A Book of Spirits and Thieves

  “Then, sure, I’d go with you,” she said, shrugging. “Sounds like fun.”

  She had wondered, more than once, whether she really would have gone with him if he’d really asked. But he hadn’t asked.

  Two whole years. She’d kept his cell number on her phone all this time. If he ever called, she’d planned to answer it just so she could tell him to go to hell.

  Before she could think twice about it, she began scrolling through her contacts list, rushing by name after name of all the people she couldn’t reach out to. There were Amanda and Sara, her best friends who’d moved far away at the beginning of the school year, one right after the other. Her sister. Her mother. Dozens of random acquaintances, including a boy she’d liked last year but hadn’t summoned up the courage to ask out before she’d quickly lost interest in him . . .

  DAD

  According to Jackie, Markus King, whoever he was, wanted that book. He would know what it was and, possibly, what it had done to Becca. Would he also know how to help her just as her mother had suggested?

  Heart racing, Crys jabbed the entry in her phone and composed a quick text.

  Are you still in Toronto? I miss you, Dad. Will you please meet with me today?

  Her chest grew tight as she realized it was the truth. She missed her father so much it hurt.

  She hesitated only briefly before pressing Send.

  Then she put the phone down on the table and pushed it away from her, as if it had sprouted horns and a tail. Charlie sauntered into the kitchen and started to eat from his dish of cat food, glancing up at her between bites as she now curled herself up on the wooden chair, hugging her knees to her chest.

  Five minutes later, her phone chirped. She pulled it closer and warily eyed the screen.

  Yes, I’m still here. Of course I’ll meet with you, but it will have to be tomorrow. Just tell me when and where.

  Crys shut off the phone and tried to ignore the sick, twisting feeling in her gut.

  She felt as if she’d just made contact with the dead.

  Chapter 5

  FARRELL

  If there was one thing Farrell struggled with the most, it was properly tying a bow tie.

  “Finally,” he muttered as his clumsy fingers managed the proper knot at last. He pulled on the black jacket of his Armani tuxedo and took a swig of vodka from his silver flask.

  He slipped the flask into his inner jacket pocket and then fastened a gold pin to his lapel—a small crest of crossed spears behind a hawk.

  The society’s signet was so literal it used to make Farrell laugh out loud.

  He leaned forward, eyeing his reflection in the mirror, and pushed his dark brown hair back from his face. He glared at the birth-mark beneath his right eye with displeasure. One day he’d get around to having it removed. He honestly hadn’t paid it much attention until a local magazine did a photo spread on the family and someone in the art department had taken the liberty of airbrushing it out.

  A physical flaw in the House of Grayson. Can’t have that.

  He turned on the heels of his tight, Italian leather loafers and left his room.

  “Have you been drinking?” His father’s deep voice greeted him in the hallway.

  He gave Edward Grayson a wry look. They wore identical tuxes—same designer, same size. “Honestly, Dad. Would I drink on an important night like this? It’s baby brother’s initiation.”

  His father’s lips quirked up, almost into a smile, and he absently raked both of his hands through his graying hair. It was another trait they shared—an unconscious gesture they made when not entirely at ease. “I’m counting on you to keep a close eye on Adam tonight.”

  “I will.”

  “I mean it. He’s so excited about his initiation, and . . . well, I hope everything goes smoothly. Your mother’s concerned that his reaction to his first meeting will be . . . unpredictable.”

  His mother was always concerned about something. “How about my first reaction? Was it unpredictable?” Farrell asked.

  His father studied him. “You are always unpredictable.”

  He decided to take that as a compliment. “I try my best.”

  “Adam cannot embarrass himself or this family.” It was Isabelle Grayson’s voice that now sliced between father and son. Farrell glanced at his mother as she approached, her four-inch Louboutin pumps clicking on the marble floor. Her jet-black hair was pulled into a tight coil at the nape of her neck. Her lips were bright crimson, her eye makeup applied flawlessly. She wore a dark blue gown that brushed the floor and diamonds on her wrist, fingers, neck, and ears.

  Her current expression held no discernible emotion. That could be because of her chilly personality or her most recent visit to her favorite Botox syringe, Farrell thought.

  “He won’t,” Farrell said. “Adam will be fine.”

  “I hope you’re right.” His mother swept her appraising gaze over him before moving down the staircase. Farrell watched her go with a tight feeling in his chest.

  “Son . . . ,” his father said, his voice softening a fraction. “Are you all right?”

  Farrell blinked, glancing at him sideways. “Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  A shadow crossed his father’s concerned face. “You’ve been very quiet this week, which is unlike you. The anniversary of . . . well, it’s been difficult for all of us, of course, but I know, for you, having found him like that, it must be—”

  “I’m fine,” Farrell bit out, shuttering up his emotions as best he could. Numb was best. Numb was always best. He felt the reassuring weight of the silver flask in his pocket. “We should go. Wouldn’t want to be late, would we?”

  Adam’s face fell as soon as they got out of the limo.

  “It’s just a restaurant,” he said blandly.

  “Yes.” Their father’s eyes sparkled at the sight of the five-star restaurant where their attire wouldn’t seem out of place in the slightest. “One of my favorites, actually.”

