The Darkest Magic

by Morgan Rhodes

  “No. I’m going to stay here and keep an eye on you.”

  “Excuse me?” Farrell said, swapping out his smile for a raised eyebrow and a curled lip. “What makes you think I need an underage babysitter?”

  “How many marks do you have now?” Adam asked evenly, not skipping a beat. “Did Markus give you the third one yet?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I don’t know. Does it matter that an immortal god of death put you under three increasingly intense obedience spells so that you’d be reborn as his mindless minion? Yeah, I’d say that matters.”

  Farrell drained his drink. He put the empty glass down roughly on the nearest tabletop, then grabbed his brother by the arm, tightly, and dragged him into the hallway leading to the restrooms.

  “You know the rule, Adam,” he growled.

  “What happens at the Hawkspear Society stays at the Hawkspear Society.” Adam said in a mocking, singsong voice. He had the audacity to look proud of himself for successfully wiping away Farrell’s faux-happy exterior.

  “Not exactly how the rule is phrased, but that’s the general meaning of it.”

  “Yeah, well, screw that.”

  Farrell all but scowled at his meddling little brother. Adam had quickly become the single thorn in the beautiful bed of roses that Farrell had recently fallen into.

  “If Markus ever finds out what you did—” Farrell hissed.

  “What?” Adam challenged. “He’ll kill me?”

  “Yes,” Farrell said without a moment’s hesitation. “And I’ll help him.”

  “No, you won’t.” Adam’s expression soured. “You think you’re so tough now. You think you’re untouchable like him, that the rules don’t apply to you. I don’t care how many times he carves into you, you’re my brother, and that’s never going to change.”

  They looked at each other for several long moments, Farrell staring his brother down with icy eyes and Adam responding with a stern but pleading gaze.

  “Go home, Adam,” Farrell said finally, unable to take another moment of his brother’s puppy-dog eyes. “I can handle myself just fine. I’m the same as I’ve ever been; the marks just make me better. Stronger, smarter. They’re a gift from a god—literally.”

  Adam just stood there, his expression unchanging.

  “You’re not leaving, are you?” Farrell said.

  “Nope.”

  “Tell me.” Farrell leaned casually against the wall and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Have you spoken to your best friends, the Hatchers, recently?”

  Adam winced slightly and then recomposed himself. “If I had, I wouldn’t exactly tell you, would I?”

  “Aw, how cute.” He lowered his voice. “You know what Markus is capable of. What his magic is capable of. He can find anyone and anything he wants, in this city or anywhere else. There is no hiding from him. Remember that.”

  Adam shrugged. “If that’s true, why hasn’t he gone after them?”

  “How do you know he hasn’t?”

  Adam screwed up his face in the most sarcastic look possible. “I think the whole world would know it if he tracked them down and got the Codex back.”

  Farrell pressed his lips together in aggravated frustration. “He’s going to get that Codex. He’ll pry it from their hot little hands.”

  “But he already had it, didn’t he? And then he just handed it over to Daniel Hatcher? I don’t know. If I had something that important, I wouldn’t let go of it.”

  “He trusted Daniel.”

  “But that was a mistake, wasn’t it?” Adam blinked, his expression turning from solemn to bold. “Did Markus kill him for helping his daughters escape?”

  “I seem to remember you helping him out with that, but you’re still breathing, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah, but I have you to thank for that. Daniel wasn’t so lucky.”

  Farrell scoffed. “Keep believing that if you want to.” He wasn’t going to admit what he and Adam both knew to be true: that Crys and Becca’s father was dead for betraying Markus.

  And he certainly wasn’t going to admit the part that Adam didn’t know: that it was Farrell who’d killed Daniel Hatcher.

  Connor’s voice chimed in his mind again. “You should feel no regret,” it said. Farrell closed his eyes. “He chose his fate. He knew the punishment for betraying Markus. You chose to do as Markus said because you’re loyal, and you’ve earned your place in the society. Keep it up, and soon you will reap even more benefits.”

  Connor’s voice calmed him, filled him with a coolness that steadied his mind against his brother’s meddling.

