A Book of Spirits and Thieves

by Morgan Rhodes

  “Becca, what’s wrong?”

  She pulled her hands away from her face to regard him with wide, glossy eyes. “You’re back so soon. I . . . I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

  “I didn’t want to leave you on your own too long.”

  She laughed as a shimmering tear slipped down her cheek. “You think you need to protect me? I don’t need protection here, not like you do.”

  He stiffened at the suggestion that he couldn’t defend himself. “I’ll have you know, I can take care of myself just fine.”

  “I didn’t mean . . .” She sighed. “I know you can, okay? But you’re flesh and blood, and I’m . . . I’m a spirit here. A sword could kill you, but it wouldn’t hurt me.”

  Of course, she was right. She’d meant no offense. Why was he so sensitive to every word she spoke? “Apologies for being so harsh.”

  She shook her head. “That wasn’t harsh.”

  “Why are you crying?”

  “This meadow reminds me of one my sister and I went to once for a picnic. She thought it was a dumb idea, but I was really excited about it. I packed the lunch and we spent the day together. And it was fun. But ever since Dad left, I feel like all she does is ignore me. She’s so into her stupid camera and her precious Charlie lately that I’m not even sure she knows I exist half the time. Still, I miss her so much right now that I can barely breathe. I miss when we were closer, when we were friends, not just sisters. When we went on picnics, even though she thought they were dumb. If I get back, I’m going to change things between us. I’m going to get to know her again, whether she wants to or not. I’ll give her no choice.” She raised a brow. “I can be very persistent.”

  “I believe it.” He’d never had a sibling, at least not one that he was aware of. The relationship sounded both horribly complicated and wonderful at the same time. “What’s her name?”

  “Crystal,” she said. “Crys.”

  “Crystal-crys.” He nodded. “It’s an unusual but quite lovely name.”

  “No, I mean, her full name is Crystal, but everyone just calls her Crys.” She sighed. “Sorry, I don’t usually act like this. I’m being weak. I need to be strong right now, not be a baby.”

  He crouched down next to her, wishing he could wipe her tears away. “Tears aren’t just for babies. They’re proof that you feel something and aren’t afraid to show it. It’s those who won’t ever allow themselves to cry that are the weak ones.”

  She looked at him for a long moment, biting her bottom lip. “You’re different, aren’t you?”

  “Different?”

  “From other boys. From any boy I’ve ever met before.”

  His jaw tightened. “Perhaps you’d prefer to be around boys who don’t say silly things like I just did.”

  A flash of annoyance lit up her blue eyes. “That’s not even slightly what I meant. You’re just . . . I can’t even explain it. You say what you mean and you mean what you say. You’re kind and generous and thoughtful. You’re brave and strong and sweet, and I . . .” She bit her lip again and studied her hands, which were folded in her lap, before she locked gazes with him. “You make me feel, even though I haven’t known you very long at all, that I could trust you with anything. Anything at all.”

  “You can.” His words were hushed, his throat felt thick with unspoken feelings.

  All the things she’d just said about him, was that really how she saw him? She made him sound like something special. Something better than he ever thought he could be.

  She pushed herself up to standing and studied the grassy ground before she looked up, her blue eyes meeting his again. “While we wait for Barnabas, tell me something about you, about this crazy world you live in.”

  “What do you want to know?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. What about school? Do you take any classes?”

  “Classes . . . I’ve heard of those, I think.” He grinned. The girl had no knowledge about this world whatsoever. “They’re for the children of lords and other nobles who can afford tutors. For a mere peasant like myself . . . well, my mother taught me how to read.”

  Her eyes lit up. “You have books here?”

  “Of course.”

  “Like what kinds?”

  “The ones my mother read to me were full of legends and stories of immortal beings and fantastic creatures from faraway lands.”

  “Do you remember any of the stories?”

  “Some.”

  “Tell me about them.”

  The subject had seemingly managed to chase her sadness away. He wanted to keep that bright excitement in her eyes as long as possible.

  “There’s a tale I liked about a mortal boy who found a magic shell. He made a wish on it to turn his legs into the tail of a fish. He believed this would help him swim to the bottom of the sea in search of his one true love, the sea princess. After much trouble and many tests and trials, the fish-boy succeeded and—”

  “They lived happily ever after.”

  He nodded.

  “That’s my favorite kind of story,” Becca said. “Love stories with happy endings. I haven’t told anyone, but my dream is to be a writer. To write romance novels that make people happy and entertained. My English teacher tells me I have a very creative imagination.”

  “So you wish to become a scribe of legends and tales.” What an incredible thought this was to him. To be the one to write such wonderful stories.

  “Something like that.” She leaned back against the tree trunk. “Do you remember any other stories?”

  The question brought back so many memories of happy times, when his mother would tuck him into bed and read to him late into the night, far longer than she’d planned to, because she’d become so taken with a story that she had to continue so he could see how it ended.

  Not all stories ended happily, though. The sad stories always made her cry.

  “There’s another tale about a powerful, immortal sorceress who lost her magic and became mortal. She went on a quest to find the source of this magic, and she ended up saving a mortal prince, who’d been cursed into the form of a winged horse. They fall in love, the sorceress’s magic is restored, and they go on to rule the kingdom together for a thousand years as king and queen.”

