A Book of Spirits and Thieves Read online

  “Okay.” She eyed his jaw, which was slightly swollen now and red, and grimaced with sympathy. “Why?”

  “Because I really need a drink. And one of my favorite bars in the whole wide world is right around the corner from here.” He paused. “I think you need a drink, too, after busting out that little ninja move. That was impressive, by the way. Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

  She shrugged. “My aunt taught me a few moves.”

  “Lethal weapon, table for two.” He nodded farther up the sidewalk. “What do you say?”

  Her heart was still pounding from the fight with the thief, so it took her a moment to process what he was suggesting. “I’m only seventeen. I can’t drink.”

  “I’m nineteen. The law says I’m legally allowed to order and consume alcohol. And even if it didn’t, money speaks volumes. They’ll serve you, promise.”

  She didn’t have time for drinks with boys, even cute, rich ones who’d just saved her from a big-time jam. “I don’t know . . .”

  “If it helps your decision, you should know I’m not hitting on you. This is a ‘we survived a violent crime together so let’s have a celebratory drink’ drink. That’s all.”

  She eyed him skeptically. It’s not like she’d leap to assume that someone like Farrell Grayson would be interested in her that way, but he was being suspiciously friendly. “I didn’t think you were.”

  “Actually, I could really use a friend right now, if you’re willing. ‘Safe and platonic’ is my middle name.” He cocked his head. “Am I successful in tempting you to stray to the dark side?”

  There was that crooked grin again.

  Crys bit her bottom lip and studied him for a moment longer as he smoked his cigarette and shivered in the cool evening air in his thin, but probably very expensive, leather jacket. It was night now; the clouds had cleared away to reveal the black sky studded with stars and the bright sliver of the new moon.

  “Fine,” she relented. “One totally illicit drink, and then I have to get home.”

  He nodded. “Modestly daring. I approve. What’s your name, anyway?”

  “Crystal. Crystal Hatcher. Everyone calls me Crys.”

  He offered her his arm. “Allow me to lead you into temptation, Crys Hatcher.”

  The bar was small and exclusive. Everyone there was well dressed and well coiffed. Crys twisted a finger through a long pale lock of her hair and tried not to regret the faded jeans and novelty T-shirt she had on under her coat.

  She’d never cared much about fashion. Why should she start tonight?

  They got a booth in the corner and the waitress came over. Farrell ordered a double vodka on the rocks for himself.

  Crys eyed him. “That’s a serious drink.”

  “I’m a very serious guy.” The amused expression on his face led her to believe he was anything but. “What would you like?”

  “I have absolutely no idea.”

  “Salty? Sweet? A shot? Wine?” Farrell studied her pensively as she kept him waiting for an answer. “I’m thinking we’ll go with a whiskey sour.”

  “All right,” the waitress said, throwing an appraising glance at Crys but not asking for any ID. “I’ll be right back.”

  Crys shrugged out of her jacket.

  “Cute,” Farrell said, his gaze now on her chest before his eyes snapped to hers. He smirked. “I mean your T-shirt, of course.”

  “Thanks.” She looked down at herself to remember which one she was wearing.

  It was a dinosaur that’d awkwardly tipped over onto its nose, with the caption T. REX HATES PUSH-UPS.

  Classy.

  A minute later, the waitress returned with their drinks.

  “A toast,” Farrell said, raising his glass. “To Crys, a kick-ass girl who’s nobody’s victim.”

  “I’ll enthusiastically drink to that.” She clinked glasses with him and took a sip of her cocktail, not sure what to expect. It was sour, but still sweet, kind of like lemonade with a kick of liquor that heated her throat as she swallowed. “I like it. I think.”

  “I’m an expert at matching the right drink to the right person. It’s one of my gifts.”

  She wondered what his other gifts were if he considered that one of them. “You said you’re nineteen, which means you’re only recently legal. Yet you’re already an expert?”

  “I took a crash course in debauchery.” He swirled his drink, his pleasant expression fading just a little. “That was a poor choice of words. I have a driver now, only a phone call away, because I can’t drive myself at the moment. Made the mistake of doing a little too much of this”—he indicated the drink—“and then getting behind the wheel. Luckily, I’m the only one who ever got hurt.”

  That was quite a confession for him to make to a near stranger, but she appreciated the honesty. “Everyone makes mistakes. As long as you learn from them, I guess.”

  “My mistakes have to be pretty big for me to learn from them, but I do eventually. So, where do you go to school, if it’s not at the university?”

  She took another sip of her drink. “Sunderland High.”

  “I’m assuming senior year?”

  She nodded.

  “Planning for college? Is that why you were at the university yesterday?”

  “No, I—I mean, I like to keep my options open. I’d rather travel for a while. See the world. Figure out my future before it’s figured out for me.”

  “Good plan. Let me guess, you’re an aspiring photographer.”

  “I am. An aspiring photographer, now without a camera.”

  Farrell appeared to consider this. “You can always use the camera on your phone.”

  “It’s not even remotely the same. That camera was retro, but it took professional-level shots.” She looked down at the ice cubes in her drink, trying to put the loss out of her head. “What do you want to do with the rest of your life?”

