The Darkest Magic

by Morgan Rhodes

  Chapter 16

  FARRELL

  The second the gunshot went off, his forearm lit up with a sharp, burning pain.

  “You have to find Markus,” not-Connor’s voice instructed him. “He’s going to need you.”

  Farrell frowned. His mother and Felicity both looked at him fearfully from across the table.

  “Forget them,” Connor snapped. “Markus is more important—you know this already.”

  He stood up and scanned the room, all of his senses ramping up to better help him focus. His vision was clear, his hearing precise.

  “There he is. Go—now!”

  Without a word, he left his mother and Felicity and, keeping his head low, swiftly weaved his way through the crowd. Every single guest was frozen in place as the group of masked and armed intruders entered the ballroom.

  Markus stood on the far side of the dance floor, his arms crossed over his chest, his jaw tight. The moment he reached the Hawkspear leader’s side, a horrible tightness eased in Farrell’s chest, and the burning pain in his arm subsided somewhat.

  “What the hell is this, Markus?” Farrell said under his breath as the invaders continued to spread out in the ballroom. Two of them stayed in front of the main doors, guns ready, while a third approached from the reception area and roughly pushed Gloria St. Pierre inside. The old lady cowered in terror.

  “I’ve no idea,” Markus said, scanning the room, his eyes darting and mouth set in a tense grimace.

  Farrell waited for Markus to follow his flat reply with some sort of explanation or proposed solution, but when neither came, a dark sense of doom descended upon him and settled squarely in his chest.

  “Where’re Mom and Dad?” Adam asked.

  His brother’s voice managed to pull him from his intense focus on Markus, and he blinked, as if emerging from a daydream.

  “Adam, I . . . ,” he began, but then faltered as his gaze shifted to the others standing near Markus. Adam had his arm around Becca, who now wore his dark blue suit jacket over her shoulders. Next to them was another woman: the beautiful blonde who’d captured Markus’s full attention at the end of his speech.

  Jackie Kendall.

  Her eyes were red and glossy but fierce, and the look she gave Farrell was one of disgust and hatred. It was a near match for the look on Becca’s face.

  Something had happened here between them—something big.

  “Somebody needs to call 9-1-1,” Adam growled. “I left my phone at the table.”

  Farrell pulled his phone out of his pocket.

  “Don’t,” Markus said immediately. “I’m curious to see what they want.”

  Farrell frowned down at the phone. It couldn’t find a network connection; he couldn’t call anyone even if he wanted to.

  “Can you can stop them?” he asked.

  “If they give me a reason to.”

  “Take more of my strength if you need it,” Farrell whispered only loud enough for Markus to hear. As much as he dreaded the pain and weakness that would follow another draining of his vitality, he would happily suffer if it meant that Markus could stomp all over these gunmen.

  “Hopefully that won’t be necessary,” Markus replied.

  Farrell watched as one of the thugs walked down a line of frozen, whimpering party guests, scanning them closely as if he were appraising items for a pawn shop.

  “A bunch of pathetic thieves,” not-Connor said. “They heard about the ball and came here thinking they’d have their pick of the finest jewelry and fattest wallets in the city.”

  Idiots. Farrell couldn’t wait to watch Markus destroy them one by one.

  “And you’ll be more than happy to help,” Connor added.

  Yes, he certainly would be.

  Suddenly, a thirty-something-year-old man, still in his costume mask, bolted toward the exit and tried to run past the two men stationed there. They were ready for him. The bigger gunman grabbed him, while the other hit him over the head with the butt of his gun. He dropped to the ground with a sickening thud.

  “Remain calm!” boomed a voice before Farrell could properly react. One of the black-clad gunmen was standing on the other side of the dance floor, at the podium where Markus had given his speech. “Remain calm, and no one will get hurt.”

  “Who are you?” a man bravely demanded. Farrell strained to see who it was, but he was too far away. “What do you want?”

  “End this, Markus,” Jackie hissed. “What are you waiting for?”

  “Not yet,” he replied.