  “I love that. Although, how did the prince live for a thousand years if he was mortal?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe her magic made him immortal like her?”

  “And when they fell in love, was he in horse form or prince form? How did she break his curse if she didn’t have her magic?”

  “Uh . . . I’m not sure I remember that.”

  “Sounds like a plot hole to me.” She blinked. “You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”

  “Not even a little,” he admitted.

  “Still, it sounds like a great story. And the other one, too. Tales of fantasy and magic are the best.”

  He nodded in agreement. “Unfortunately, Valoria has created laws forbidding such stories. She feels they will deteriorate the intelligence of mortals. She issued an official decree that all books like that are to be burned. And they have been. So many have been destroyed.”

  “What?” Becca sputtered with outrage. “That evil bitch!”

  When he’d first learned of the ban, he, too, had been furious. He’d made a promise to himself that he would hide every book he found from that day forward, to save it from destruction. It was a small act of rebellion, but it had given him purpose.

  That was before Livius took him away from his home.

  Barnabas appeared out of nowhere and breezed past them, headed toward the pathway. Thankfully, he was fully dressed in his much cleaner but still sodden clothing. “Let’s get going, my friends. The sun will soon start to set, and I want to get to the next village before we lose the light.”

&
nbsp; “Friends? Can he see me?” Becca asked, surprised.

  Maddox grimaced. “No, but he wholly accepts your presence as truth. He doesn’t even entertain the possibility that you’re not real and I’m crazy.”

  She rose to her feet. “That’s very open-minded of him. No discrimination against lost spirits.”

  “He’s full of surprises.” Maddox eyed Barnabas with an edge of wariness. He wanted answers.

  “I’m going to continue keeping an eye on him,” Becca said. “If he does anything shady, I’ll report back. I swear I won’t let anything bad happen to you if I can help it.”

  He nodded as he collected the copper box and began to follow after Barnabas. “The feeling is entirely mutual, Becca Hatcher.”

  There was a village a short journey from the lake, where they found a stone cottage with a line of drying laundry.

  “Here’s one for you,” Barnabas plucked a cotton tunic off the line and threw it to Maddox. “And here’s one for me. Nice and clean. True luxury.”

  Suddenly, an alarmed female voice called out. Barnabas had spoken loud enough to attract the attention of the woman who lived there. She chased them off with a dangerous-looking broom handle after Barnabas had grabbed two pairs of trousers and an armful of apples from her tree.

  At dusk, they made camp at the edge of the village and changed into their new clothes. Barnabas disappeared into the forest, returning shortly after with two rabbits he’d already skinned and cleaned.

  “Impressive,” Maddox had to admit.

  “And very tasty when cooked properly.” He set up a spit over the campfire to roast the meat.

  Maddox sat down on the log next to him. Becca sat cross-legged across from them, studying the fire.

  “Will you answer more of my questions now?” he asked, trying to sound as patient as possible.

  Barnabas considered him for a long while. “Perhaps. What do you want to know?”

  “Everything you can tell me about my father.”

  “He was a rebel who was loyal to King Thaddeus. He’s the one responsible for hiding the king’s daughter somewhere safe.”

  “Is the king’s daughter the girl Valoria is searching for?” Becca spoke up. “The one with the magic she says she needs to find the thief who stole her dagger?”

  Maddox repeated the question.

  “I don’t believe so,” Barnabas replied. “The rightful heir to the throne has shown no signs yet of being a witch, but I suppose it could be possible. More reason to keep her hidden.”

  “What happened to my father?”

  Barnabas poked at the burning embers with a stick before he answered. “Valoria tore his heart from his chest.”

  Maddox went cold at this blunt answer.

  “Oh, Maddox . . . that’s so horrible,” Becca began. “I—I’m so sorry.”

  He couldn’t say anything in response or even acknowledge her words. For a horrible moment, he was trapped in his mind, at the mercy of an image of the goddess cutting open a rebel’s chest and pulling out his still-beating heart, watching the life leave his eyes. . . .

  I’m sorry, Father, he thought, his own heart aching at the knowledge of this horrible truth. I’m sorry for what happened to you. I’m sorry I couldn’t know you.

  After several silent moments, he tried to find his voice. “Is he the reason I’m a necromancer? Did I get this from him?”

  Barnabas shook his head. “Your father had no magic I was aware of.”

  “Neither does my mother.” She would have told him otherwise—he was certain of it. “Perhaps I am cursed, just like I always thought I was.”

  “Perhaps,” Barnabas agreed, his attention fixed on the roasting rabbits.

  All these years not knowing the truth, and now here it was—so much all at once. He needed to do everything in his power to avoid harping on the untouchable past, and instead focus on the changeable present and future. “Who is this witch we’re going to see? Do you trust her?”

  “She’s a friend. And, yes, I do trust her. She despises Valoria nearly as much as I do.”

  “Your grievances against Valoria go beyond your desire to reinstate King Thaddeus’s daughter on the throne. You want vengeance for what she did to my father, don’t you?”

