A Book of Spirits and Thieves Page 8

  The guard then let out a harsh gasp and staggered back from the girl. He dropped the sword and clutched his throat, his face turning bright red in an instant. He tried to reach for his weapon as spittle flew out of his mouth and dripped down his chin as if he were choking on a piece of roasted goat meat.

  The gathered crowd stared at the guard in shock.

  “This is true magic,” the woman next to Maddox whispered in awe.

  Yes, it certainly was.

  “You did that,” Becca said, watching him with wonder. “You stopped him, didn’t you?”

  Maddox’s magic rarely worked on command, so this un-precedented moment had astonished even him. Better not to waste it now that he had a momentary hold of it. The guard would undoubtedly continue with the execution the moment he recovered.

  Maddox focused again. The guard froze in place, his eyes rolling back into his head, and fell over backward in a heap.

  The accused witch stood there like a frightened deer.

  “Run, would you?” Maddox yelled at her.

  She didn’t need to be told twice. She turned and ran, and was quickly swallowed up by the crowd.

  Becca stared at him with awe. “You’re amazing.”

  “This is all your fault,” Maddox mumbled, never more infuriated with anyone in his life as he was with the spirit girl.

  “My fault?”

  He had no idea if the guard was dead or simply unconscious. All he knew was that he had to get out of there before anyone suspected he had something to do with this.

  “Maddox, wait—” Becca began.

  He turned and slammed into the chest of a large man in a guard’s uniform and looked up at his ugly mug of a face.

  The guard narrowed his eyes. “Care to explain what just happened, boy?”

  “What? That, with the witch?” Maddox gave the guard his most innocent look. “I had nothing to do with—”

  The guard hit him in the head with the hilt of his sword.

  Darkness fell for what felt like hours . . . or perhaps it was only moments . . .

  Slowly, very slowly, he opened his eyes.

  Becca. Where is Becca? It was his first thought, but he couldn’t move enough to even search for her.

  From his position flat on the ground, his cheek pressed to the dirt, he saw Livius ten paces away, gesturing at him and yelling something to a group of guards. The fat moneylender, Cena, stood much closer.

  “Yes, he’s the one you’ve heard about,” Cena said, looking down at Maddox. “The witch boy who can talk to spirits. Information like this must be worth a nice reward, yes?”

  “You’ll get a reward if your information is true.” A guard crouched next to Maddox, peering at his face with curiosity. “We won’t execute him just yet. The goddess will want to speak with him first.”

  Chapter 7

  CRYSTAL

  Every other Sunday, from the time she was nine to the time she was fifteen, Crys and her father would go to the Art Gallery of Ontario. Becca never really cared about art the way Crys did, always preferring to stick her nose in a book and keep it there all day long. Even though most shops were open on Sundays, it was the day the Hatchers had decided to keep the bookstore closed so they could have family time.

  Family time. It sounded so quaint, thinking about it now.

  So Becca would read in the living room with her mom or hang out at a friend’s house those days—things that Crys would do on Saturdays. But Sundays were reserved for father-daughter art-appreciation sessions.

  She’d seen plenty of incredible exhibitions over the years. Andy Warhol, da Vinci, the impressionists, the Group of Seven, and tons of modern art—which Crys loved, but at which Daniel Hatcher always cocked his head, uncertain how to interpret two bands of color worth over a million dollars.

  Currently the AGO was hosting a history of photography exhibition. It was called Light and Shadow: Photography from 1839 to Present Day.

  Crys hitched her heavy bag higher on her shoulder as she explored the once familiar hallways and alcoves of the AGO. She kept her mind off her nerves by focusing on the paintings and sculptures in the permanent collection before wandering into the special exhibition rooms.

  Displays of old cameras—far, far older than her trusty Pentax—and one-of-a-kind shots of landscapes, architecture, and solemn faces posing for early photographs were good distractions. Crys noted happily that there weren’t too many perfectly coiffed model-types around a century ago.

  “They aren’t smiling, because they had to sit for a very long time, frozen in place like that,” a deep, familiar voice behind her said. “Hard to keep a smile looking genuine for that long.”

  Her shoulders tightened, but she didn’t turn around.

  “You look wonderful, Crissy,” he said. “So grown up.”

  Finally, she glanced over her shoulder. And there he was, looking very much the same as he had the last time she’d seen him. Two whole years ago.

  It felt more like ten.

  Eyes that were duplicates of her own stared back at her, that spooky light blue color they both shared framed by dark lashes. A smile curved up one side of his mouth. “Nothing to say?”

  “I have plenty to say,” she managed. “Just trying to find my voice.”

  “Texting is easier, isn’t it?”

  “Texting is always easier.”

  He wasn’t wearing his usual glasses (she’d inherited her bad eyesight from him). Maybe light eyes were naturally weaker than darker ones, she’d often wondered. Her contacts had pissed her off that morning, and she’d thrown them across her bedroom after several unsuccessful attempts at putting them in, then had stepped on them during her search. So glasses it was today. But she didn’t blame the contacts. She blamed being close to the edge of Anxiety Cliff all week.

