A Book of Spirits and Thieves Page 25
Crys pulled her hand from her mouth. “The Codex was sent here?”
She nodded. “Like magic. One moment it wasn’t here, the next it was. Instead of handing it over to her husband and Markus, Grandma hid it. It remained hidden for years as the men began their society. Grandma became a member, too, not that she was given a choice, but says she never felt the same as all the others initiated—she always felt that something was wrong.”
“Why didn’t she leave?” Crys asked.
Her mother shook her head. “It’s not that easy. But she knew Markus was not the guardian he claimed to be. That the more he used his magic at the meetings, the darker he became to her. Finally, after many years, she went to someone she trusted. Dr. Vega’s father. She hoped he could help her understand the book and where it had come from. Markus had never mentioned anything about it before, and she wondered how they might be connected. All she knew for sure was that the book needed to be kept a secret.”
So that was how Dr. Vega’s father learned about it. Crys’s own great-grandmother had been the one who’d gone to him with the mysterious book. And that information had eventually led to his death because not all secrets could remain secrets forever.
A shiver sped down Crys’s spine. “Dr. Vega wrote a paper on the Codex. He’s the one who made it public after all those years of it being hidden.”
“A very stupid move by a very smart man. If he hadn’t done that, Markus might never have found out about it.” She let out a shaky sigh. “But Uriah wanted so desperately to please his father—to make him proud. His intentions were not malicious—I know that now. At the time . . . it was all so confusing, Crystal.”
Not much had changed in that regard. “Mom, Markus says the book is his. That the magic in it can help him save the world from evil.”
If that was true, how could Markus be the bad guy her mother believed him to be?
Her mother stared at her. “Markus mentioned the book to you?”
Crys nodded, her heart pounding. “He knows Jackie found it.”
Julia Hatcher’s expression turned bleak. “So it seems we’ll have to deal with him sooner than I thought we would.”
Her voice held both fear and resolve.
Crys still needed more answers, and she couldn’t let herself be distracted. “Mom, if Markus is evil like you say he is, why would Dad stay with him? Why wouldn’t he be with us instead?”
Julia sat back down at the table. “When one is initiated into the society, Markus gives them a mark on their left forearm. They’re given a second if they’re accepted into Markus’s trusted circle. Markus carves the marks into their skin with a golden blade, and then he heals them with his magic. The first mark keeps his followers healthy, safe from any physical illness. It also ensures their loyalty to him and the society. The second mark improves their senses. They can literally see in the dark or hear whispers from across a room. The gift had its shortcomings, though, as we soon learned. Bright light becomes unbearable to the eyes and loud noises are deafening.” She ran her fingers gently over her skin. “And the arm stays incredibly tender for a very long time.”
Crys stared, speechless, at her mother’s forearm, the flesh unblemished.
“The effect was always weaker for me than for Jackie and Daniel,” she explained. “My senses, my loyalty, my health. I still got sick from time to time. I knew it hadn’t worked as well for me, but something kept me silent. It became my horrible secret. When we finally left the society, your father fought against the urge to return for nearly thirteen years before he couldn’t fight anymore. He was drawn back to Markus like a magnet because of the magic etched into his flesh. There are times when I also feel that pull . . . a little. But it has much less power over me than it does Daniel.”
“What about Jackie? Does she feel the pull of loyalty?”
“No. She hates Markus.”
“She thinks you can use the Codex to destroy him.”
“She knows the more time he’s in a world that’s not his own, the weaker he becomes. He needs the Codex to renew his strength, his magic. Right now, he’s vulnerable.”
“How does she know all that?”
“Because Markus once told her himself.”
“Seriously?” Crys’s brow shot up. “He trusted her that much?”
Her mother drained her coffee and went to pour another cup.
“Mom?” Crys prompted. “How did Jackie get Markus to tell her something so personal?”
She took a deep breath as she returned to the table, clutching her coffee mug tightly between her hands. “Because . . . once, a long time ago, Jackie and Markus were madly in love.”
Again, the breath left Crys’s lungs. “In love.”
Julia nodded. “They kept their relationship a secret, but he soon came to trust her more than anyone else. He told her secrets he’d never share with another, not even my grandfather. But then she learned of his crimes . . . and how he sought to control her, how he sought to control the Kendall line . . .”
“How?”
Her mother didn’t speak right away. She took another sip of her coffee, as if it would give her the strength to continue. “When he learned that Grandma had kept the Codex away from him for all those years, Markus was furious. When she wouldn’t reveal where she’d hidden it, he . . . he killed her. He killed a harmless old woman.”
Crys stared at her, horrified. “Oh my God.”
Her jaw tensed. “When my parents learned the truth, Markus had them killed, too, leaving us orphans when we were not much older than you and Becca. When my grandfather died soon after, of natural causes, he left his fortune and his mansion to Markus. Markus is the one who allowed us to keep the bookshop in our family out of the goodness of his cold, black heart. How could Jackie have continued to love a man like that?”
It was too much for Crys to even attempt to wrap her mind around. The very thought that this was the whole, actual truth made her sick to her stomach.