  “More than anything.” The firelight flickered on Barnabas’s face, casting his grave expression in strange shadows. “And so should you.”

  He did. He’d merely feared Valoria before, but now he loathed her, too.

  “I knew it,” Becca said.

  “Knew what?” Maddox asked softly.

  “That air he put on—the fool, the jokester—it’s all an act. This pain . . . this is the real Barnabas.” She absently played with her silver rose pendant. “I’m not sure if this makes him more trustworthy or less, but at least it’s genuine.”

  Perhaps she was right. There could be more to Barnabas than trickery and ruses.

  The darkness slowly faded from Barnabas’s expression. “We shouldn’t wait any longer to practice your magic. Why don’t you go ahead and try to summon a spirit right now? Prove to yourself and to me you can do this magic on command, and then send it back to where it came from.”

  Maddox immediately grew tense. “You make it sound like it’s easy for me. I’ve never been able to consciously summon a spirit. The only ones I can commune with are already present.”

  “I believe you can do it—with ease, no less. You just don’t believe it.”

  “You sound like Becca. . . .” Maddox then closed his mouth, regretting his words the moment he spoke them.

  “Ah, so that’s her name, is it?” Fresh amusement flickered in Barnabas’s eyes. “Beck-ah? Are you there? Are you sitting next to young Maddox here? You must be a pretty lass, if he’s so taken with you.”

  “Looks like his mask is back in place,” Becca said, fighting a smile.

  “It’s not funny,” Maddox said, annoyed that Barnabas kept saying such embarrassing things.

  “What do you think, Becca?” Barnabas asked. “Do you think Maddox should show us and himself that he has more control over his magic than he thinks he does?”

  “I absolutely do,” she said, even though only Maddox could hear her reply. “I know you can do this. You can do amazing things and the only one who doesn’t believe it is you.”

  Now it was two against one. That wasn’t fair. “It’s not that simple.”

  “Stop overthinking it and just do it.”

  They continued to encourage him to embrace the very thing that he was now certain was a curse. Finally, he became tired of resisting. “Fine. I’ll try. But I need something silver to trap it, just in case.”

  “Have you ever tried trapping spirits in other precious metals? Or, perhaps, a mirror. Or . . . an apple.” Barnabas threw one of his stolen pieces of fruit at Maddox, who caught it in his right hand.

  Maddox took a big bite of the sweet, juicy piece of fruit, chewed, and swallowed. “I know it works with silver, so let’s stay with that for now.”

  Barnabas glanced down at his hand. “Here.” He pulled off his thick ring and tossed it at Maddox. “That’s silver. At least, that’s what the man I stole it from told me.”

  Maddox inspected the ring with doubt. “Normally I do it with a silver container.”

  “What difference does it make? Like you said, you can’t even summon spirits on command. You won’t even need to use it.”

  The challenge had been issued. He didn’t want to fail with Becca watching his every move so closely.

  “Fine.” He closed his eyes, squeezed his hands into fists, and concentrated as hard as he could.

  I’m not afraid of you, he thought. Show yourself, spirit.

  Maddox pried open an eye to see Barnabas studying him, crunching down on another apple.

  “Nothing interesting has happened yet,�
� Barnabas informed him.

  Becca had moved to sit on the fallen log behind him. “Keep trying,” she suggested.

  He squeezed his eyes shut again and tried to push away his doubt and fear.

  He concentrated on the smell of the campfire. The sound of crackling wood. The cool breeze brushing against his arms and face. The sweet taste of the apple on his tongue.

  Then: darkness before him, surrounding him. Darkness everywhere.

  “Come to me now, spirit,” he said aloud. “Show yourself. I command you to obey.”

  His voice was calm and confident, and he summoned the shadows as if they would respond to him. As if they would obey him.

  Something shifted deep inside him. The brisk evening air grew colder.

  Becca screamed. “Maddox!”

  His eyes snapped open.

  A shadow had risen from the ground, a formless, shapeless shroud of midnight. It edged closer to Becca, and she rose from her seat to stagger away from it.

  “So hungry,” a ragged, broken, and pained voice said.

  “No,” Maddox gasped.

  Barnabas shot up to his feet and dropped his half-eaten apple. “Did it work?”

  Maddox didn’t reply. Instead, he moved swiftly toward Becca, focused on nothing but saving her. He grabbed for the spirit, but his hands went right through it, the smoky substance of its form icy cold.

  “What’s happening?” Becca cried. Unlike him, she was able to make contact with the shadowy creature, Maddox assumed with growing panic, because they were both in spirit form. “How do I stop it?”

  “She will make a fine meal,” the spirit said. “Much gratitude for summoning me here, necromancer.”

  He froze with fear. This spirit had the power to devour Becca, to destroy her. To kill her.

  And he had been the one to bring it here.

  Becca shrieked as the spirit swirled around her like a thick black snake, pulling her up into the air. She fought against it but appeared to be weakening. Her punches and kicks slowed, her skin became pale and ashen in mere moments.

  “Maddox . . . ,” she managed. “Please . . . I believe in you.”

  His fear vanished and was replaced with steely determination. He would not let the spirit hurt this girl. He would not let anyone hurt this girl.