The Darkest Magic (A Book of Spirits and Thieves)

by Morgan Rhodes

  “What could you possibly want from her? I know it can’t be to write your pathetic biography.”

  “Not quite, though I know my story would be a fascinating read for many. No, Becca is here, Markus, because she is your daughter. Your blood. Your magic.”

  Becca felt ice in her veins again. “I have no magic,” she said, wringing her hands in a nervous tangle in her lap.

  “Don’t feel bad. It’s rare for magic to awaken at an age as young as yours,” Damen said. “But your father is an immortal; your mother, a mortal. This combination will always lead to magical, if mortal, offspring. You definitely have it within you. I can sense it. And I know Markus can too.”

  All of this—all of these bombshells exploding and destroying the life she thought she was living—it was too much for her to digest. She found she didn’t even have the breath to ask any questions. She was too dizzy even to see straight.

  “No, Damen,” Markus said, his voice low and quiet. “Don’t think I don’t know what you plan to do. I know, and I’m asking you to stop. Deal with me another way.”

  “I’d almost forgotten what a fine sense of morality Eva’s followers had.” Damen shook his head. “Or so they would have others believe.”

  Becca felt herself losing strength and focus, and she knew that if she let herself go numb completely, she’d be forfeiting everything. She thought of Crys, of Julia and Jackie and Daniel and even little, furry Charlie, and she forced herself to take another breath. She forced herself to be strong. “Tell me,” she snarled. “What are you going to do?”

  Damen stood up and walked over to Markus. He stood behind his chair, clapped his hands down on Markus’s shoulders, and fixed his gaze on Becca. “You asked me why I don’t use my magic all the time, Becca. Why I wouldn’t want to make everything easier by drawing the truth out of lying tongues, or killing people who cause me even a moment’s difficulty. The answer is that it would be incredibly boring. Markus and the rest of his kind destroyed me—killed me. Yet I was too strong. So I returned in the form that you see before you now. My eyes—these cold black wounds—are a reminder that I am alone, that this is forever. I see it every time I gaze into my reflection: true immortality. I cannot be killed ever again, not by anything or anyone. One cannot kill death itself.

  “My goal is no longer to personally destroy worlds, or lives, or hope. I’ve discovered it’s much more interesting to sit back and watch mortals destroy themselves. They’re actually very good at it. Sometimes I do give a little push in the right direction here and there, but it doesn’t take nearly as much effort as you might think. Take this world, for example: There’s so much potential for growth and sustainability, yet every day, in little ways, humans everywhere choose to accelerate and actively bring about their own destruction and extinction. It’s fascinating to observe.”

  He spoke of fascination, but there was no emotion—no enthusiasm, no shred of reverence—in his tone. All Becca could do was stare at him, horrified that he could so casually speak about—root for—the end of her world.

  “It shouldn’t be much longer now,” he said, finally allowing a cold smile to slide across his lips, “before all the light is snuffed out. And this”—he squeezed Markus’s shoulders—“brings us to here and now.”

  “You want to kill us,” Becca said, her voice hollow.

  “Haven’t you been listening?” he said. “I don’t want Markus to die. I want him to suffer. Eternally.” Damen bent down and sniffed at Markus’s hair. “He is already near death. I can smell it. He’s close. And desperate. But if there’s one thing that’s built into the very lifeblood of all immortals, it’s a need—a sheer joy in striving—to survive at any cost necessary. Therefore, I propose an experiment. How desperately does he want to live? Enough to kill a part of himself so that the rest might go on?”

  “I won’t do it,” Markus growled.

  Damen snapped his furious gaze to Markus. “You think you’re important enough to decide who lives and who dies? Let me make it a little easier for you to decide. Your daughter has within her, buried deep inside, the magic you need to survive. Take it and live. Or leave it and die. I think we both know which option you’ll choose.”

  Damen clamped his hands on either side of Markus’s head.

