With a small smile from Liana, a strong nod from Maddox, and an exasperated sigh from Al, they set out once again on their way. Barnabas led, and Liana and Maddox had to jog in intervals to keep up with his impressively quick pace. As they went, the relief of reaching the forest and hearing kind words from Barnabas faded as Maddox truly began to feel the darkness of the day. He felt so weary, and immeasurably more anxious and uncertain about their mission. How was he supposed to stay positive about reaching their goal when their success depended entirely upon whether or not one hateful goddess would agree to help them destroy another? On today of all days—when they’d found and lost a princess and became bait once again for the evil Valoria and the brute who’d killed Damaris—it seemed particularly impossible to find any hope.
But then he remembered that today was also the day that Barnabas embraced him and told him he was proud of him.
And that it was also the day that stubborn old Barnabas had gone even further and kissed Liana.
If those two events weren’t evidence that there was still hope in the world, then Maddox didn’t know what was.
“Well,” Al said sadly, “I believe I’m starting to come around to the possibility that Her Radiance didn’t come here to apologize for the execution and bring me back to the palace.”
Maddox felt a pang in his chest for poor Al, yet strangely his sense of hope was bolstered rather than diminished by the talking head’s acceptance of reality.
Barnabas turned to the sack in Liana’s hands. “I’m sorry, Al. But you’re right. That is not why Valoria came.”
Maddox was happy that he managed to say this gently.
Al sniffed. “I see.”
“Don’t be upset,” Liana said, hugging the sack close. “You’re with us now. I think that’s much better than where you were a few days ago.”
“Yes,” Al agreed. “Quite true. And I must hold tight to the promise of a brighter future.”
Barnabas glanced at Maddox, who got a pang in his chest at the allusion to their agreement to reunite Al with his body. Maddox didn’t think he could follow through on it.
Summoning consciousness from the dead was one thing, but fully reuniting Al with his body . . . it was uncertain at best.
“A bright future indeed,” Liana said. “Now let’s go find some horses so we can continue south, shall we?”
Maddox couldn’t agree more, but just as he was about to start moving, he was stopped short by Barnabas’s outstretched arm, palm forward in a halting gesture.
“Shh,” Barnabas hissed.
“What is it?” Maddox whispered.
“I hear something—someone—drawing closer.”
All four of them went deadly silent, and Maddox strained to listen. There it was: the sound of branches and twigs snapping, of swift footsteps drawing closer.
His hands clenched to fists as, completely by instinct and with no conscious thought, he summoned his magic. As he drew his powers forth, he once again promised himself he wouldn’t use them to kill anyone, though he reminded himself that it was perfectly all right to direct it toward rendering this potential threat unconscious.
The noises grew louder until there was no question in Maddox’s mind that they were being made by a person heading straight for them. Barnabas motioned for them all to crouch down behind a dense wall of leafy branches, and there they waited for whatever was about to come. Finally, a figure appeared through the thick foliage. The silhouette was slim, and as it drew closer Maddox saw that it belonged to a girl—a lovely girl with long honey blond hair. She wore a black frock—shockingly short—that bared her knees and lower legs.
Suddenly, as if she sensed she was being watched, she stopped a dozen paces away and turned her head. In a single instant, her gaze locked with his. He couldn’t look away from those eyes. They looked darker while she stood under the forest canopy, but he knew their true shade to be a brilliant deep blue.
“Maddox!” the girl gasped.
Eyes widening, fists unclenching, he had to steady himself against a tree so that he wouldn’t topple over. His face broke into a smile as he managed to choke out a single word.
“Becca.”
Chapter 24
CRYSTAL
Crys waited for Angus outside Markus’s mansion. She sat on the front step, hugging her knees to her chest, keeping as much distance between herself and Farrell as she could manage. He had remained inside to “try to clear his head,” he’d said, for the twenty minutes since Angus had swiftly returned her call. Just as she’d predicted, the thief was eager to learn more about the dagger.
