The Darkest Magic

  “Angus, you didn’t answer my question,” Becca said. “What if the obedience magic is all in the dagger and not in Markus? Markus may be the only one who knows how to use the dagger, but if you destroy it, wouldn’t that be the thing that would make the marks—and necessarily Markus too—null and void?”

  “It’s possible,” Angus admitted.

  Crys couldn’t help but be surprised that this strange man was actually acknowledging this. Becca looked just as shocked.

  “Then we need that dagger,” Dr. Vega said. “Rather desperately.”

  “Jackie’s already on that, aren’t you, love?” Angus nodded at her. “She plans to accomplish a great deal at the ball tomorrow night.”

  Julia frowned at her sister. “Jackie? What’s he talking about?”

  Jackie twisted a section of her pale blond hair around her finger. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to worry you. I was going to handle it on my own. Markus invited me to the society’s charity ball tomorrow night. A masquerade. I turned down the invitation, of course. But I’ve thought about it some more, and now I realize that going to the ball is the easiest—maybe the only—way to get to him.”

  “And kill him,” Angus added.

  “Wait a second,” said Crys. None of this made any sense to her. “Markus is immortal. He might be getting weak—might even actually be dying on his own because his magic is fading away—but do you honestly think that you can kill him? Without any magic? Why not at least wait it out to see if his lack of magic kills him first?”

  “The dagger,” Angus supplied helpfully when Jackie didn’t respond. “Magic knives can kill magic men.”

  “Oh yeah?” challenged Crys. “And you have proof of that?”

  “What? You don’t believe me?”

  Crys turned and stared at Jackie, needing to full-on ignore the loathsome, if somewhat informative, Angus before she devolved into a tornado of expletives. “So, what, Jackie? Your plan is to romance the dagger away from him and then shove it in his heart?”

  “This conversation is officially over,” Jackie said, pointing at the door. “Crys, Becca, go upstairs.”

  “Finally, someone’s talking some sense around here,” Angus said.

  Crys was so furious that she could hardly see straight. To think, she’d once idolized Jackie Kendall, had wanted so much to be like her in every way. Jackie, who’d dropped out of high school to go off and have wild adventures in Europe. That’s all Crys had ever wanted—to be a free spirit who made her own rules, went where she wanted, when she wanted.

  But now she knew the truth about her aunt.

  Jackie had been a teenage mother who couldn’t handle the responsibility, so she’d dumped her baby on her more responsible older sister. All her life, all she’d done was blame others for her mistakes and then leave them for someone else to clean up. She’d turned into someone who thought that stealing and killing were perfectly good answers to any problem that might arise.

  All this time, it was Julia that Crys should have been trying to emulate. Julia, her own mother, who was smart, capable, brave, strong, and fierce. It was her mother who’d been so patient with Crys all these years, who’d helped her through all of her ups and downs, and it was Crys who never acted like she appreciated it. And now it was her mother who needed her help.

  She turned to Julia. “Mom, what should we do?”

  “Look after Becca. Keep her safe. And try very hard to stay out of your aunt’s way while I’m gone, okay?”

  She blinked. “What do you mean, while you’re gone?”

  “Jackie’s already arranged for me to leave here today with Angus. He knows a place I can stay, away from the book, where I won’t be a burden to anyone and where I won’t be able to follow any of Markus’s orders to bring him the Codex.”

  Crys’s chest tightened. “Mom, no. Please. We didn’t even discuss this.”

  Jackie’s arms were crossed tightly over her chest. “Because I knew you’d disagree. It has to be this way, Crys. Not forever, but for right now.”

  “Mom!”

  Julia shook her head. “Please, honey, don’t worry. I’ll be fine. Let Jackie do whatever she feels she needs to do to make everything right again, okay?” She grabbed Crys into a tight hug. “Everything I’ve ever done has been to protect you girls, and I’ll be damned if I’ll let Markus break my streak. I trust you, Crys. I know you’ll do the right thing.”