But she’d asked for this. She’d wanted her mother to open up, to trust her with the whole story. She couldn’t turn back now. She needed to know everything.
“How did Jackie fight the mark?” she asked. “The way you describe it, it sounds like it’s impossible. Was it the same for her as it was with you? Did it not affect her as much as the others?”
“No, it definitely affected her. She worshipped Markus, just as he, for a time, worshipped her. But one thing changed everything and made her marks null and void.”
“What changed?”
Her mother drained the rest of her coffee, her knuckles white. “Jackie became pregnant with Markus’s child.”
“What?” The word came out as a barely audible gasp of shock.
She wouldn’t meet Crys’s gaze directly, instead staring down at her mug. “Along with her condition, her mind just cleared, as if it were a side effect of morning sickness—that is, when one is pregnant with the child of an immortal like Markus. Having that very special new life growing within her was all it took to make her marks null and void. It was at that time that she was able to see Markus as what he truly was. She convinced me we needed to get out while we still could. She had a horrible fight with Markus and he told her to leave, that he never wanted to see her again. Apparently, immortal gods can have their hearts broken.”
“But Jackie doesn’t have any children,” Crys reasoned. What happened to their baby? she thought with a shiver. “Did she miscarry?”
“No, she didn’t miscarry. And she didn’t get an abortion. She had the child. But she knew that if Markus ever found out . . . that he’d take that very special child away to get his revenge on her, on us. The man is capable of anything, and Jackie feared for the child’s safety, being half . . . Markus. Whatever Markus really is, past his lies and manipulations.”
“So she gave the baby up for adoption.”
Her
mother hesitated. “Yes.”
“This was fifteen years ago,” Crys said when her mother fell silent again. “Some teenager out there doesn’t realize that her father is an immortal god.”
Her mother didn’t say another word. Her jaw was clenched so tight that it looked painful, her gaze faraway and haunted.
Fifteen years old. With parents like Jackie and Markus, the child would be beautiful. Blond. With dark blue eyes. Someone who might be touched by magic.
Someone who might be affected by magical objects more than anyone else who came in contact with them.
Crys realized with a sinking feeling that she knew someone who fit that description exactly.
“No, it’s impossible,” she whispered. “You would have said something. You would have told her. Told me.”
Her mother remained as still and silent as a statue.
“It—it’s Becca.” The name stuck in Crys’s throat. “Isn’t it?”
Julia began to tremble. “Jackie moved away to stay with friends in Alberta for the length of her pregnancy. When she gave birth, she . . . she named her Rebecca, after our grandmother. We knew we had to come up with a plan since her existence couldn’t stay a secret. Adoption was the only solution, but Jackie refused—flat out refused—to give her away to strangers and never see her again. We also knew we needed to keep a close eye on this baby—in case the mix of human and . . . and Markus . . . created something bad.”
“Becca isn’t bad,” Crys managed, every muscle in her body now tense.
“I know. But we didn’t know that then. I—I told Daniel that I couldn’t have any more children, but I wanted to adopt. At the time, he only wanted me to be happy, so he agreed. I handled all the details. He never knew the truth of her origins. I’d planned to tell Becca she was adopted when she turned eighteen.” Her mother finally met her gaze with glossy eyes. A tear escaped and slipped down her cheek. “I’m sorry, Crys. I’m sorry you had to find out this way.”
As Crys absorbed this stunning information, the world dimmed to the point that she could barely see anything. Blood pounded behind her eyes, in her ears.
“You’re not lying, are you?” The words came out as a hoarse whisper. “About any of this.”
“I wish I were, but I’m not. Now listen, Crystal. Listen very carefully. You can never tell anyone about this. Not even your father. Especially not your father.” Her mother reached across the table to squeeze Crys’s hands so tightly it hurt. She didn’t pull away. “If I’d had any choice, I would have taken this secret to my grave.”
Crys swallowed hard, fighting the tears that had been threatening to fall all morning. “So Becca’s not my sister. She’s . . . she’s my cousin.”
“No. Becca is your sister, and nothing will ever change that. Do you hear me? Nothing.”
This shocking, crucial, and previously missing piece of information helped connect the rest of the dots for Crys. And in the wake of all this mind-blowing news, she couldn’t help but let out a humorless laugh.
Her mother looked at her with alarm. “What could possibly be funny right now?”
“Only that . . . now I know I never should have opened that package from Jackie.”
Julia sighed, looking exhausted. “No, you really shouldn’t have.”
As her mind began to clear a little, Crys felt like she needed a drink. A strong one. Coffee wouldn’t do, but maybe another whiskey sour. . . .
Which made her think of something else, and someone else. “Mom, you don’t happen to remember, back when you were a member, if the Graysons were a part of the society, do you? You know, the really rich guy who’s always in the news? Edward Grayson and his family?”
She took no time at all to think about it. “Yes. Actually, they were among Hawkspear’s most elite members. Why do you ask?”
Seeing Farrell and the mugger together in the limo earlier had been a huge mystery to her, one that had made her doubt her own eyes.