  “No idea. But I’ve been considering a few options lately.” He leaned forward. “I have to know . . . what perfume are you wearing?”

  “Perfume?” She shook her head. “I’m not wearing any perfume.”

  “No way. I smell strawberries—like, a field of them, warm under the summer sun.”

  “I use a strawberry-scented soap.”

  “That must be it. Just soap. Huh. What do you know?” His lips quirked up as he downed the rest of his drink in one swallow. “Why don’t you tell me about your family? Do you get along with them?”

  She tried not to laugh. “I feel like I’m being interrogated.”

  “Sorry, I like to talk. Ask questions. Get to know people.”

  “All right.” Another sip of her whiskey sour and she found that it was almost gone. “Well, I have a younger sister named Becca, and we live with our mother above the Speckled Muse Bookshop.”

  “That sounds like fun.”

  “Sometimes. Are you a reader?”

  “Do graphic novels count?”

  “Sure.”

  “Then yes. I’m practically a bookworm.”

  She watched him, feeling more comfortable in his presence the longer they sat there. “How about you? Do you have any siblings? No, wait. I already know you from that photo spread. You have a younger brother and an older brother.”

  A shadow of pain crossed his expression. He signaled for the waitress to bring over another vodka.

  Crys eyed him carefully, now worried that she’d said something wrong.

  “Good memory,” he finally said. “Yeah, two brothers. I’m the middle child with all the psychological baggage that comes along with that position.”

  Whatever sadness had passed across his face had now disappeared. Maybe it had been nothing at all. “Are you planning to go to college here?”

  “Thinking about it. Not sure campus life is my scene, though.”


  “So what is your scene?”

  “Good question. I’m currently at a crossroads. What choice should I make today that will affect my entire future? Talk about pressure. I’m not a fan of pressure.”

  “Me neither.”

  He leaned forward after a few moments of silence passed between them. “Tell me your biggest secret, Crys. And then maybe I’ll tell you mine.” His expression turned mischievous.

  She couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re trouble, aren’t you?”

  “The worst kind.”

  She considered him in silence, this boy she never would have met had coincidence not brought them together twice, before she spoke again. “Do you believe in magic?”

  “Actually, I do.”

  Her gaze snapped to his again with surprise. His hazel eyes were so lovely—one moment stormy and intense, the next sparkling with humor.

  Forget about his eyes, she told herself firmly. This wasn’t a date. This was a conversation with a potential new friend who could be very useful.

  She had no idea what kinds of contacts the Graysons had, but if they were as rich and powerful as Crys believed they were, they were sure to know a lot of equally influential people.

  They might even know a man like Markus King.

  “I mean, I’m not talking about card tricks,” she clarified.

  “Me neither.” He shrugged. “I don’t know what I believe, really. I just know I’m open to the possibility that there’s more to this world than meets the eye.”

  “Exactly.” She bit her lip, feeling a giddy urge to confess all her secrets to him.

  After one cocktail, she didn’t think she was drunk, but she wasn’t quite sober, either, especially since she hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast.

  “So . . . let’s talk magic.” Farrell glanced at a couple in a nearby booth, their lips locked in a passionate kiss. “There are so many strange things in this world. Why can’t it be possible that magic is real? Agree?”

  Maybe their paths had crossed on purpose . . . like it was some sort of universal plan. Fate.

  Maybe they were soul mates.

  Go home, her brain told her. You are drunk.

  “I totally agree,” she said instead.

  He raised an eyebrow and leaned forward conspiratorially. “Do you know something, Crys Hatcher? Or are you just making conversation?”

  If he only knew. What would his reaction be if she told him about Dr. Vega’s theories about the magic language? About the Codex? But just before she opened her mouth, she closed it again and glanced down at the time on her phone. It was already after nine o’clock. Her mother had texted her twice, wondering where she was.

  “You know, I should probably get going. I said one drink, and I managed to devour it in record time.” She stood up. “Thanks, Farrell. For the help . . . and for the company. I needed a distraction tonight.”

  “I aim to distract. You’re not planning to walk, are you? I can get my driver to take you home.”

  “I’m fine. Really. What happened with that mugger . . . that, like, doesn’t usually happen in this neighborhood. And home is only a couple of blocks from here.”

  “Can I see you again?” At her startled look, he tempered his words with a fresh grin. “As just a friend, of course. Capital-P Platonic.”

  Crys tended to be wary of things that seemed too good to be true. And Farrell, despite his DUIs and his interest in cigarettes and vodka, was just that. “Maybe.”

  “I can accept a maybe.” He reached across the table and grabbed Crys’s phone. “Here’s my number. Text me if you ever want to hang out, talk about magic, confess your deepest, darkest secrets. I’m available twenty-four-seven.”

  “Really. Twenty-four-seven?”

  “What can I say? I get bored easily and I’m not a big TV fan.” He handed her phone back, and his fingers brushed against hers as she took it. “But it’s funny. You don’t bore me, not one little bit. That’s rare.”

  “Ditto,” she said.

  Yes, she said ditto. Like something out of a dumb old movie.