  Hot tears streamed down Crys’s cheeks as her mother let go of her and turned to embrace Becca. Julia’s decision to take herself out of the equation was a complete surprise to Crys, even despite just yesterday witnessing her mother waving a gun around for those few horrifying moments—an image that would stay etched in Crys’s memory forever.

  “Time to go then, Julia,” said Angus, Crys hating his voice even more now that it was the thing that pulled her mother away from her daughters.

  Everyone followed Julia out of the study and toward the door. Silently, Dr. Vega brought up the rear, his expression somber.

  Crys’s heart sunk even further to see that Julia had already packed a bag, which was waiting for her just outside the study door. She grabbed it and straightened her shoulders as Angus opened the door to the hallway.

  “You have my number,” Jackie called after them. “Don’t hesitate to call for any reason, okay?”

  “Got it,” Angus replied, then smirked. “Uriah, keep at that translation. I have absolute faith that it’s only a matter of time before you’ll crack it.”

  “I appreciate your confidence,” Dr. Vega said coolly with a nod.

  “I love all of you,” Julia said. “Don’t ever doubt it okay?”

  Crys wanted to say something, to protest again. But she knew no one would listen to her, and anyway she couldn’t find the words.

  And then they were gone.

  Crys spun around to face Jackie, her hands clenched into fists.

  “Don’t,” Jackie said, shaking her head. “Don’t start with me. I’m not in the mood.”

  “I couldn’t care less what kind of mood you’re in. This is my family you’re destroying—”

  “Crys.” Becca grabbed her arm. “Come on, let’s go upstairs.”

  Reluctantly, with one last sneer at Jackie, Crys allowed Becca to lead her away and up the stairs.

  There was so much Crys wanted to say to her aunt. She wanted to remind her that this was all her fault. That all of Jackie’s bad decisions had led up to this one horrible moment.

  “This is ridiculous,” Crys snarled. She was upstairs now, pacing back and forth in Angus’s library, forcing Charlie to dodge around her quick steps on the floor. “Mom’s gone, who the hell knows where. Angus is as trustworthy as a bag of lying snakes, and Jackie is almost definitely going to get herself killed tomorrow night if she goes to that ball.”

  At the mention of Jackie, Becca snapped her gaze to Crys’s and locked her in a skeptical glare.

  Crys looked back at her sister. “What? You think she has a snowball’s chance in hell against Markus?”

  “Honestly?” said Becca. “No.” She bit her bottom lip and gently pet Charlie, who had grown tired of making way for Crys and was now sitting on Becca’s lap.

  “Exactly! Yet we’re just supposed to let her go on this idiotic mission all alone, while we wait here with Dr. Vega. It’s insane.”

  “That’s not what we’re going to do,” Becca said calmly.

  “What do you mean?”

  Becca just gazed back at Crys, all of a sudden seeming very serene. Considering how serene Crys wasn’t, this was making her seriously uneasy.

  “I need to talk to Markus myself,” Becca said.

  Crys was sure she’d heard her wrong, but all she could do was gape while Becca went on talking.

  “I don’t think killing Markus will do anything to help Mom,” she said. “I’m sure that the magic within the marks comes from the dagger—lives inside the dagger—and it’s the dagger that needs to be destroyed to break
the spell.”

  “How are you so sure?”

  “That goddess from Mytica—Valoria. She wanted the dagger. And maybe even more than the dagger itself, she wanted to make Markus suffer for stealing it. If I were him, I’d want to know about her plans. That she knows what he did and where he is now. Maybe if I tell him, he’ll choose to help us.”

  Crys didn’t know what to say. Becca sought her gaze, her blue eyes serious and haunted. “I keep dreaming about Mytica . . . about Maddox,” she said. “It has to mean something.”

  “And you think it means you should walk on up to Markus King and have a friendly heart-to-heart with him?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. But if Markus is going to be at this ball that Jackie’s going to . . .”

  “Then what, Becca? What are you saying?”

  Crys had never seen such determination in her eyes before. “Then we’re going too.”

