The Darkest Magic Page 8

  Julia raised an eyebrow. “When did you become the cautious one? Haven’t you been dying to go to this show? And to get out of that apartment?”

  Crys looked around at where they were, surrounded by tall buildings, sleek steel and glass everywhere, in the city’s upscale Yorkville neighborhood. The sidewalks were busy with people shopping, heading in and out of restaurants, enjoying their weekends. Nearby, a driver was valiantly trying to parallel park in one of the only available spots, which was far too small for his client’s Mercedes SUV.

  “Of course.” Crys frowned. “You’re right. When did I become the cautious one?”

  Julia grinned. “The question of the day.”

  “But what if—”

  “Crys,” Julia cut her daughter off. “We’re not going to wear sandwich boards advertising who we are and where we’ll be for the next hour. We’re going to a photography show at a small art gallery, and then we’re going straight back to the apartment. No lurking around in dark alleyways, I promise.”

  Crys exhaled shakily and forced herself to nod. “Fine. In and out. I’m not even going to try to meet Andrea and ask for her career advice, which is exactly what I’m dying to do.”

  “That is entirely your prerogative.”

  Why was her mother looking so . . . fierce today? She was dressed in a fitted black pencil skirt, a matching blazer, and heels, and looked ready to take on the world. While Becca’s spirit was off in another world, Julia had temporarily lost that shiny aura of confidence Crys had always loved in her. She was just starting to get it back, which is why it really bothered Crys to see it slip and falter after Becca’s little incident with the book yesterday. But Becca had made a quick recovery, and Dr. Vega had locked up the book to keep Becca away from it.

  The thought of the book sending her sister’s spirit away again sent a shiver of dread coursing through her limbs. If that ever happened again, there was no guarantee she’d come back.

  “If it helps,” Julia said as Crys continued to scan their surroundings with paranoia, “I did bring this along to give us a sense of protection.”

  She slipped her hand into her purse, and there it was: a glimpse of the handgun that was normally kept locked away in a safe in the bookshop. Crys remembered the day her father bought it five years ago, after a string of burglaries on their street. She also remembered the loud argument they had about it, Julia berating him about how unsafe it was for them to keep a gun in the same house as their daughters, and Daniel countering that the only reason he’d bought the gun was to protect his daughters and keep them safe.

  “Great,” Crys mumbled, looking at the gun now as that shiver of dread made a swift return appearance. “My mother’s packing heat. I’m sure that has exactly what it takes to take down an immortal death god.”

  “No matter what he might tell anyone, Markus King is no god,” Julia said with a sneer. “He’s nothing more than a fading fraud, and to hear Jackie tell it, he’s not far from a well-deserved death. That’s why he hasn’t dared show his face yet, even though that book is the puzzle piece he’s been dying to get his hands on for who knows how long. Looks like someone’s afraid we might have more power than he originally thought.”

  That didn’t sound much like the ruthless, sociopathic man who terrorized Crys and her sister mere days ago. “Markus is afraid?”

  “Sure seems like it. Either that or maybe he’s deluded enough to think that Jackie is still madly in love with him and that he can charm her into just handing over the book.”

  “Yeah. Good luck with that, right?” Crys grimaced, not able to concentrate on anything other than the glint of the gun, which was still visible in Julia’s open purse. “Put that thing away, would you?”

  She closed her purse, then hooked her arm through her daughter’s. “Come on. Let’s try to go ten minutes without thinking or talking about that evil creep. Teach me more about photography and why you love it so much, okay?”

  Crys fought off one last urge to scurry back to the relative safety of the penthouse before she finally nodded. “Okay.”

  As soon as they walked through the glass front doors and entered the gallery, Crys was hit with a palpable sense of excitement. The place was as busy and buzzing as she’d expected—probably more so—and she stopped to take a deep breath of gratitude beneath the sign announcing the title of the show: “The Passion of Andrea Stone.” The main exhibit space was open and airy, with high ceilings and crisp white walls that showed off fifty framed photos, each one chosen carefully by a curator as representative of various stages in Andrea’s career. The first photo in the exhibit was a self-portrait of Andrea looking down, her frizzy, graying hair in a massive bun, her face set in a serious expression, and her chin resolute.