She looked down at it, clenched in her hand, impressed by how calm she’d managed to be so far. It wasn’t every day that she was hunted to within an inch of her life by someone who had been magically commanded to kill her.
Farrell’s not a killer, she reminded herself over and over, like some sort of twisted mantra. “He’s an asshole, a misogynist, and a spoiled brat,” she allowed out loud, “but he’s not a killer.”
“Aw, come on.” The front door clicked shut behind her. “You shouldn’t give me so many compliments,” Farrell said. “They’re going to go to my head.”
Her whole body went tense. She turned and gave him a wary glare as he slid on his dark sunglasses, repressing the sudden urge to run. “It’s not funny.”
“I’m not laughing. You really think I’m a misogynist? I love women! All sorts of women. Young, old, brunettes, redheads . . . platinum blondes.” His words were flippant, but his tone was strained and serious. He paused and let his smile fall a little as his eyes rested on the dagger in Crys’s hand. “I think it would be best for you keep the dagger in that handbag of yours before you cut yourself.”
“Fine.” She put the blade away and clutched her handbag to her chest.
“I hope you realize that I’ll need that back. It doesn’t belong to you.”
“It doesn’t belong to you either,” she countered.
His jaw tightened. “At the ball, Markus told me that Damen Winter made that thing.”
Crys hated even thinking of that cold, sick, cruel man with the black eyes. He had taken Becca somewhere, and she didn’t even know if her sister was still alive . . .
Dad, she thought, her throat growing thick in seconds, I wish you were here. So, so badly. You’d know what to do.
Her eyes burned, but she refused to cry. She couldn’t. Which was why it was best not to think about her father at all right now.
Especially while she was with Farrell.
He’d said he didn’t know where her father was or when he’d be back. Was that the truth? Or did Farrell know exactly what really happened to him?
She eyed Farrell now, wondering if he was capable of telling her the truth about anything.
“If looks could kill,” he said. “What summoned the sudden look of death?”
“Forget it,” she muttered. For now, she thought.
“Consider it forgotten.”
Becca had told Crys that the dagger was from Mytica and that some sort of goddess was looking for it. Now apparently Damen Winter had been thrown into the mix. Crys could barely keep up with it all anymore. “So you’re saying it’s Damen’s dagger? Please tell me you’re not thinking about trading it in exchange for getting your lord and master back.”
“No. That’s not even a possibility.”
“Interesting,” Crys said. “When I called Markus your lord and master, you didn’t correct me.”
“No, I didn’t, did I?”
“So you’re finally agreeing that’s what he is?” She braced herself for a witty or cutting reply, but Farrell didn’t even smirk. Nor did he answer the question.
“We’re not giving it to this Angus person either,” he said.
Even when Crys glanced away, she could feel the heat of his gaze on the side of her face. “I made him a bargain.”
Farrell let out a chilly scoff. “You bargained with something that’s not yours to bargain with.”
“He wouldn’t have agreed to help if I hadn’t. All I did was say I would give it to him. See that bridge, Farrell? Let’s cross it when we get to it, okay? All I care about right now is saving my sister.”
“Right. Pesky little Becca, always getting kidnapped. It’s too bad she’s so unlike her responsible older sibling who breaks into private homes looking for buried treasure—”
“The door was unlocked,” she reminded him.
“—or her aunt, who’s currently finding out if orange really is the new black. Oh, wait. Not her aunt, her mother.” Farrell smirked as Crys narrowed her eyes at him. “Just remember something, Crys. Of all the people joining in today’s little field trip, you’re the only one who doesn’t need to be involved. I know where Markus and your kid sister are being held, Angus has the greed, skills, and magical knowledge to get us in and out. Say, for instance, you had to call in sick and couldn’t bring the dagger. I’m sure Angus and I could agree on a price he’d find fair enough to help me do whatever’s necessary to free Markus.”