  “I need a cigarette,” Farrell said, forcing himself to sound casual. He reached into his jeans pocket to fish out a pack. “Look, Adam. Stay, go. Do whatever you want, I don’t care. But if you follow me outside, I swear to everything you hold dear: I will blow smoke in your face.”

  Adam scowled, not taking Farrell’s version of an olive branch. “You haven’t heard a thing I’ve said tonight, have you?”

  This conversation was over. “Goodnight, little brother.”

  Farrell turned and went out the nearest exit to join a handful of club patrons smoking in a haphazard huddle. He lit his cigarette, then leaned against the cement wall.

  He tried to relax, but the thousand questions zipping through his mind had other plans.

  What was Markus waiting for? Why didn’t he just narrow in on the Hatchers, storm in, and take what was his?

  And why the hell would he have handed the Codex over to Daniel as if it were nothing more than a used comic book just because he got a phone call from Jackie Hatcher?

  Why did Farrell’s left forearm still burn like he’d survived a five-alarm fire, even though a whole week had passed since Markus had made the third mark?

  The moment Farrell plunged a knife into Daniel Hatcher’s chest . . . why didn’t he feel any guilt? Why was he not even a little bit sorry, especially since he’d never killed anyone before?

  And why were the girls who came to this club so damned superficial? It was a birthmark, not an oozing sore.

  “Don’t!”

  Farrell turned his head toward the voice, thankful to be distracted from his reeling mind. It was a girl on the other side of the smoking patio, berating the guy she was with. “Just don’t, okay?”

  Farrell narrowed his eyes to get a closer look at the girl with platinum blond hair and black-rimmed glasses that reminded him unsettlingly of Crys Hatcher.

  The girl’s muscle-head companion grabbed her arm and wrenched her back toward him. “You think you can just walk away from me?” he growled. “Behave yourself, you stupid little bitch.”

  “Let go of me,” she snarled.

  “Apologize, and maybe I’ll consider it.”

  “Apologize? For what? I hate you. You’re the one who should apologize!”

  He let go of her arm, only to smack her across the face, hard.

  Before he knew what he was doing or exactly why, Farrell was upon him. He grabbed hold of the guy and threw him against the wall. He put his right hand around his throat and squeezed, then with his left hand took a drag from his cigarette.

  “I agree with her. I think you need to apologize,” Farrell said.

  “Let . . . go . . . of . . . me,” the guy gasped, clawing at Farrell’s arm.

  “Not. Going. To. Happen. First, you’re going to apologize to the lady. After that, maybe I won’t choose to tear out your windpipe. Sound fair?”

  The girl stared at them, eyes wide. “What are you doing?” she said frantically.

  “Me?” Farrell glanced at her. “I’m being chivalrous, what does it look like?”

  “Let go of him!”

  “He hasn’t apologized yet. He knows the deal: He apologizes, and I don’t kill him. Simple as that.”

  Her worried gaze flicked between the two them. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Violence against women is one of my hot button issues.”

  “Fine,
” she breathed out. “Apologize, Larry. Do it!”

  Larry’s face was bright red from Farrell’s hold on him, but his eyes were filled with fury as he spit with as much force as he could manage. It landed on Farrell’s cheek with a cold splat.

  “Now that was just rude and disgusting. Luckily, I’m immune to all germs.” Farrell raised his shoulder to wipe off the saliva, then tightened his grip on Larry’s neck. Effortlessly, he lifted him a couple of inches off the ground. “Shall we try again?”

  Now Larry was turning purple. “Fine . . . I . . . I’m . . . sorry.”

  “And it will never happen . . . ? Go on, finish the sentence for me.”

  “Never . . . happen . . . again.”

  “Good.” Farrell let him go, and he dropped down to the ground in a heaving heap. The girl quickly scrambled to help Larry to his feet, and Farrell watched as they both scurried away, beyond the patio and out into the Toronto streets. “Yeah, you’re welcome,” Farrell called after them. “Anytime, really.”

  Ignoring the small group of witnesses staring at him, he flicked his cigarette away and went back inside the club. He went to the restroom, stood in front of a mirror, and regarded his reflection. His heart pounded slowly, but so loudly he could hear it.