  Chapter 12

  FARRELL

  Farrell was all but certain that his mother had been the one to choose the theme of this charity ball, which was already in full swing not half an hour after the official start time. Mrs. Grayson was a fierce lover of Shakespeare and always had season tickets to the Stratford Festival. So even though it was barely spring, Farrell found himself in the midst of Hawkspear’s A Midsummer’s Night’s Dream Masquerade Ball to Benefit Literacy.

  Thanks to his mother, the usual parade of sparkly masks, Oscar-worthy face paint, outrageous ball gowns, and tailored tuxedos now included countless pairs of glittery fairy wings.

  And countless almost wasn’t an exaggeration—this year, tickets had sold out as soon as the news spread that Markus King himself would be attending in a rare public appearance to make a speech about the power of books and literacy.

  Farrell had already decided to stick with club soda tonight, to keep his head clear. Nevertheless, he stuck close to the bar, where he could get a good view of the full room, every square inch of which was pinned, taped, or draped with some sort of fairy-themed decoration.

  If there really was a traitor in their midst like Markus believed there was, Farrell swore he’d find them.

  He was having a silent laugh at a middle-aged man dressed up as Bottom, the half-man, half-donkey character from the play, when a dark-haired woman approached him. Her ornate mask had peacock feathers and a veritable rainbow of sequins, which in Farrell’s opinion made her outlandish emerald green ball gown look incredibly age inappropriate.

  “Try not to say that out loud,” Connor reminded him. “Charm, remember? Even with her.”

  “Mother, I must tell you again that you look absolutely gorgeous tonight,” Farrell said, forcing his most innocent smile on his face.

  Isabelle Grayson’s expression changed from pinched to calm, as if surprised by the compliment. She then patted her hair, which was swept back in a tight bun, a fancier version of her signature, everyday style.

  “Thank you, Farrell,” she said. “By the way, look who I found sitting all by her lonesome at our table.” Mrs. Grayson turned and gave a ladylike nod of her chin toward the girl who had followed her over to the bar.

  Felicity Seaton’s grin was five times brighter than the white pearls she wore at her throat. Her pale pink gown shimmered in the dim candlelight, and she wore a fuchsia mask lined with crystals and even more pearls.

  “I thought you were getting us drinks,” Felicity said.

  “I was,” Farrell lied, trying to cut her off before she could mention that he’d left the table more than thirty minutes ago. He’d excused himself so that he could make another sweep of the room, taking note of who was seated at which tables and ascertaining whether any ticketed guests were absent. “The line was killer; it’s only started to settle down just now.” He turned and signaled to the bartender for two glasses of champagne, which he offered to Felicity and his mother. “Ta-da.”

  “Have you seen Markus yet?” his mother asked eagerly.

  “Not yet.”

  “Do you know when he’ll be making his speech?”

  “Soon, I’m sure.” Dinner had already been served. Society members now picked at their plates.

  Farrell leaned against the bar and took yet another look around the large ballroom. His eye landed on Adam, who was speaking with two elderly women Farrell didn’t recognize—rich ticket-holders who weren’t part of the Hawkspear Society. He was smiling and nodding, surely bored out of his mind by those two old bats, and Farrell couldn’t be bothered to focus his excellent ears in on the conversation.

  Old ladies loved angelic little Adam.

  “Not so fast. Adam could be the one and only traitor Markus suspects,” Connor said. “If that’s so, and if Adam’s up to more nefarious behavior, would you turn him in?”

  It was a question Farrell was reluctant to ponder. He knew what Markus did with traitors, and when it came to imagining Adam in those scenarios . . . The thought made him wonder if even the new-and-improved Farrell was ruthless enough to hand his kid brother over for a swift trial and certain execution.

  “The band is excellent, Mrs. Grayson,” Felicity commented.

  Farrell tried to mostly block out the string quartet playing classical-style renditions of pop songs for those who ventured onto the dance floor.

  “They certainly are,” Isabelle agreed. “I selected them myself after hearing them play at a gala in New York.”

  “An excellent choice. I adore dancing and haven’t done nearly enough of it tonight.” She looked pointedly at Farrell, who tried very hard not to meet her gaze.