  Just like Damen’s had in Becca’s vision, Markus’s eyes began to glow bright white. He gasped in pain as his skin began to go sallow, his cheeks became gaunt, and dark circles formed under his bright eyes. When Damen finally released him, Markus slumped down, head and chest on the table, looking completely and devastatingly drained of energy.

  “Take them both to the dungeon downstairs,” Damen said to an unnamed masked man as he brushed his hands together. “My guess is it’ll be no longer than an hour before he drains her dry.”

  Two masked men grabbed Becca and pulled her away from the table. She swatted at her untouched breakfast, sending porcelain and cold food flying, as a red hot fire rose inside of her.

  “Go to hell,” she snarled at the black-eyed monster.

  “Life is hell,” he replied as he watched his henchmen drag her off the stage and down a flight of stairs.

  At the bottom of the stairs was a thick steel door. The henchmen opened it to reveal a cold, empty concrete room, and then they threw Becca inside.

  Moments later two more henchmen came down with Markus. They shoved him in after her, slamming the door with a heavy thud and locking it shut.

  Chapter 20

  FARRELL

  When the Graysons arrived home just before midnight, Farrell’s parents had insisted that he and Adam go up to their rooms without any discussion of the night’s events. For once in his life, Farrell hadn’t argued. He needed to be alone.

  His brother seemed to disagree, since he quickly appeared at Farrell’s door.

  “We need to talk,” Adam said, his voice strained.

  “No thanks. Not in the mood.”

  “It wasn’t just Markus that bastard took with him,” Adam said, undeterred. “He took Becca too.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “Don’t tell me you don’t care. I don’t believe that for a second. Please—like you really don’t care about either of them?”

  It was all Farrell could do to push away Markus’s voice, which now competed with Connor’s for space in his head. So he definitely couldn’t deal with his do-gooder little brother who had a knack for getting himself into deep trouble with forces far beyond his understanding. Farrell knew he wouldn’t always be there to bail him out.

  “Why don’t you leave me alone and go get your beauty sleep, kid,” he said, trying to sound calm.

  “I saw you with Crys on the dance floor. I’m not an idiot. Don’t tell me you feel nothing for her.”

  “Oh yeah, I feel something for her,” he muttered sarcastically. I feel plenty of things for her, he thought. The first that comes to mind is homicidal. “Get out of here,” he said aloud. “Don’t make me say it again.”

  “But Farrell, you need to—”

  Farrell brusquely grabbed a graphic novel omnibus from his nightstand—Stephen King’s Dark Tower series—and threw it, hard, at his brother. Adam managed to dodge it just in time, and it slammed into the wall instead.

  Adam narrowed his eyes. “I’m trying to understand what you’re going through, Farrell. But sometimes—like now—it’s like you’re trying to make me hate you.”

  “Good, it’s working. Now get the hell away from me.”

  “Keep insisting like that and I might stop fighting for you for good. Then you really won’t have anyone on your side.”

  “Promise?”

  Adam glared at him for one last, lingering moment, disappointment sliding through his eyes, before he finally inched away and closed the door, leaving Farrell alone, with only Markus’s murderous command echoing in his head. He pressed his palms against his temples and squeezed.

  When that didn’t work to dampen the echoes, he put his headphones on and listened to death metal for
an hour. A bad choice for trying to stay calm, but at least it worked to block out his thoughts for a little while.

  He didn’t want to give a damn. Not about anything.

  But he did.

  Staying under his parents’ roof, safely tucked into his king-size bed, wasn’t a solution. His arm burned, reminding him that Markus controlled him through his marks, something he’d denied all this time.

  He wanted to hate Markus for it.

  Instead, what he really wanted was to save him from Damen Winter, a man Farrell knew absolutely nothing about.

  But Markus knew him. Perhaps Farrell might be able to find some sort of message or note or journal or . . . anything that could help him figure out where Markus had been taken.

  If Farrell could find a way to free Markus—and his daughter—it would buy him the right to ask him to remove his marks.

  These hyper-evolved senses were great, but not at this price.