  Crys read the little placard next to the portrait. “Photography isn’t a job, it’s a true calling. A passion one cannot ignore.”

  Someone in the gallery let out a loud, ringing laugh, causing Crys to turn and look across the crowd. There, in person and only twenty feet away, was Andrea Stone, the photographer herself, standing at the center of a group of people, dressed head to toe in all black, no makeup except for her trademark slash of bright red lipstick.

  “Oh my God,” Crys said out loud. Julia heard her and turned to look as well.

  “Not terribly glamorous, is she?”

  Crys shrugged. “I think she looks super glam.”

  “If you say so. I will admit that she looks wise, though.” Her mother nodded up at the self-portrait. “It’s all in her eyes. You can tell that she’s seen a lot, experienced a lot, and not all of it was good. I know exactly how that is.”

  Crys touched her mother’s arm, finally tearing her gaze away from Andrea. “You can talk to me, you know. About anything you want.”

  A shadow crossed over Julia’s expression. “I know you’re worried about Becca. As worried as I am.”

  Crys nodded. “I have a million questions about what she is,” she said in a lowered voice. “I can barely sleep thinking about them all, but . . . but then I wake up, and I see her, and I know she’s my sister, no matter what. She’s his daughter, but she’s not like him a bit.”

  All of a sudden, Julia looked very tired. “I feel the same way.”

  “You can talk to me about other stuff too,” Crys said. “Not just about Becca. Like . . . what it was like back when you were in the society. About what you went through with the marks and dealing with all of the craziness that came with them. Even how you feel about . . . Dad.”

  Her mother gave her a weak smile. “It’s still all so painful to think about those days, especially when it comes to your father. But . . . I know you love him. I do too—in a different way, mind you, but still. The fact that he helped you—you and Becca”—she shook her head—“that was so brave. I didn’t think he’d be willing to help, even though it was his own children who were in danger.”

  Crys’s throat closed up at the reminder of her father and what he’d risked. “We have to help him get away from Markus,” she said. “I asked him to come with us that night, but after giving us the book and helping us escape, he went back to that freak. He’s not safe with Markus, Mom. And the fact I haven’t heard from him in a week, not even a text . . . I’m so worried about him.” Her voice caught, and she forced herself to take a deep breath. She didn’t want to break down in the middle of the gallery.

  Julia grabbed hold of her hand and squeezed it. “Have you tried to get in touch with him?”

  Crys shook her head. “No. I’m afraid if I call or text and Markus sees the message . . .”

  “That your father will be punished.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll tell you something about your father, Crystal. He’s smart. And resourceful. And he’s a damn good liar when he needs to be. When we were younger and still together, whenever he got himself into tight situations, he always managed to wiggle out of them. My father wasn’t exactly a great fan of me dating someone who . . . well, someone who wasn’t
part of our social circle. But in two meetings, Daniel had convinced Dad that he was the perfect match for me because he lied through his teeth about his family. He did so well that my father even personally invited him to the family Christmas party, which, trust me, he never did for any of my other boyfriends. I admired Daniel for the way he made all of that up just to get in my father’s good graces—just to get me—and, well, I guess I hated him a little for it too. And it’s that same ability that makes me believe that, right now, he’s doing and saying whatever he has to in order to survive. If he’s not getting in touch with you, there’s a reason for it. And once things settle down a little, I swear to you that we will do whatever it takes to bring him back to us.”

  Crys stared at her, shocked and wondering if she’d heard her mother correctly. “Are you serious?”

  Julia nodded, her eyes glossy. “I sure am.”

  “Thank you,” Crys said, resisting the urge to hug her mother in front of all of these sophisticated, decidedly unsentimental art enthusiasts. “Thank you for listening to me.”