  “So let’s talk about photography,” he suggested, crossing his arms and studying the display in front of them. “You know what this is called?” He pointed to a self-portrait of a man staring into the camera. The image had been printed on a shiny surface, very unlike the matte photo paper Crys used in the makeshift darkroom she set up in the house when she needed to develop film.

  “It’s a daguerreotype,” she said, pushing her glasses up higher on her nose. She had already known the answer, but there was a descriptive plaque right next to it that explained everything, which she read from. “‘Named for Louis-Jacques-Mandé Daguerre, the daguerreotype is an early photographic process that uses an iodine-sensitized silver plate and mercury vapor.’”

  “Sounds like a lot of effort.”

  “Too much. I wonder what this guy would have thought of digital.”

  “Maybe he would have looked happier about the whole situation.”

  “Maybe.” She swallowed hard, barely seeing the impressive image before her, barely caring about being so close to a historical artifact of her favorite subject.

  “You’re still wearing your funny T-shirts,” her father observed.

  She looked down at herself. Her vast T-shirt collection was simply clothing to her, not a conscious attempt at daily humor through fashion. The one she’d randomly chosen today was a cartoon of an anthropomorphic piece of sushi with the caption: THAT’S HOW I ROLL!

  “I’m a fashion plate, what can I say?” She bit her bottom lip. “Can we go somewhere a little more private to talk?”

  “Sure.” He nodded. “The café?”

  More memories. Lunch and dessert at caféAGO. Coffee for him, Coke for her. She always chose key lime pie if it was available because she believed it was the best pie in the universe—like a vacation on a plate. While they ate, they would discuss what they’d seen so far. What paintings and photos they loved the best, which sculptures were the most inspiring and meaningful. The days they spent at the gallery always flew by.

  On the way to the café, they fell
into an uncomfortable silence.

  Crys had been so determined to focus on whatever she had to do to learn more about Markus King that she hadn’t taken into consideration the emotional impact that seeing her father for the first time in two years would inflict. In the mere minutes she’d spent with him so far, she felt as if she’d regressed in age by at least ten years. She was now seven years old, following her daddy out of the photography exhibition, down the stairs, and around the corner until she could smell the delicious food—sandwiches, salads, pastries.

  Scent helped her summon up the past as perfectly as any time machine—or photograph—could.

  All she selected for lunch was a chocolate chip muffin and a bottle of water. Daniel got a chicken sandwich and a coffee and paid for everything at the register.

  Neither of them even glanced down at the food once they’d chosen a table as far away from the other diners as they could find.

  She’d expected to feel only anger at seeing him again. But what she truly felt was . . .

  She didn’t actually know what she felt. There was no perfect word for it, she realized. A blend of nostalgia, curiosity, and, oddly, a sharp edge of relief. All mixed together into a messy batter along with only a few tablespoons of anger.

  She consciously tried to bottle up all her emotions and shove them into her fuchsia leather bag for safekeeping.

  “I know you have questions for me, Crissy,” he said, his fingers curling around the edge of the table.

  If it were anyone else, she’d protest the use of that cutesy nickname, but it sounded right coming from him. Just like the good old days.

  “I know you must be furious with me,” he said when she didn’t start talking right away. “All I can say is I’m sorry, but I know that’s not nearly good enough.”

  “I just . . .” Crys squeezed her bottle of water, the cold condensation sliding between her fingers. “I can’t believe you’ve been in Toronto the whole time. You’ve been so close, and I didn’t know.”

  “How did you find out?”

  She considered her words. “I overheard Mom and Jackie on the phone. Your name came up.”

  She wasn’t going to tell him everything. The book, what had happened to Becca—that was too precious, too fragile. This was an information-gathering mission only—information-giving was not on today’s menu. And as much as her heart was in turmoil over this meeting, her brain was focused on what mattered.

  She hoped very much the ratio would remain that way. Hearts and brains didn’t always get along so well.

  “Eavesdropping,” he said. “So things at home are the same as always, huh? You’re still a troublemaker.”

  It wasn’t said as an insult but rather more with grudging admiration. “It’s one of my talents.”

  “What were they saying about me?”

  “Something about Mom still believing in you, but Jackie telling her you’re old news.”

  She watched closely to see if this would get a reaction, but there was nothing in his expression to give her any clue what he might be thinking. Not even a blink or a twitch.

  “Jackie never liked me,” he allowed. “What else?”

  “They said you’re part of some exclusive society,” she ventured tentatively.

  He’s been swallowed up by that monster’s secret society long enough for us to know he’s lost to us had been Jackie’s exact words. They’d been branded into Crys’s memory verbatim.

  “Did they.” He said this flatly and not as a question.

  His bland reaction infuriated her. “Is it true? You left us because of some secret group you joined? What is it, like a cult that brainwashes its members to leave their families?”

  Yeah, she definitely didn’t have her emotions properly bottled up today.

  She forced herself to take a shaky sip of her water.

  She liked to think she had a talent for reading faces, after studying so many at a distance through her camera lens. Most people wore their emotions openly on their faces—anger, sadness, happiness, disappointment. Emotion was beautiful, no matter what it was. The more powerful the emotion, the better the picture turned out.