  At dawn, Farrell left for Markus’s. Markus had recently given him a key to the front door—the key that had previously belonged to Daniel Hatcher. He didn’t want to ask Sam to drive him to the Hawkspear leader’s private home, so he decided instead to take a cab to an address that was a short walk to the mansion.

  The cab parked at an out-of-the-way address. Farrell paid and opened the door, accidentally brushing against it while exiting. His forearm yelped in pain, the way it did now whenever it made the slightest bit of contact with anything. He pulled up his sleeve to see that his new mark was now looking much worse than a fading scar; it was bright red and raw, as if it’d just been freshly carved.

  “What the hell have you done to me, Markus?” he muttered.

  “Kill Crystal and make sure that traitorous bitch knows it was on my order . . .”

  The hell he would. Marks or no marks, he wasn’t anyone’s mindless minion. Crys and Adam were wrong. Farrell did have free will. He’d always had it, and he always would. He and no one else was the master of his destiny.

  He made the short walk, checking in all directions to make sure he wasn’t seen or followed before turning into Markus’s front walk. He let himself in with the key and went directly to Markus’s library, where he felt he was most likely to find the answers he needed to his questions about Damen Winter. However, as he stepped inside the room with its vaulted ceiling and wall-to-wall shelves two stories high, holding thousands of books, he found he wasn’t quite sure where to begin.

  He blinked, forcing himself to concentrate and use his enhanced eyesight to scan books on the top shelves. He made his way across three of the four walls before he let out a frustrated sigh. This was a futile search. He went to Markus’s desk and sat down, trying to reclaim his composure. Immediately, his gaze fell on the familiar ornate box that always sat in the right corner of the desktop.

  “Did you forget about the dagger?” not-Connor said. “Best keep that little item close, brother. Markus will want it.”

  He hadn’t forgotten. He had been momentarily distracted by other matters.

  “And what does he want it for, I wonder?” Farrell muttered out loud. “To cut another mark into me? What would a fifth one do? Make me dance on command like a trained monkey?”

  “You’re lucky he chose you to fill such an important role in his life. Everything has a price, Farrell. The higher the price, the better the reward.”

  Farrell couldn’t stop himself from rolling his eyes, but he had to silently concede that Connor’s voice had a point. He tried to ignore his trembling hand as he reached out to lift the lid off the box. For the briefest moment before he opened it, he had a sickening feeling that the dagger was gone.

  But there it was, shiny as ever and safe in its black velvet nest.

  With a sigh of relief, Farrell reached in and wrapped his hand around the hilt. He picked it up and brought the blade so close that he could see his own distorted reflection in it.

  “Maybe you can help me find Markus,” he told it.

  Then he heard a sound: a door opening and closing. He was on his feet and slipping out of the room in an instant to investigate.

  He paused in the hallway and concentrated, listening. He heard footsteps—incredibly faint, but definitely footsteps—moving toward him from the front foyer.

  As the footsteps drew closer, he slipped into a doorway that led to one of Markus’s many sitting rooms. The richly appointed, museum-like den was filled with prewar furniture, including a grandfather clock that told him it was just shy of eight in the morning. He knew that Markus’s staff—one maid and one cook—never arrived before noon.

  He tightened his grip on the dagger as he pressed his back against the wall next to the door, where he was certain he’d be hidden from whoever was roaming the hallway.

  A floorboard creaked nearby. Holding his breath, he edged close enough to the entry to glance out.

  Long platinum blond hair pulled into a messy ponytail. A jean jacket unbuttoned to reveal a Wonder Woman T-shirt. Ugly-ass black-framed glasses that some people—Farrell not included—thought were stylish.

  Crystal Hatcher, always choosing to be in the worst places at the worst times.

  His arm flared with pain at the sight of her, Markus’s command now screaming in his head.

  Giving her a bit of a head start, he tensely watched her navigate the hallways with purpose. When she was almost out of sight, he began to follow her all the way back to the library.