  “I admit, I haven’t been so great at that lately.”

  Crys managed a shaky grin. “Ditto.”

  Julia’s cell phone started to ring. She fished it out of her jacket pocket and glanced at the screen.

  “Give me a sec, Crys. I need to take this.”

  “Okay.” Any other day and Crys would have chastised her mother for being rude and answering a call in the middle of an important cultural event, but she was still riding high from the news about her father, so she let it go. “I’ll be over here drooling at literally every single piece.”

  Julia nodded, then turned and walked away a few paces. “Yes?” she said into the phone. “Yes, I can talk now. Go ahead.”

  Crys distractedly wondered who had called her mother. Maybe Dr. Vega with news about the book, but Julia’s tone was a little too formal to be talking to him. Maybe it was Angus Balthazar, the penthouse owner extraordinaire who was supposed to be able to help them with all things magical. She wasn’t sure how convinced she was of his unparalleled expertise, but she had to admit: The guy had a great apartment.

  Still, there was one thing about Angus that kept nagging at her: He was a thief. More than that, he was a thief who was so accomplished and successful that he could afford a lavish, professionally decorated home. So why was Jackie so ready to trust him with something as precious and valuable—and dangerous—as the Codex? What was to stop him from stealing it and selling it to the highest bidder, no matter how close he and Jackie were?

  Stop thinking so much, Crys told herself. Of all the people involved—her well-connected aunt with the somewhat sketchy past, her former-society-member mother, and her half-immortal-and-touched-by-magic sister—she was the least qualified to question any aspect of the situation. She was merely related to these people.

  Nothing special.

  It was something she’d never admit to anyone else, but this thought—that she was an ordinary nobody in a family full of extraordinary somebodies—had become a recurring one lately, and conjuring it now gave her an unpleasant twisting feeling in her gut. Becca had been through a laundry list of madness, and after witnessing what happened yesterday, even the most skeptical bones in Crys’s body were starting to believe her story.

  Becca was special. Important. Probably magical. Potentially powerful, Crys supposed, even if Becca herself didn’t realize it yet. Her sister was a secret that needed to be kept.

  And Crys . . . well, she was just taking up space and getting in the way.

  No. She refused to feel weirdly envious that she hadn’t been the one to get jerked out of her world and sent on a roller coaster ride to another world. Crys liked it when her world made sense. She actually enjoyed planning for—well, daydreaming about, mostly—a solid future. It was funny, really. She hadn’t even known that about herself until recently.

  I am Crystal Hatcher, she thought. And I love it when things are boring and predictable.

  She guessed that made her boring and predictable too, but she was pleased to find she didn’t even care.

  She tried to clear her head and focus only on the photo in front of her: a black-and-white image of a perfectly ordinary person. According to the museum label, the subject was an old woman who was raised in Montana on a horse farm where she’d lived all her life, through summers of blazing sunshine and winters that ranged from bitterly cold to devastatingly harsh. Each of her eighty-some years showed in the depth of her expression and the wrinkles, sunspots, and smile lines on her face. Her eyes told a story that could fill many books. By physical description alone, she appeared to be perfectly normal, yet that didn’t keep her from being—or Andrea from capturing her in such a way that she appeared—magical in her own way.

  Crys knew her father would have loved this show, especially since he was the one who’d introduced her to photography in the first place. Her heart ached as she wished he were here to share it with her too.

  “Call me crazy, but this? This has to be fate.”

  In an instant, Crys’s blood to ice. Every single shred of substance—words, thoughts, images, memories—fell out of her mind as she shut her eyes and braced herself against the sound of Farrell Grayson’s voice.

  Fate indeed.

  As her heart violently played bongos against her rib cage, Crys struggled to remind herself that they were in public. Which was a good thing—nothing bad could happen here. Nobody was going to get hurt.

  Which was too bad, since she really, really wanted to hurt him.

  “Look at her,” Farrell continued, speaking in a mock-lofty tone. “So enraptured by this photo that the rest of the world fades away, becomes meaningless. She’s truly a sight to behold.”

