstborn Grayson. The perfect son. Talent, looks, intelligence—a triple threat. That was his big brother.

He went to the easel and looked at Connor’s last painting.

If there was one flaw the eldest Grayson kid had, it was vanity. His paintings were almost always self-portraits.

Connor had been painting this one as if it were a Renaissance commission by a king or a wealthy lord. Chiseled jawline, curved lips, straight nose, and hair the same shade of brownish-black as Farrell’s—only Connor wore his hair long, to his shoulders. Black eyebrows slashed over hazel eyes that, even though they were created with dabs of paint, seemed to pierce Farrell right through his soul.

“Miss you, brother,” he whispered. “Miss you bad.”

“I always thought it was his best piece.” A voice startled Farrell, and he turned to see that his mother had entered the room, her gaze fixed on the canvas. “It seems to come alive the more you stare at it, doesn’t it?”

He was surprised that she’d greeted him like this instead of with harsh words about his daring to enter her shrine to her lost firstborn. “He was talented,” he said.

“I know he would have become a very famous artist.” Her brows drew together a fraction, but then she shook her head a little and a cool smile stretched across her lips. Her attention remained on the canvas, as if she could reach in and stroke the hair back from her eldest son’s forehead. “One year. I can’t believe it’s been that long. I sensed his deep sadness after he and Mallory ended their relationship. If I’d known his heartbreak was so great, I would have made an appointment for him with my therapist. I could have stopped him from doing something so final.”

A trip to the therapist was his mother’s standard solution for any emotional conundrum.

“Why didn’t he finish it?” Farrell asked. There was no background behind the painted figure, only white canvas. Pencil
marks showed what he’d meant to paint. A window. A sky. A wall.

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

He stared into his brother’s painted eyes. “The Connor Grayson I knew always finished what he started. The Connor I knew never would have taken his own life, either. He loved life.”

She looked at him sharply. “Until he didn’t love it anymore. We change just like the seasons change. He wasn’t any different.”

“Don’t you ever think there could be another explanation for what happened?”

“No,” she said with finality. “He was a sensitive artist who had his heart broken. He chose to take his own life when he fell into despair. Over the last year, I’ve accepted that that’s what happened. For you to question it . . .” Her lips pressed tightly together. “It’s too painful.”