It was only more proof of what had been bothering her all her life. That she wasn’t important, wasn’t necessary, wasn’t . . . special.
Well, screw that, she thought.
“I’m coming. Don’t even think about stopping me.”
He held up his hands. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Just remember: Be careful around me.”
“You didn’t kill me before when you had the chance. You won’t kill me now.” At best, it was a guess. A hope. And only out of desperation would she remain anywhere near him today.
“See, it’s logic like that that’s going to get you killed.”
“So you’re saying that I shouldn’t trust you? At all?”
“Finally we speak the same language. That’s right, Crys. Don’t trust me, not for one damn minute, while I have these marks on my arm and his command in my head. Got it?”
All she could do was nod. After what he’d done inside the house, both stalking her and saving her, the least she could say was that Farrell Grayson had her extremely confused. Fifty percent of her hated him. Forty percent of her feared him. And the last ten percent . . . well, that was most confusing slice of the pie chart.
That was the part of her that wanted to help him. To trust him.
It was also the ten percent she’d begun to call the stupid part.
Angus pulled up in a silver Porsche. Crys watched Farrell eye it appraisingly as Angus rolled down his window. He wore a blue bow tie and had a yellow daisy tucked into his lapel button.
“Here I am, Crystal,” he said.
“Good. Let’s go.”
He shook his head. “Let’s see the dagger first, if you please.”
Glaring, she reached into her bag and pulled it out by its golden hilt.
Angus’s eyes glinted with greed. “Excellent. Now let’s go save your sister. Or whatever.”
“The 928. Great car,” Farrell said as he approached. “I have a Boxster, but I can’t drive it at the moment. I’m in serious Porsche withdrawal.”
Angus pulled his mirrored aviators down his nose and looked at Farrell. “Who’s this guy?”
Crys didn’t answer right away; she was in the process of learning that the backseat of a Porsche 928 wasn’t exactly luxuriously large. Still, she’d much rather wedge herself into it than sit in the front with her back to Farrell.
“This is Farrell Grayson,” she said once she’d managed to get in a seated position. “Farrell, Angus Balthazar.”
“Balthazar?” Farrell repeated as he climbed in the front seat and shut the door. “Is that for real?”
“Of course not,” Angus said. “Grayson . . . I recognize the name.” He nodded. “Yes, I believe I stole a Picasso sketch from your grandmother—Sophia Grayson, right? Oh, when was it? A decade ago or so. How’s the old bat doing now?”
“Not well,” Farrell replied, leaning back in the passenger seat. “She died five years ago.” He narrowed his eyes. “A Picasso, you say?”
Angus waved his hand. “Don’t worry about it. Condolences on your granny. She was a firecracker, that one.”
“How’s my mother?” Crys asked. “Did you tell her about Becca?”
“No, I thought it best not to. Your mum is safely locked away in her lovely hotel suite with a plethora of snacks and entertainment options to keep her occupied until all is well with the world again.”
“What hotel?”
“Jackie wanted it to be a secret.”
“Angus, I’m her daughter.”
He shrugged. “Sorry. Orders are orders.”
“Can I call her? See how she’s doing?”
“I think, given the way Mr. King has been manipulating her over the telephone, that would be a bad idea. Besides, her mobile has been confiscated, and she doesn’t have a phone in her suite.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Try not to worry. She’s fine. And now we’re going on an adventure to help make that state of fineness permanent.”
“This is important, Angus. You don’t seem like you’re taking it very seriously.”
“This is as serious as I get, darling. Any more serious and, trust me, you wouldn’t like me very much.”
She didn’t like him much to start with. “Fine. Farrell will tell you where we need to go. Just . . . go fast.”
“This car goes no other way.” He pulled away from the mansion and onto the road. He glanced over at Farrell. “You okay, fella?”
“I’m fine,” Farrell said tightly. “You’ll want to head east once we get to the end of the street.”
“East it is. You’re sure you’re fine? You’re sweating all over my full-grain Italian-leather seats.”