  “You can’t do anything, can you?” she said tauntingly. “Your magic is too faded, you couldn’t even take down one of them.”

  Farrell eyed Markus with alarm, but Markus stayed silent, his full focus on the podium. He’d never heard anyone speak to Markus with such shocking disrespect.

  “What do I want?” the gunman said calmly into the microphone. “What a dangerous question. Before we get into all of that, let me introduce myself.”

  The gunman reached up and removed his mask to reveal a startlingly pale face, jet black hair that fell to his shoulders, and no eyebrows. His eyes were completely black, like shiny buttons, no whites to be seen. The ballroom echoed with gasps, but Farrell wasn’t fazed. He assumed the gunman was just wearing special contact lenses, nothing scarier than a Halloween accessory. Farrell noticed he was young—college-aged.

  “My name is Damen Winter,” the unmasked man said. “It’s so lovely to meet you all. You want to know why I came here, what I want. Well, that’s simple. It’s the same thing I’ve always wanted, since the beginning of time.” Damen paused, clearly trying to build up some dramatic suspense.

  Connor’s voice inwardly scoffed. “Goth wannabe. Just some kids playing at being dark and dangerous masterminds.”

  “What I want,” the goth kid finally continued, “is utter chaos and destruction of this and every other world.”

  Farrell glanced at Markus, expecting to exchange a look of relief with him. Instead, what he saw made his stomach sink.

  Markus’s face was locked in an expression of complete and utter shock.

  “No,” Markus whispered. “It’s impossible.”

  Farrell didn’t know what to think. For a moment, he couldn’t think. He’d never been more frightened than he was right now, watching Markus King show fear.

  “Markus,” Farrell whispered, gripping the man’s shoulder. “Are you okay?”

  “Who is that, Markus?” Jackie whispered, moving closer.

  “You want the golden dagger, Jackie?” Markus said, his voice hoarse and hollow. “It seems you’ve come to the right place. Damen’s magic is what created it.”

  Jackie shook her head, clearly baffled. “You’re not making any sense.”

  “No, I suppose I’m not. Because this doesn’t make sense. Damen is dead. He’s supposed to be dead.”

  “I have a few questions for you all,” Damen continued. Farrell’s group went silent again, taut with fear as they focused once more on Damen. “I do hope that you will be truthful with me.” He gestured to one of the gunmen, who was standing near the man who’d first shouted up at Damen. The gunman grabbed the man and pulled him to his feet.

  Now that he was standing, Farrell recognized the man as a society member. Robert Micelli. He was always complaining about something at Hawkspear meetings—that his charities were being cheated out of funding, that he needed a break on his dues because his business was taking a hit in the bad economy. Whenever Robert took the floor at meetings, Farrell took it as a cue to take out his phone and tune out.

  Now, however, Robert Micelli had one hundred percent of Farrell’s attention.

  The gunman had escorted Robert right up to the edge of the raised platform stage. “Tell me,” Damen said to him. “Is Markus King here tonight?”

  Robert laughed. “I think anyone with access to a search engine would know that Markus was the keynote speaker at this charity event.”

  “How charitable of him. Is he still here
?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Then you’re worthless to me.”

  Slowly, while looking directly at Robert, Damen blinked in a purposeful, rhythmic way: a horrible fluttering of white eyelids over glossy black eyes.

  Robert clutched his throat. He gasped desperately several times before collapsing to the floor. His wife screamed and lunged toward the podium, falling at her husband’s side.

  “He’s dead!” she cried out. “Oh my God! He’s dead!”

  Damen gestured to another man in black. This gunman yanked another guest out of her seat—a terrified woman with a purple streak in her short blond hair that exactly matched the color of her gown.

  She wasn’t a Hawkspear member.

  “Tell me, what do you know about Markus King?” Damen asked.

  The young woman darted her eyes all around the ballroom, as if seeking answers on the walls and ceiling. “I—I don’t know very much about him. I think he’s the son of a wealthy man . . . wh-who is involved with lots of charities?”

  “You also,” Damen said, “are worthless to me.”