  “So, what? Do they reserve a room at the back for us? Like a birthday party?”

  Farrell smirked. “Just wait till you see the balloon animals.”

  “Enough talking.” Their mother’s words were clipped. “Be silent. Eyes forward. Consider yourself blessed to have been allowed this opportunity at your young age, and don’t embarrass me.”

  Adam clamped his mouth shut and met Farrell’s gaze. The two nearly started to laugh. They might be unpredictable, but their mother certainly wasn’t.

  They entered the restaurant, practically vacant at nearly midnight. The familiar hostess’s eyes flicked to their golden pins before she nodded.

  “This way,” she said, gesturing toward an elevator that slid open at the end of a short hallway. No party room or balloon animals in sight.

  Adam kept quiet now, watching and waiting, as they got on the elevator together without a word. The doors closed, and they began moving down.

  It wasn’t very long before the doors opened again.

  The hallway had fluorescent lights set into the ceiling about every fifteen feet. If Farrell stretched out his arms, he would easily be able to touch both sides of the narrow corridor. They walked two-by-two, parents in front, brothers in the rear.

  Farrell had expected something much different than this on his initiation night—perhaps thick stone walls covered in mold and mildew, lit by blazing torches, leading to a cavernous hall with mysterious strangers in hooded robes. The scent of ancient traditions and history itself in the musty air.

  Instead, he got something much less medieval and much more modern. This hallway reminded him of a narrower version of the city’s PATH system: a maze of underground tunnels connecting the subway to stores and buildings in the business district so that commuters could avoid the slush and ice whenever possible during Toronto’s harsh winters.

  But
this wasn’t the PATH. These hallways were privately owned and maintained. Only a privileged few ever got to see these walls. But it was a maze of tunnels that led to many different places—or so he’d heard. So far, he’d only used them to travel from the restaurant to the society’s inner sanctum.

  Left turn, right turn, right, left, left . . . and so on. Farrell had never bothered to fully learn the route himself, because his parents had always been there to guide him.

  “How far until we get there?” Adam asked.

  “Not very,” Farrell replied. Up ahead, he could see some other members headed to the same destination. “We’re almost there.”

  Which was good, since his new shoes were killing him.

  Finally, they came to a spiral staircase, which they ascended slowly and carefully. The staircase led to an iron door covered in mysterious symbols. Edward Grayson knocked—three quick, then three slow.

  A moment later, the door opened, and they entered the society’s headquarters.

  “First we’re at a fancy restaurant,” Adam said loud enough for only Farrell to hear. “And now this?”

  The disappointment and uncertainty had returned to his brother’s voice.

  Farrell knew that entering a grand theater dressed in formal wear, as if attending the latest touring Broadway musical, was not what Adam ever would have anticipated. “Just wait till showtime,” Farrell replied under his breath.

  Nearly two hundred other society members were already here, all taking their seats in the rows closest to the stage. This theater could easily seat six hundred, but the leader preferred to keep his numbers to a minimum.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Farrell spotted a familiar face. Lucas Barrington stood at the very front near the wide stage and beckoned toward Farrell to join him.

  “What the hell does he want?” he muttered to himself.

  Lucas had been Connor’s best friend for years, but Farrell had never liked him. He’d always been too . . . shiny. Too slick and polite and full of compliments, like he was trying to sell something. Farrell wasn’t buying the suck-up act, so he usually tried to avoid the guy whenever possible and lately had only seen him at the quarterly meetings, every three months. They hadn’t spoken a word to each other in six months.

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” Farrell said to Adam. Then, without waiting for a reply, he walked toward Lucas.

  “How are you doing?” Lucas asked.

  “I’m fine.”

  “I hope you mean that.”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “It’s been a whole year now. I miss him, too. We all do.”

  Farrell’s gut lurched. He wished he could find a way to turn off his emotions, once and for all. “Has it really been that long? Time sure flies. Is that what you called me over here to say?”

  “No. Let’s go over there. It’s more private.” Lucas nodded to the other side of the stage, where there was a small alcove away from the other members.

  Once there, Farrell crossed his arms. “So, what’s up?”

  “I’ll make this short and sweet.” Lucas scanned the theater before his dark eyes met Farrell’s. “You’ve been chosen.”

  “Chosen? For what?”

  “For Markus’s inner circle.”

  Farrell nodded slowly, not understanding. “Which is . . . ?”

  “Markus’s secret inner circle. It’s always existed. Carefully selected members are chosen to help him on a more personal level. It’s a huge honor.”

  Farrell covered his shock with a smirk. “Huh. A secret society within a secret society. Is it covered in secret sauce, too?”

  Lucas snorted. “Markus wants to meet with you in private to discuss this further.”

  “I take it you’re a member of this inner circle.”

  “I am.”

  His heart had started to race at this possibility. Very few members ever met with Markus in private. The man was a human question mark. “And why am I the latest chosen one?”

  “Apparently, he sees the same potential in you that he saw in Connor.”

  “Wait. Are you saying that Connor . . . was he in Markus’s circle, too?”