  “I swear to God,” Crys growled, “if you take another step closer to me I’m going to start screaming.”

  “Well, that would be rather embarrassing. For you, of course.”

  Crys finally willed herself to focus enough to cast a glare in his direction. He leaned against the wall, right next to the photo of the old woman, studying Crys as if she were a piece in the exhibit as well. That half smile she’d come to loathe was firmly fixed on his lips.

  “Stalking me, are you?” she said. “Are you on your own this time? Or are you here under order from your lord and master?”

  “Me, stalking you?” He raised his brow. “And here I thought it was the other way around.”

  Crys scoffed. “Ha! As if it’s a coincidence that you came to this exact show at the exact same time I’m here.”

  “Vanity, thy name is Crystal Hatcher,” Farrell said, shaking his head and gazing around the room. “Actually, I’m here for a friend. And with a friend.”

  “Sure you are.” Crys scanned the crowd, searching for her mother, but she was nowhere to be seen. Damn. She knew coming here had been a mistake. “Get away from me.”

  “Are you a fan of this photographer? Or do you just stop by all the shows?”

  “I said, Get away from me. What language do I need to say it in for you to understand?” Farrell ignited within her such an odd mix of emotions—fear and hatred, blended with about three times as much sheer annoyance. But she didn’t underestimate how dangerous he was.

  And where was her mother?

  Farrell took his eyes off Crys and set his gaze somewhere behind her. “Andrea!” he called. “Andrea, stop for a sec. I have someone I want to introduce you to.”

  Slowly, her stomach a pit of gravel, Crys turned around. Walking toward them was none other than Andrea Stone.

  “This is Crystal Hatcher,” Farrell said. “She’s quite young but already an accomplished photographer. Crys, this is Andrea Stone.”

  “May I call you Crys too?” Andrea Stone held out her hand, a smile on her ruby red lips. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

  Crys was frozen. She was in front of her idol, with a chance to say anything she wanted, and she had absolutely no idea how to respond.

  Somehow, as if an invisi
ble puppeteer were controlling her muscles, she grasped the hand of her idol.

  “I’m such a fan of your work,” Crys managed to sputter out, still unable to truly believe that it was Andrea Stone herself standing right in front of her.

  “Thank you,” Andrea said. She put a hand on Farrell’s shoulder. “You’re one of Farrell’s friends?”

  Crys knew that her mouth was moving, but words refused to come out.

  “Close friends,” Farrell replied with a smirk. “In fact, I don’t mean to brag, but I was the one who convinced Crys to finally try digital photography. She’s a modern girl, but old school in so many ways.”

  “Oh?” Andrea said. “You worked primarily in film before, then?”

  Crys found herself nodding. “It’s how I learned. Black-and-white only. With a manual Pentax from the eighties.”

  “And you develop it yourself?”

  She nodded again, which made her wonder if she’d ever stopped. “In the bathtub. My mom hates it.”

  Andrea grinned. “My mother didn’t like it either—I did the same thing when I was your age. Trust me, Crys, if you want to be a photographer, it’s best to know every aspect of the art. So many people rely on digital photography now, but my favorite camera is still the one I’ve had for over forty years. There’s a kind of purity in the act of taking a photo and not knowing exactly how it will look until it develops in the chemicals. Sure, you can set up a composition, but with film there’s always a surprise with the finished product.”

  “I totally agree.”

  Andrea grasped Crys’s hand again. “Thank you so much for coming to my show.”

  “Thank you for . . . for being you.”

  With another smile and a squeeze of Crys’s hand, Andrea wandered off into the crowd.

  “Thank you for being you,” Farrell repeated. “That’s so adorable I want to frame it.”

  Crys turned a cold glare on him. “What do you want?”

  “Other than to introduce you to a woman I’ve known since before I could walk who also happens to be your idol? Hmm, well, I do always love a nice glass of complimentary champagne. I think they’ve got some over there in the corner.”