  The woman cried out, her eyes rolling back into her head, and she slipped from the gunman’s grasp and fell to the floor.

  “Stop this!” Jackie pleaded to Markus in a whisper. “Whatever you have to do, you need to stop him!”

  Markus hadn’t moved an inch—had barely breathed, as far as Farrell could tell, since Damen first began plucking people off one by one.

  “He’s like you, isn’t he?” Farrell whispered, his throat raw. “A god of death? That’s who he is, right?”

  Jackie snapped to attention. “Markus still has you all convinced he’s a god? You society members are so weak-minded.”

  “Says the woman who used to sleep with him,” Farrell sneered.

  She glared at him. “You would too, if he asked you to. You wouldn’t have a choice.”

  Sounds just like something a delusional ex-girlfriend would say, Farrell thought. He only had time to respond with a dismissive smirk before a harsh scream shattered the air around them.

  “No!” Becca shrieked.

  Farrell whipped his head around. One of Damen’s gunmen stood before the podium with a new victim in his grip: Crys.

  Damen regarded her calmly, cocking his head to the side. “I certainly hope you’ll be of more help than those other two,” he said. “Tell me: Who is Markus King?”

  Crys trembled, but she kept her chin high and her ice blue eyes focused on the man behind the microphone. “He’s the leader of the Hawkspear Society,” she said with an impressive amount of forced confidence.

  Damen gave her a chilling smile. “Finally, someone who isn’t worthless. Tell me, what is the Hawkspear Society?”

  “A secret organization founded about sixty years ago. Only the very wealthy are eligible to become members. They host events like this one, but mostly what they do is hold public executions at their meetings. Because Markus tells them it will make the world a better place.”

  Farrell felt like he was going in and out of consciousness. He wasn’t sure if he was happy that Crys was still alive because she had told Damen the truth or if he was ready to kill her himself for outing Markus and the society.

  He was leaning heavily toward door number two.

  “Just more proof that she’s trouble,” Connor growled. “And your fixation with her is a danger to Markus and the society.”

  “And how old do you think he is?” Damen asked Crys, his lips curling again into that sinister smile.

  “Old. I don’t know how old, exactly. But ancient. He’s immortal.”

  The ballroom rose up in gasps again, rumbles of conversation spreading through the horrified guests. Damen held up his hand but was met with only the slightest hush before the talking continued again. He sent an exasperated signal to his gunmen, and another shot was fired into the air. Plaster streamed down from the ceiling, and silence fell again.

  “How old do you think I am?” Damen asked now.

  Crys drew in a shaky breath. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say twenty or so. But since, like you said yourself, I’m no fool, I’m going to go with about the same age as Markus.”

  Damen let out a wretched little laugh. “Not quite. I’m much, much older than Markus.” Crys just stared at him, stunned, as if resigning herself to certain death. “So I’m afraid that’s one wrong answer from you.”

  Every muscle in Farrell’s body grew tense. All the rage he’d felt toward Crys for revealing Markus’s secrets fell away as he ignited with vengeful energy from within. If Damen made one move to kill her, he was ready to close the distance between him and Crys in a heartbeat.

  Instead, Damen only flicked his hand. The gunman released Crys, who staggered away from the podium.

  “Crys!” Becca called out to her, and Crys ran across the dance floor to reach her side in moments. The sisters embraced, tears streaming down Becca’s cheeks while Crys seemed too shocked to weep. Jackie joined them, enfolding them both in her arms.

  “It’s okay,” Crys said, stroking her sister’s hair. “I’m fine.”

  “Let’s continue, shall we?” Damen boomed from the podium again.

  As he gestured toward another gunman to find the next victim, Markus’s expression was rigid, eyes so furious that Farrell wondered if they might ignite.

  “Enough, Damen!” Markus’s voice was commanding, loud enough for everyone in the ballroom to hear. He stepped past Farrell to the edge of the dance floor.

  Damen looked over and found Markus’s gaze instantly. “Ah,” he cooed. “There you are.”

  “Stop this.”