  “Ugly bastard,” he told himself.

  “If you want to change something,” Connor’s voice told him, “do it. You are the master of your destiny. No one else.”

  “You said it, brother.”

  Farrell drew a small folding knife out of his pocket and flipped it open. Leaning closer to the mirror, he pulled the skin beneath his right eye taut. Slowly and carefully, he sliced off his birthmark.

  He should have done this long ago.

  Chapter 5

  MADDOX

  Maddox had always had a knack for memorization, but for whatever reason, he could never remember the names of trees. He could recite stories from his favorite books nearly word for word, but when it came to remembering specifics within larger categories—such as trees, rivers, or villages—he’d always struggled. His mother used to tell him it was because he didn’t care deeply enough about those things to take the time to learn.

  But now he wanted to know.

  A willowbark tree. Yes, that was it. He was standing before the largest willowbark tree he’d ever seen, where his mother had been buried. The tree was next to the river where she’d taught him how to swim when he was so young he had only barely begun to walk.

  Maddox knelt down by her grave, the dirt still fresh, and placed a silverlily he’d picked from his mother’s garden on top of it. They were her favorite flower.

  He wasn’t sure exactly how long he’d been there, only that the day had turned to dusk and the sky had begun to darken.

  “Maddox, my sweet.” Camilla, Barnabas’s witch friend, placed her hand on his arm. “Can you hear me?”

  “Give him another moment,” Barnabas said.

  That moment passed. Then another, and another.

  “It’s night, Barnabas. He needs to sleep,” Camilla said.

  “Very well.” Barnabas let out a long sigh. “Maddox, come on. It’s time to go.”

  Maddox nodded shallowly. He tried to push himself up from the hard ground, but he faltered on legs that had gone numb. Camilla was at his side in an instant, smiling at him comfortingly as she helped him to his feet.

  “Up you go,” she said. “We’ll get you into a nice warm bed. Tomorrow will be a better day, I promise.”

  There had been three tomorrows since his mother had been killed, and none had been better than the last. In that time, Barnabas had sent word to Camilla to join them in Silvereve. She’d arrived quickly, although Maddox had been too wrapped up in grief to register her presence. Camilla and her sister, Sienna, had tried to help Barnabas and Maddox in their confrontation with Valoria. Sienna had spent years working her way into the goddess’s circle of trust, all for the chance to use her own secrets to vanquish her.

  But their plan hadn’t worked. Valoria was still out there, still after Maddox and the infinite power she believed he could offer her, still ready to kill any innocent who stood in her way.

  Finally they returned to his mother’s house, and Camilla personally put Maddox to bed. He was so tired, more exhausted than he’d ever been before, but his body was fighting sleep. As he was lying there with his eyes closed, he could hear Barnabas and Camilla talking, most likely thinking he was asleep.

  “You barely go near him,” Camilla whispered in an accusatory tone. “What’s wrong with you? You should be comforting the boy. He just lost his mother.”

  “And I lost my sister,” Barnabas said. “That doesn’t change the fact that Maddox is—that we all are—in grave danger. I’ve no other choice but to be strong right now.”

  “He hasn’t been hardened like you have. He hasn’t been through the same struggles. Traveling around with that nasty con man was nothing compared to what you’ve seen. You know this, and yet you’re still cold.”

  “Camilla, I don’t know how to behave with him. Ever, and especially now. I don’t know how to be a father, all right?”

  “You’ve had sixteen years to learn.”

  “And yet I still fail.”

  “Fine. Then don’t be a father to him. Be a friend.”

  “I’ll try my best.”

  “Of course you will. I have no doubt.”

  Barnabas didn’t know how to be a father. Maddox took some solace in this since he didn’t really know how to be a son to anyone but Damaris.

  But he also would try his best to be Barnabas’s friend.

  Slowly, finally, sleep found him.

  • • •

  The next morning, it was time to bid farewell to Maddox’s village and his mother’s grave. He had no idea if he’d ever return. As soon as he woke up, he steeled himself against this day and promised himself he wouldn’t shed a tear—not today or any day after. He’d given in to crying too many times over the last few days and knew Barnabas must have thought him weak for it. He swore he’d never cry again.