  It felt a lot different not being the one behind the camera.

  An uncomfortable silence fell between them, and she began picking at her muffin.

  “It’s not what you might think,” he said finally. “I am involved in an important organization . . . one that I believe in with all my heart and soul. It’s a good thing, Crissy. The only bad thing about it was that I had to make an extremely difficult choice I never wanted to have to make.”

  “So this society made you choose them or us.”

  “No. Your mother is the one who made me choose. And I know you’ll never fully understand why I had to make the choice I did, but maybe you will someday. I don’t expect your forgiveness. I would be too embarrassed to even ask for it.”

  “Wait.” Crys’s brain began to swim. “You’re telling me that Mom made you choose.”

  His lips thinned. “I could never make her understand how important that organization is to me. It’s about life or death, Crissy. I know that sounds far-fetched, but it’s true. The good I’m doing, the good I’m a part of—”

  “What? Are you saving the world or something?” she said, trying to find a joke somewhere in all this and move away from how blindsided she felt to learn that her mother had been the one who’d issued the ultimatum that had caused her father to leave them.

  “It would sound crazy to an outsider, but . . . yes. In a very large way I believe I am.”

  She stared at him. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “You’re old enough for me to try to explain it to you, but you won’t truly understand unless you’re a part of it.” He absently stirred his coffee. “How are you doing in school, anyway? You’re graduating in June, aren’t you?”

  “And you’re trying to change the subject.”

  “Temporarily. Indulge me by answering my questions, and I might answer yours in return.”

  She exhaled slowly, reminding herself that she had to stay calm and not push him too hard. Otherwise this meeting might end much sooner than she wanted it to. “How am I doing in school? I’ve been going to as few classes as possible ever since Amanda and Sara moved away, and I’ve found myself with few friends and no interest in dealing with teachers,” she admitted. “Actually, I’m thinking about officially dropping out to pursue photography full time. I don’t need a diploma for that, do I?”

  The look of shock on his face almost made her grin. “Please tell me you’re lying.”

  “I don’t really like lies. I prefer to tell the truth whenever possible. It’s much easier to keep track of.”

  He frowned at her. “Crissy, you need to focus on school. It’s important.”

  “I disagree. What are you going to do? Call Mom to have a friendly discussion about my future?”

  He sighed and pushed his sandwich away. “Maybe I should.”

  “Aunt Jackie didn’t graduate.”

  “Jackie is rude and reckless, and has never taken any real responsibility for her poor decisions.”

  Crys shrugged. “I think she’s awesome.”

  “Most likely because you obviously don’t know everything about her.”

  His acidic tone made her want to argue on behalf of her aunt, but Crys fought the urge. She didn’t have time to get distracted. “You should be proud, though,” she said. “I’m still using your camera. I’m really good, too. I’ve even placed in the finals in a couple of contests.” She pulled the Pentax out of her bag to show him.

  He reached over and took it from her, turning it over in his hands. “Did you ever get a flash for it?”

  “No reason to. Light and shadow—that’s all I need. Besides, flashes are expensive.” Time to turn this conversation back around. She summoned u
p her courage and reached across the table to grab his hand. He looked down guardedly. “Listen to me, Dad. You told me once that you wanted to take me with you. Was this what you were talking about? Leaving Mom to be a part of this secret society of yours?”

  “I didn’t know what I was saying back then. I was confused.”

  “I hated you for a long time for what you did. I still do.” The truth of the words left a sour taste in her mouth. “You left and you didn’t even try to contact me . . . not even once! I could have kept it a secret. I wouldn’t have told Mom if you didn’t want me to.”

  “I’ve tried my best to respect her wishes.”

  “Well, Mom and me . . .” She bit her bottom lip. “We don’t get along that well. I know she thinks Becca’s the perfect one, and she’s probably right about that.”

  It hurt Crys to say that because she believed this. It seemed as if her mother raved over every A-plus essay Becca brought home, over every accomplishment. Becca had been the one to figure out the new computer system to organize the shop and its accounting. The two talked about the books they’d read for hours on end while Crys tried to watch TV.

  Practically the only time her mother ever spoke to Crys directly these days was to comment on something she’d done wrong.

  “That’s not true,” her father said, shaking his head. “She loves both of you girls equally. Some of her rules might seem harsh, but they’re because she loves you.”

  “Whatever. She expects too much from me. I know I’ll never make her proud. I would have said yes, Dad. I would have gone with you. I would have joined this society that’s making such a big difference in the world.”

  His jaw tensed up as he studied her, a frown creasing his brow. “You have to be sixteen to be invited in. You were only fifteen at the time.”

  “Well, I’m seventeen now and . . .” She took a deep breath. “And I want in. I want to be a part of your life again, Dad.”

  His brows drew together tighter. “Crystal—”

  “I want to know more.” She cut him off so she could finish making her case. “Is there someone I can meet with? Someone I can persuade to let me join? I want this, Dad. I want to be a part of your life again. And if what you’re saying is true—that you’re, like, literally helping to save the world by being a part of this secret society, then I want to help, too.”