  She entered, gazing up at the bookcases, then further up to the skylight, and then out to the huge windows overlooking the gardens. He watched as she lowered and narrowed her gaze, then went straight for the desk. She opened the box.

  And frowned deeply.

  “Looking for this?” he asked.

  She whipped around to face him as he started dragging the sharp tip of the dagger along the edge of the doorway. It made an unsettling yet satisfying scraping sound.

  Her eyes went wide with surprise.

  He shook his head. “You really can’t stay away from me, can you?”

  “I . . .” She scanned the room frantically, as if hunting for an escape, but there was only one entrance, and Farrell was currently blocking it. “I didn’t know anyone would be here.”

  “Obviously,” Farrell said drily. “I didn’t realize Markus gave you a key. I’m quite positive he would have mentioned something like that to me.”

  He tried to sound casual and cold, but he felt anything but. The moment he first saw her, the echo of Markus’s command had risen to the surface of his consciousness so vividly, so deafeningly, that it was impossible to even attempt to ignore. Every muscle in his body was tense and ready to strike.

  “The front door was open,” she said quietly.

  “Nice one, little brother,” said not-Connor, and Farrell had to blink back the rage he felt at his own stupid mistake as he pretended not to be fazed by Crys’s news.

  “How’d you find this place?”

  “It belonged to my great-grandfather. That plus a search engine, and I was in business. Farrell, I really don’t have time to explain, but I need that dagger.”

  “And, what, you just assumed the door would be open and you could waltz right in?” he said, ignoring her demand.

  All patience was rapidly fading from her expression. “I was ready to break a window, but luckily I didn’t have to.”

  “Where’s your aunt? Your mother?”

  “Not here.” She hissed out a frustrated sigh. “I know we’ve had our differences, and you probably trust me as much as I trust you, which is to say not very much, but . . . look, Farrell, I need that dagger.”

  Markus’s command rang in his head, loud enough now to block out almost every other sound. His fingers were so tightly wrapped around the hilt of the dagger that they were turning purple. “You say that like you really believe there’s a chance I’ll give it to you.”

  “It could be the only way to free everyone from the society marks.”

  Steadily, angrily, darkness crept into his mind a
nd began to obliterate all other thoughts. Trying to ignore it was a true act of futility.

  “Don’t you have a sister to rescue?” he asked, his voice suddenly sounding distant and emotionless, even to him. “Shouldn’t you be focusing on that right now?”

  Her eyes flashed with anger. “How can you be so cold? Don’t you give a damn about anything? Are you really that lost?”

  Was this what it felt like to be lost? And was he really too weak to fight against these strange compulsions, even when he knew he wanted to?

  “Accept the darkness,” not-Connor told him. “Stop fighting it. No one’s here to watch, no one has to know. And when it’s done, you’re going to feel so much better.”

  He blinked back the burning pain in his forearm.

  He didn’t like pain. Never had. It was a sign that something was wrong.

  But in this case, it was something that could be fixed with barely any effort.

  Accept the darkness, he thought. And then I’ll feel so much better.

  One command. One dagger. One girl.

  Zero choice.

  “I’m going to tell you a little secret,” Farrell said evenly. “And then I’m going to give you a bit of a head start.”

  She frowned. “A head start? What are you talking about?”

  “You know how you’re so fond of telling me that I’m Markus’s minion, who’ll do anything he commands?”

  “What about it?”

  “Well, you’re right. And I don’t think you’re going to like what he last commanded me to do.”

  Crys looked at him, clearly wary. “What did he just command you to do, Farrell?”

  He flicked his gaze from the tip of the blade to meet hers. “Guess.”

  The confusion in her eyes turned to stark understanding in a matter of moments. She began shaking her head. “You wouldn’t hurt me.”

  “Oh, it probably won’t hurt for very long.” He had to admit, accepting this duty—however much he knew he didn’t want to—did make everything easier. Like taking a deep gulp of air after being trapped underwater.

  “You won’t do it,” Crys growled. “You may be a lot of nasty things, Farrell, but you’re not a killer.”