But now everything was beginning to make sense.
Chapter 22
FARRELL
It had been two days since he’d last seen Crys. Farrell had decided that, since she hadn’t jumped on the chance to contact him again—despite the brilliant idea of sending her the camera—he had to take action.
He pushed open the door to the Speckled Muse Bookshop. There were several customers inside, a couple at the front register paying for their purchases—there Crys was, behind the register—and some browsing the shelves. The store smelled musty, like any old building might. But it also smelled of the paper, leather, and binding glue of the books. The wood of the shelves.
And . . . strawberries.
He’d developed a strong craving for strawberries over the last few days.
Farrell moved deeper into the surprisingly expansive shop. From the outside, it looked no bigger than a convenience store, but inside it went on and on. He paused in the mystery section and eyed the books so he’d appear to be an actual customer.
A black-and-white kitten peered out at him, seated on top of several Sue Grafton hardcovers.
“Hello there,” he said. “Are you the speckled muse herself? Get it? ‘Mews’?”
He reached forward to pet it, but the cat hissed at him and raked its claws over his hand, drawing blood.
“Stupid little—” He moved to grab the beast by its furry neck, but it scurried away before he could even touch it.
“Farrell?” Crys said from his right. “Is that you?”
He fixed a charming grin on his face and turned toward her, slipping his injured left hand into his pocket. “In the flesh.”
“You’re here. Wow. This is a surprise.”
Today she wore faded jeans, very tight on her thighs and hips, which he liked, and a ridiculous T-shirt that had an excited-looking sugar cube saying YOU’RE SO HOT to a grinning cup of coffee.
She wore her white-blond hair in a braid and, apart from a coating of pink lip gloss, no makeup. Those pale blue eyes of hers watched him from behind her deeply unfashionable black-rimmed glasses.
“I think my phone must be broken,” he said, casually leaning against the shelf and pulling the device from his jacket pocket. “I can’t think of any other reason why I haven’t heard from you yet.”
“I should have called,” she said, crossing her arms. “I’m sorry I didn’t. I’ve been so busy. But I got your gift. Farrell, thank you—but it’s way too generous. You didn’t have to buy me anything. It wasn’t your fault my camera got broken. I really can’t accept—”
He held up a hand. “I’m going to stop you right there. I insist that you keep it. I don’t take photos, not counting mental snapshots, so I have no use for it. Just do me a favor and keep it in your bag so you’ll never miss an opportunity to take an important picture. Got it? No argument or I’m going to start pouting.”
She let out a small, nervous laugh. “Wouldn’t want to make you pout.”
“You really wouldn’t. It’s very unattractive.” This is much better, he thought. Again, he had her in the palm of his hand. “When do you close up?”
She glanced at her wristwatch. “At six.”
His phone told him it was five forty-five. “I’m taking you out for dinner.”
“Excuse me?”
“You know what dinner is, right? It’s what people usually eat several hours after lunch, when they get hungry again.”
A smile nudged at her lips, but she seemed to fight it. “I know what dinner is.”
“You have to eat. And I just happen to be here, browsing through all these books and getting hungry. . . .”
“No graphic novels here, I’m afraid. I keep telling my mother to order some in.”
So she remembered that little personal detail about him. Nice. “I can read books without pictures in them if I have to.”
“Good to know.”
“There’s a sushi place just around the block if you’d like that,” he said. “Or we could go for Italian if you’d prefer.”
She bit her bottom lip. “Sushi’s my favorite food.”
He raised his eyebrows as if remotely surprised by this well-known fact about Crystal Hatcher. “Really? It’s my favorite, too. See? I knew we had tons in common. This just proves it. Come on, close up the shop, and let’s go.”
Finally, she uncrossed her arms and his gaze again went to that silly T-shirt. The breasts beneath it, however, weren’t silly at all. She had a much lusher body than the stick-thin Felicity did.
“All right,” she finally said.
He felt it then. Victory awaited him, only a few pieces of sushi away.
“Grey Goose on the rocks,” Farrell said after they’d been seated. Crys had only ordered a glass of water to go with their appetizer, and he’d decided he wouldn’t put pressure on her to order a real drink.
Maybe later.
“We don’t stock that brand,” the waiter said.
Farrell blinked. “Excuse me?”
“We stock a variety of other vodkas, including Belvedere, but we don’t have Grey Goose. Do you really care?”
“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t ask. I’m not willing to take a substitution.”
The waiter shrugged. “Sorry, but I can’t help you.”
The shrug annoyed him deeply. It wasn’t a matter of drinking another brand of vodka when his preference wasn’t available. It had happened before, of course.
But Farrell wanted what he wanted.
Presently, it seemed vitally important to him to prove a point, here and now, to this apathetic waiter.
“Actually, you can help me.” Farrell reached into his wallet and pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. “Go to the nearest liquor store, buy a bottle of Grey Goose for me, and keep the change.”
The waiter frowned down at the bill. “I have six tables to look after. I can’t just leave at the drop of a hat.”