  With a mumbled goodbye, she left the bar and let the cool air pull her out of her slightly tipsy state. Alcohol—not a great idea. She’d almost told him everything.

  It would be smartest not to contact him again. She knew one thing for certain: He might not have anything to do with magic books or secret societies, but Farrell Grayson was definitely dangerous.

  Chapter 17

  FARRELL

  Once again, Farrell’s hypothesis had been proved: Deep down, all girls were the same. Flash them a smile, buy them a drink, make them feel important.

  Putty in his hands.

  Despite her disinterest that first day on the university campus, Crys Hatcher was no different from the rest. Too bad he couldn’t get her to stay a little longer. A couple more whiskey sours and he was sure he could have gotten all the information he needed to satisfy Markus.

  His target was cute enough, he supposed, but a tad too artsy for his usual taste in girls. Still, he had to admit there was something about her that intrigued him. Maybe it was the way she bit her bottom lip when she was nervous. It made him wonder if that mouth of hers also tasted like strawberries.

  The only new information he’d managed to learn about Crys was that she believed in magic. That was a big clue as to why she might matter to Markus. Maybe she’d taken an incriminating photo with that old camera of hers. Maybe she’d inadvertently discovered some dangerous information about the society.

  He knew he wasn’t nearly finished with her just yet.

  Farrell texted Lucas on his way home from the bar.

  Thanks for the help tonight, but you didn’t have to hit me so hard, you dick.

  Lucas returned the text almost immediately.

  Your new girlfriend broke my nose.

  He grinned as he typed his response. The best laid plans . . . often lead to pain. But it worked perfectly. She was all over me.

  What are you doing now? Lucas texted next.

  Nothing.

  I’m going out. Got a tip on someone that M will want to invite to the next meeting. Usually would wait on this, but don’t want to let him slip away.

  A tip on a criminal they could capture for the next society meeting, the first one since Farrell had been accepted into Markus’s circle. He wondered where the evildoers were kept as they waited for the next gathering.

  The thought of participating in a capture excited him.

  I’m in.

  “Saw the video of you at Firebird,” Lucas said when they met up at Yonge and Dundas square, across from the Eaton Centre. The downtown Toronto mall and tourist attraction had closed over an hour ago, but the sidewalk outside was full of pedestrians and the street was jammed with cars. Neon store signs pulsed and glowed from up above, lighting up the night. This was the heart of the city, always busy. Always alive and throbbing with energy.

  “Yeah?” Farrell had his hands jammed into the pockets of his leather jacket.

  “Love how you managed to tilt it. Rich kid protects brother from evil drug dealer . . . quote, unquote.”

  “That wasn’t my tilt, just a lucky break.”

  Michael, the guy Farrell had beaten up, was a known drug dealer currently on parole. Someone had uploaded the video of the incident to the Internet and had taken Farrell’s side, calling him an “avenging angel.”

  No charges were pressed—at least not against him.

  Adam, however, hadn’t said a single word to him since. Farrell had decided to give his kid brother the chance to cool off, a chance to realize he’d only done what he did to help.

  His brother had stayed at home all day, tucked into bed nursing a head cold. Their parents didn’t discuss Adam’s current health with Farrell. He’d overheard them, however, discussing it with each other.
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  “The mark will take care of future illnesses, won’t it, Edward? This is just . . . what? A virus he contracted before the meeting?”

  His father had nodded firmly. “I’m sure that’s all it is. That would also explain why he’s had such difficulty coming to terms with the trial.”

  “Yes, of course, darling. Time. That’s all he needs.”

  “There he is,” Lucas said now, nodding toward a cluster of pedestrians to their right. “Tall, bald head. Nose ring.”

  Farrell spotted him easily. The man looked like a biker, rough and dangerous. The cobweb tattoo on his throat was a well-known gang symbol.

  “What did he do?”

  “Serial rapist. Got off on the last charge on a technicality. Someone in Hawkspear brought Markus his name, told him that this douche is responsible for attacking her cousin and nearly killing her. We heard he was in New York, but he took a flight here two days ago. Lucky break for us.”

  “Yeah.” The thought of capturing the guy filled Farrell with fevered anticipation. “You think we can take him down?”

  “Maybe not gently, but we’ll take him. For now, we’ll follow and see where he goes. This can’t happen in public.” Lucas had already shown Farrell the special ring he wore on his middle finger. Pull off the top and a syringe appeared with a small dose of etorphine at the ready. One jab to the neck and seconds later they’d have an unconscious prisoner.

  Farrell had been promised his ring in the next couple of days. He didn’t usually wear jewelry, but he’d make an exception this time.

  They trailed after the guy for a minute in silence.

  “Question,” Farrell asked.

  “Yeah?”

  “Did all of your senses improve after you got the second mark?”

  “Hell yeah. Amazing, isn’t it? Like waking up from a coma and seeing the world for the first time. Like Dorothy entering Oz and everything’s in color.”

  “No one warned me what a killer bright light would be, though.” Farrell winced as he remembered the unexpected pain he’d felt yesterday morning when he pulled up the blinds in his room. “I have to wear sunglasses all day.”