  “Yes, you were a student of ballet, weren’t you? Your mother has told me how incredibly talented you were. Such a pity you didn’t pursue it further.”

  Felicity frowned apologetically. “It just wasn’t my calling. But I certainly hope Farrell will be interested in joining me on the dance floor later.”

  Kill me now, Farrell thought, draining the last of his club soda in one gulp and wishing more intensely than he had all night that there were vodka in it.

  “I’d love to,” he lied.

  As he turned and placed his glass back on the bar, he spotted his father standing near the podium where Markus would be speaking, talking on his cell phone.

  “Good old Dad,” Connor commented. “Always on the clock, even at a party. Wouldn’t want any business opportunities to slip past him.”

  That may have been Connor’s take, but all that seeing his father on the phone made Farrell think of were his mother’s recent paranoid suspicions that Edward Grayson was having an affair. Farrell concentrated. He honed in on his father’s voice while consciously muting all others, straining himself to see if he could tell who was on the other end of the line.

  “Yes, all is well,” Farrell heard his father say. “My family is here with me tonight. We won’t be leaving for quite some time. Yes. Yes, I understand. I’ll let you know when to arrive.”

  Farrell was so deep in concentration, trying but failing to hear the voice on the other end of the line, that it took him a moment to see Edward flick his gaze up and look at him. When he finally did lock eyes, his father nodded at him, and Farrell nodded back.

  Must be Sam, he thought.

  Sam was one of the Graysons’ chauffeurs. Lately, he was Farrell’s exclusive driver—he needed one ever since his DUI rendered his license useless. And since the family chauffeur was on vacation this week, Sam stepped up to fill in. It made perfect sense that his father would need to speak with him in the middle of a party.

  His mother still had no real proof of a mistress yet, and the thought that his father might possibly be faithful to his mother landed as a strange relief.

  “Oh, excuse me,” Felicity said, glancing across the room. “I just spotted a friend. I’ll be back soon.”

  “Take your time,” Farrell said under his breath as the girl scurried away, her satin skirt swishing in her wake.

  “Farrell, are you sleeping all right?” his mother asked suddenly.

  He glanced at her quizzica
lly, as if just remembering she was still standing there. “No worse than usual. Why do you ask?”

  “You look absolutely dreadful.”

  He kept his grimace and sarcastic retorts on the inside as he remembered his pledge to be as amiable as possible, even to his mother. “I guess I’ve been feeling a little tired the last day or so.”

  The sleeves of his tuxedo covered up the dagger scars, which still hadn’t completely faded—not with Markus’s magic or his own accelerated healing ability. It wasn’t just that the marks were still visible; they hurt. Even the application of light pressure on his forearm caused him searing pain, and trying to fall asleep last night was a challenge that he had failed because of it.

  To make matters worse, he also felt a cold, dull ache in the center of his chest. No matter how much ibuprofen or antacid he took, he couldn’t shake the overall feeling of unwellness. He could only describe it as something akin to a harsh hangover, one that had lingered far longer than even his worst hangovers ever did.

  His mother placed a cool palm on his cheek, surprising him. “You feel fine, darling. That’s a relief.”

  Darling? She hadn’t called him that in years. “I am fine.”

  She studied him, frowning. “I can’t believe you had your birthmark removed.”

  “Glad it’s gone,” he scoffed. “It was ugly.”

  “It was part of you.”

  “It was an ugly part of me.”

  She shook her head. “Without it, you look so much like Connor. I can’t believe I never realized the similarities until now.”

  A familiar shadow of grief slid behind her eyes as she mentioned her deceased eldest son. As if responding to a command, Farrell placed his hand on top of hers.

  “What can I say? You gave birth to three very good-looking sons.”

  This made her smile, just a little. “This is true.”

  “I think more champagne is in order.”

  She nodded.

  He wanted to be cold and unfeeling toward her, to summon up hatred for this woman who spent so much of her life refusing to offer him any kind words, but tonight he found he didn’t have the energy even for apathy.