A Book of Spirits and Thieves

Two whole years. She’d kept his cell number on her phone all this time. If he ever called, she’d planned to answer it just so she could tell him to go to hell.

Before she could think twice about it, she began scrolling through her contacts list, rushing by name after name of all the people she couldn’t reach out to. There were Amanda and Sara, her best friends who’d moved far away at the beginning of the school year, one right after the other. Her sister. Her mother. Dozens of random acquaintances, including a boy she’d liked last year but hadn’t summoned up the courage to ask out before she’d quickly lost interest in him . . .

DAD

According to Jackie, Markus King, whoever he was, wanted that book. He would know what it was and, possibly, what it had done to Becca. Would he also know how to help her just as her mother had suggested?

Heart racing, Crys jabbed the entry in her phone and composed a quick text.

Are you still in Toronto? I miss you, Dad. Will you please meet with me today?

Her chest grew tight as she realized it was the truth. She missed her father so much it hurt.

She hesitated only briefly before pressing Send.

Then she put the phone down on the table and pushed it away from her, as if it had sprouted horns and a tail. Charlie sauntered into the kitchen and started to eat from his dish of cat food, glancing up at her between bites as she now curled herself up on the wooden chair, hugging her knees to her chest.

Five minutes later, her phone chirped. She pulled it closer and warily eyed the screen.

Yes, I’m still here. Of course I’ll meet with you, but it will have to be tomorrow. Just tell me when and where.

Crys shut off the phone and tried to ignore the sick, twisting feeling in her gut.

She felt as if she’d just made contact with the dead.





Chapter 5


FARRELL



If there was one thing Farrell struggled with the most, it was properly tying a bow tie.

“Finally,” he muttered as his clumsy fingers managed the proper knot at last. He pulled on the black jacket of his Armani tuxedo and took a swig of vodka from his silver flask.

He slipped the flask into his inner jacket pocket and then fastened a gold pin to his lapel—a small crest of crossed spears behind a hawk.

The society’s signet was so literal it used to make Farrell laugh out loud.

He leaned forward, eyeing his reflection in the mirror, and pushed his dark brown hair back from his face. He glared at the birth-mark beneath his right eye with displeasure. One day he’d get around to having it removed. He honestly hadn’t paid it much attention until a local magazine did a photo spread on the family and someone in the art department had taken the liberty of airbrushing it out.

A physical flaw in the House of Grayson. Can’t have that.

He turned on the heels of his tight, Italian leather loafers and left his room.

“Have you been drinking?” His father’s deep voice greeted him in the hallway.

He gave Edward Grayson a wry look. They wore identical tuxes—same designer, same size. “Honestly, Dad. Would I drink on an important night like this? It’s baby brother’s initiation.”

His father’s lips quirked up, almost into a smile, and he absently raked both of his hands through his graying hair. It was another trait they shared—an unconscious gesture they made when not entirely at ease. “I’m counting on you to keep a close eye on Adam tonight.”

“I will.”

“I mean it. He’s so excited about his initiation, and . . . well, I hope everything goes smoothly. Your mother’s concerned that his reaction to his first meeting will be . . . unpredictable.”

His mother was always concerned about something. “How about my first reaction? Was it unpredictable?” Farrell asked.

His father studied him. “You are always unpredictable.”

He decided to take that as a compliment. “I try my best.”

“Adam cannot embarrass himself or this family.” It was Isabelle Grayson’s voice that now sliced between father and son. Farrell glanced at his mother as she approached, her four-inch Louboutin pumps clicking on the marble floor. Her jet-black hair was pulled into a tight coil at the nape of her neck. Her lips were bright crimson, her eye makeup applied flawlessly. She wore a dark blue gown that brushed the floor and diamonds on her wrist, fingers, neck, and ears.

Her current expression held no discernible emotion. That could be because of her chilly personality or her most recent visit to her favorite Botox syringe, Farrell thought.

“He won’t,” Farrell said. “Adam will be fine.”

“I hope you’re right.” His mother swept her appraising gaze over him before moving down the staircase. Farrell watched her go with a tight feeling in his chest.

“Son . . . ,” his father said, his voice softening a fraction. “Are you all right?”