“I’ve got it under control.”
Small car, tight quarters. Crys knew she was too close to Farrell. Markus’s command was working overtime, which was one of the many reasons she’d wanted to bring the dagger with her. She would use it if she had to—not to kill Farrell, of course, but she wasn’t above stabbing him in the shoulder or leg in self-defense.
If she got a chance, she’d use it on Damen to do much more damage.
Don’t get carried away, she told herself. In and out. Find Becca and escape.
“When we spoke on the phone, Crys, you mentioned the name Damen Winter,” Angus said as he followed Farrell’s directions and went east.
“Yes,” Crys said. “We had the displeasure of meeting him at the ball. He killed people just by looking at them.”
“That sounds incredibly—”
“Horrifying?” she finished.
“Fascinating.”
“Of course it would, to you. You’re the magic enthusiast. You have the whole Hogwarts library in your penthouse.” She bit her bottom lip. “Angus, please tell me you know how to protect us from Damen’s magic?”
“I have this.” In the rearview mirror, Crys watched Angus pull a necklace out from beneath his shirt. Strung on the silver chain was a silver medallion.
“What’s that?” Farrell asked. “Some sort of talisman? Protective rune? What’s that symbol on it?”
“It’s a four-leaf clover. I got this in a box of Cracker Jacks as a kid, and it’s been my lucky charm ever since.”
Crys slumped back in her seat. She really hated this guy, but hopefully he’d serve his purpose.
Then, out of nowhere, Angus began to laugh.
“What?” Crys growled.
“Oh, I’m just thinking about your aunt. I stopped by my place before I came to collect you. Dr. Vega has been on the phone all morning trying to figure things out—hire a lawyer, nail down bail hearings, et cetera. She has him so well trained, it’s . . . well, it’s sad, really. Another man twisted around your aunt’s pretty little finger.”
Hearing him mock Dr. Vega, who had been nothing but helpful and kind to Crys, made her raise her hackles. “I take it from your tone that you’re not in love with her too? Why would you be different from any other man in Jackie’s path?”
“Well, she is attractive, but I t
hink my husband would have something to say about me seriously pursuing her.” He glanced at Crys in the rearview mirror and winked. “He’s the jealous type, you know.”
She crossed her arms and fell into silence, but silence wasn’t a good idea either. Silence only brought far too many worried, anxious thoughts about her sister, her mother, her aunt.
And her father.
A sob rose in her throat. She tried, and mostly succeeded, to swallow it back down, feeling grateful to be hidden in that tiny backseat. She couldn’t fall apart yet. Later, definitely, but not yet.
Farrell continued to give directions to Angus. They drove for another fifteen minutes, the route taking them through the heart of downtown.
“Take the next left,” Farrell told him.
Angus nodded. “So, tell me, Farrell. You say you have a Boxster but can’t drive it. May I ask why? Forgive me, but I’m horribly curious about other people’s business.”
“It was in the news, so it’s not exactly a secret. Long story short: I got in an accident and was charged with a DUI.”
“Ah, I see. Alcohol consumption should be a deadly sin. I haven’t touched the poison myself in fifteen years and twenty-six days. Dulls the mind and the soul.”
“That’s kind of the point,” Farrell muttered. “But I know what—”
Suddenly, he let out a loud, pained roar and grabbed the dashboard, his body convulsing.
“What in the hell—?” Angus swerved then righted the car. “What’s wrong with you, boy?”
Crys watched, horrified at whatever was happening to Farrell. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and she could see the mark on his forearm: intricate red lines, like words written in a foreign language. Suddenly the angry scar began to glow with golden light. It was just like the light that filled Becca’s eyes whenever she touched the Codex.
Farrell swore at the top of his lungs, slamming his fist against the dash.
Angus quickly lurched the car over to the side of the road as Farrell fell back in his seat, chest heaving.
Crys grabbed Farrell’s shoulder. “Are you okay?”