  “Stop what? Ending little mortal lives that you and I both know are meaningless?”

  “You’re supposed to be dead.”

  “Yes, I’m sure that’s what you’ve thought for some time now. Surprise.”

  “The people here tonight don’t deserve this. All this fear and pain. They have nothing to do with you.”

  “Fear and pain is what reminds them they’re alive. That they should actually use the small handful of years they have rather than waste them. You could say I’m doing them a service. Giving them a wakeup call.”

  “You came here for me, not them. You want me to pay for what I helped the others do. So go ahead. Kill me.”

  Farrell stared at Markus with horror.

  “Kill you?” Damen replied smoothly. “Why, that would be no challenge at all, given your current condition. But you will be coming with me tonight.” He stepped down from the podium. Slowly, he made his way through the crowd standing on the dance floor, which silently parted for the monster as he walked through.

  Markus was unflinching as Damen came to stand before him. Up close, Farrell came to the horrible conclusion that those black eyes of his weren’t due to contact lenses.

  “It’s been a long time,” Markus said.

  “Not nearly as long as you think. I’ve been around. Observing. You’ve led an entertaining life among these mortals, haven’t you?”

  “What do you mean, you’ve been around? You’ve been here too? All this time?”

  “I go where I please.”

  “Then you would know that the work I do here is for the ultimate good of humanity,” Markus said. “My dream is to make this world a peaceful place, a world free of crime and pain.”

  Damen let out another cold, rattling laugh. “You were always one of the most delusional of our kind, Markus. I’ve always felt sorry for you. A philosophy like yours has led to nothing but painful disappointment. And I know how cranky you get when you’re disappointed. What I don’t know, however, is why you were exiled. I’m sure there was a very good reason for it.” He paused, smiled. “Perhaps it’s time for us to continue this conversation elsewhere. Unless you’d rather we stay so I can find a few more of your friends to help me demonstrate my magic?”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “My, Markus. You do care about these little creatures. How sweet
.”

  “You said you want to leave? Let’s leave.”

  “Yes, we certainly will.” Damen glanced at Becca. “And your daughter is coming with us.”

  “No! Never!” Jackie said immediately, her voice breaking. She put her arm in front of Becca.

  Crys clamped her arm around her sister’s waist and held her close.

  “I won’t go anywhere with you,” Becca warned, shaking her head. “With either of you!”

  “No?” Damen narrowed his eyes and sent a gesture backward toward the ballroom. Suddenly, three people in the crowd clutched their throats and dropped to the ground. “Please reconsider. I’m asking very nicely.”

  Farrell watched, tense and helpless, as an anguished Becca turned toward her sister and aunt. Crys was crying now, full-on, and shaking her head.

  “No, Becca. You can’t go with them,” Crys managed to choke out.

  “I—I have to,” Becca said, her voice sounding small but defiant. She slipped Adam’s jacket off her shoulders and handed it to Farrell’s brother, who took it from her reluctantly, his jaw tight.

  “Damn it, Becca, no,” Jackie hissed. “I won’t allow this.”

  “More people will die if I don’t. I won’t let anyone else get hurt.”

  Farrell was so transfixed on the trio that it took him a moment to register that Markus had his hand in the crook of his elbow and was trying to pull him closer, away from the Hatcher sisters.

  “This is Jackie’s fault,” Markus whispered. “She came here to distract me so Damen could sneak in unnoticed. She’s working with him to destroy me.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Farrell whispered back.

  “I want her to suffer deeply for this—for taking me for a fool. I want her to know the pain of losing someone she loves before she takes her last breath. She stole Becca from me all these years, so I will do the same and steal someone important to her. You will kill Crystal and make sure that traitorous bitch knows it was on my order.”

  And then, before Farrell could reply, Markus was gone. A gunman swept him away and escorted both him and Becca out of the ballroom, Damen leading the pack, while all Farrell could do was watch them go.

  After a few moments of stunned silence, utter chaos descended upon the ballroom. People were screaming, running for the exits, stumbling over the bodies of those Damen had killed with his strange magic.