  He wasn’t a child anymore, was no longer innocent. Innocent children didn’t think of nothing but vengeance.

  “I’m ready to go,” Maddox announced, his voice strong and steady, but it had a dull edge to it that even he could hear.

  Camilla was at the stove cooking kaana, a familiar breakfast dish created from mashed yellow beans. When she heard Maddox, she turned around and fixed a bright smile on him. Maddox had to suppress his instinctual flinch at seeing her now, the first time he’d been truly lucid since she’d arrived.

  Poor Camilla—she was kind and smart and a gifted witch, but she had not been blessed with the beauty her sister, Sienna, had. Her eyes were lopsided, the few teeth she had were widely spaced and crooked, and her chin was a village of warts, black hairs springing forth from the majority.

  Maddox smiled back at her.

  “Hungry, my boy?” she asked.

  “I suppose so.”

  She brought him a bowl and spoon and patted him on the back. “There you go.”

  “Thank you.” He stared down at the bowl of kaana.

  Barnabas sat down in the chair across from him, eyeing him warily. “Camilla and I can go in search of Valoria’s scribe. You don’t have to join us for this part of the journey. I understand if you’re not feeling quite up to it.”

  “I’m fine,” Maddox said calmly.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m fine,” he said, louder this time. “What’s the plan?”

  Barnabas raised his brows. “Well, all right then. The plan is simple. We will go to Valoria’s palace, locate the scribe, bespell him with Camilla’s scented oils, and remove him from the palace to question him at our leisure. He’ll tell us how to most effectively bring an end to the goddess’s reign, and then all will be well and right in the land.”

  Maddox glanced at Camilla, who was back at her station at the stove. “Scented oils?”

  She stirred a second
pot that was simmering next to the kaana. “I just need to infuse this with some air magic and a few other useful ingredients I picked up on my way here. Then it’ll be potent enough to knock out any man or woman for at least half a day with just one whiff.”

  “Your skills impress me more every time I see you,” Barnabas told her.

  Maddox eyed the brew warily. “A half a day, huh?”

  “Any longer would need much more simmer time,” Camilla said. “I’ll pour a little of this in a vial, and we’ll be ready to leave. Nothing to worry about.”

  He appreciated that this witch, who was brewing a knockout potion to aid in a kidnapping, was assuring him that all was well. Then again, both she and Barnabas had been treating him like a fragile object, ready to shatter at any moment. But he wasn’t fragile; he was strong. Every moment, every day, getting stronger.

  Maddox knew he would be a major asset in this journey. And he knew he would soon avenge the death of his mother. The deaths of both of his mothers: Damaris and Eva too.

  • • •

  Maddox remained mostly silent and introspective for the first day of their three-day journey by foot to the palace. On the second day, Camilla managed to coax conversation from him, telling him she wanted to know more about Damaris.

  “Was she a good cook?” Camilla asked as they ventured out that misty morning from a small inn that had served them a barely palatable breakfast of burnt eggs and runny kaana.

  He nodded. “The best cook. She made a lamb stew that was so phenomenal she could have sold the recipe for a couple years’ worth of coin. She always managed to get bread—still warm, with a crisp crust, but soft in the middle, and it melted in your mouth—for us every day, no matter how rough our circumstances. Sometimes we ate it for breakfast with honey.”

  “I’m getting hungry just hearing about it,” Camilla said kindly. “She was a very good mum, it seems.”

  Maddox nodded. He let a peaceful silence settle between them before he worked up the courage to ask a question that had been on his mind for a while. “I’ve been wondering a lot about . . . well, about what my birth mother was like. Did you know her?”

  “Eva?” Camilla asked. She cast a cautious glance toward Barnabas, who walked about five paces ahead of them—certainly close enough to overhear. He didn’t turn around or slow his steps, so Camilla turned back to Maddox and lowered her voice to just above a whisper. “I never met her personally. But I have heard many stories. It hasn’t been all that long, really, since she . . . passed.”