A Book of Spirits and Thieves

So as long as Connor has been gone. The thought made him grimace but also brought up another question. “So am I taking my brother’s place?”


“I thought so to begin with, but apparently not. Markus believes he sees something special in you.”

Farrell considered that. Special, huh? That would be news to his mother. “What’s in it for you? What do you get out of being part of the circle?”

“I get to serve Markus,” Lucas said, as if it were obvious.

“Is that it? Why not just serve at the Red Lobster, then? Way less blood and death to clean up there. More tips, too.”

Lucas’s gritted teeth glinted in the torchlight. “Keep walking, Grayson.”

They walked for what felt like a mile, passing flickering lights set into the ceiling every twenty feet. It was damp down there and as cold as winter—like walking through a meat locker. The floor was slippery, coated thinly by patches of ice.

Finally, they reached an iron spiral staircase, nearly identical to the one that led to the theater, except that this one was painted red instead of black.

“Up we go,” Lucas said.

With trepidation, Farrell eyed the stairs leading up into more darkness. “If I’d known this would be a major hike, I would have worn my Nikes.”

Up and up the staircase went, until the air grew warmer again. Finally, they reached a silver door that bore the Hawkspear crest.

Lucas knocked. Two quick knocks, four slow knocks: a different sequence from the one used at the theater. Farrell filed that bit of information in his head for future reference.

The door creaked open, and a man Farrell recognized from the society meetings peered out at them. He wasn’t sure of his name; he’d never really paid much attention to the particularities of society life before.

“We’re here,” Lucas said.

The man opened the door wider to allow them entry, and suddenly Farrell found himself out of the dark stairwell and inside a warm building that was, judging by the walk through the tunnels, at least a mile from the cathedral. It must be accessible by secret passageway that also connected to the theater and the restaurant, Farrell thought.

“This way,” Lucas said, leading Farrell through the dim interior.

The place was huge, at least as large as the Grayson mansion. The floors were stone and the walls plaster, with original oil paintings that looked as if they’d hung there for a century. Just past an archway at the end of a hallway, Farrell’s gaze landed on what appeared to be a massive library where there were floor-to- ceiling bookshelves filled with leather-bound books.

Facing the door, in the center of the room beneath the skylight, was a large, heavy-looking wooden desk. Markus sat behind it, wearing a black business suit, white shirt, red tie. His elbows rested on the desk, and his fingers joined in a steeple before him.

“Come in, Mr. Grayson,” he said, his voice clear and precise. “Thank you, Mr. Barrington. You may wait outside.”

“Yes, sir.” Lucas bowed his head and then left, closing the door behind him.

Farrell wasn’t afraid.

Intimidated, however? Yes, he was definitely that.

He hadn’t been this close to Markus since his first society meeting three years earlier, at which he’d stood on the stage before the audience just as Adam had the other night, with the spotlight in his eyes.

Markus never socialized with the society members after meetings. He didn’t attend the charity functions or political rallies organized by his followers to help shape a better Toronto. He only ever addressed his gathered membership from his lofty position on the theater stage, where he brought forth prisoners and conducted their trials. Once certain guilt had been determined—and it always was—Markus performed the executions himself with his golden dagger, while the rest of the group beared solemn witness. Then he would slip out of sight, like a shadow, while his followers stayed behind and lingered for some time, engaging in whispered conversations that couldn’t be held in broad daylight.

There were so many whispered rumors about the man, the recluse, the genius . . . the god . . . that Farrell couldn’t count them, let alone remember them all and keep rumors straight from what he knew to be the truth.

“Thank you for coming,” Markus said. “I’m honored to have you visit my home.”

“It’s my honor, sir.” A thousand questions rose up in his throat, but he didn’t say any of them aloud. Not yet. He might be reckless and irresponsible at times—well, most of the time—but he knew when to keep quiet.

He wasn’t 100 percent certain about what Markus was that allowed him to have such power, but he didn’t underestimate the man for a single moment.

“I’m sure Lucas has already let you know that I believe you would make an excellent addition to my small, exclusive group.”