  “He was.” Lucas’s expression turned grim and he shook his head. “I still can’t believe what happened. And I know we’ve never discussed it before, you and I, but I guess this is as good a time as any. Did you have any idea he was having problems?”

  “All I know for sure is he started acting differently after Mallory broke up with him.”

  “He took it hard when she left.”

  “To say the least.” That was a short answer. The truth was, Farrell had heard Connor threatening his girlfriend of four years over the phone—telling her that if she didn’t change her mind and come back to him that he was going to find her, hurt her. Make her regret her choice.

  His voice . . . it had been so cold and dark and obsessed that it had made Farrell’s blood turn to ice.

  That hadn’t been like Connor. The last couple of months of his life, he’d started to withdraw from Farrell, from Adam. He’d started acting like he had a secret, one he’d protect at any cost. . . .

  Was it that he’d become part of Markus’s circle?

  “When does Markus want to meet with me?” Farrell asked.

  “Soon. I’ll notify you.”

  Farrell let out a slow, even breath. “Hopefully I’ll be available at short notice.”

  Lucas grinned at Farrell’s flippant comment. “Even you know to jump when he says so. And I hope it goes without saying that you’ll tell no one about this.”

  Farrell’s gaze moved to the audience of society members—some of the richest and most influential people in the city—all getting comfortable in their plush red-velvet seats and chatting politely to one another, as they did at the beginning of every meeting. Each one wore the same gold pin to show they belonged here. That they, too, had been chosen.

  How many of them are also part of Markus’s inner circle? Farrell wondered.

  “My lips are sealed,” he promised aloud.

  Mind swirling, he returned to his seat.

  “What was that all about?” his mother asked.

  Farrell waved a hand. “Oh, you know Lucas and his girl problems. I told him he’s way too young to be considering Viagra. Hopefully he listened.”

  “I will ignore your questionable attempt at humor.” Her red lips thinned. “Speaking of girls, a friend of mine has a daughter I’d like you to begin dating.”

  “Really.” He raised an eyebrow. “My mother, the matchmaker.”

  “Felicity Seaton is beautiful and poised, goes to an excellent school, and comes from an exemplary family.”

  “She sounds so shiny that I’d need sunglasses to date her.”

  “I’ve set up a dinner for the two of you at seven o’clock, Tuesday evening at Scaramouche.”

  Before he could protest, the lights began to dim and the theater went silent. A spotlight shone down on the brocade curtains as they parted to reveal the figure of a man. Like all the men here, he wore a tailored tuxedo that perfectly fit his tall frame.

  “Who is that?” Adam whispered to Farrell.

  “Our illustrious leader, Markus King,” he whispered back.

  Adam’s eyes widened. “Seriously? That’s our leader?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Markus King, the leader and cofounder of the Hawkspear Society, an organization that had existed for sixty years. A man who stayed out of the public eye and who cherished his absolute privacy, trusting very few.

  Those who saw him for the first time always had the same reaction: disbelief followed by complete awe. Farrell had formed his own expectations as a young initiate. He’d imagined a wise, old man who watched over his society and its members with sharp eyes and no sense of humor.

  Or, perhaps, a seni
le, old man who muttered to himself, and whom no one wished to upset by asking him to step down from his place of power after six decades to make way for a newer, younger leader.

  Farrell quickly learned that Markus King could not be summed up by the naive expectations of a sixteen-year-old mind.

  Tonight, he regarded their enigmatic leader with bottomless curiosity about what their private meeting would entail.

  “How old is he?” Adam asked, his voice hushed.

  “No one knows for sure.”

  Markus had bought this theater soon after he’d arrived in Toronto. In the 1950s, he closed it down, choosing not to reopen it to the general public. To anyone walking along the street, the theater would appear as nothing more than a sad old building. This was one of the reasons why it was accessed by the tunnels. If anyone noticed that two hundred men and women in tuxedos and evening gowns were entering an abandoned theater once every three months at midnight, there might be some difficult questions asked.

  “I welcome you, brothers and sisters,” Markus began. The acoustics of the theater helped make his deep voice all the more majestic. “I welcome you, one and all, with open arms. Thank you for coming here tonight. Without you, I would not be able to share my knowledge and my miraculous gifts. Without you, there is no past and there is no future. Without you, I would be lost in a sea of enemies. Together we are strong. Together we can make a difference in this world today, tomorrow, and always.”

  It was the credo of the society, which everyone repeated in unison: “Today, tomorrow, and always.”

  In all the meetings he’d ever attended, Farrell had never paid as close attention to the standard greeting as he did now. This powerful man had chosen Farrell to join his inner circle—just as he’d chosen Connor. Before his suicide, Connor had kept this secret—even from his own brother, with whom he once shared everything. What did it mean?

  “Spring beckons in this great city, a season that promises new beginnings, fresh starts,” Markus continued. “We will begin tonight, as always, with a report of our plans for the next few months.”

  He called up several members to the stage to speak, including Gloria St. Pierre, a woman who practically dripped diamonds in her wake. She spoke about an upcoming charity ball all members would attend and beseeched them to invite friends to buy pairs of expensive tickets, whose proceeds would go toward grants for struggling artists.