A Book of Spirits and Thieves

Farrell nodded, willing his heart to stop pounding so hard. “Yes. And anything I can do to prove myself to you, sir, I’ll do it.”


“Please, call me Markus. Your being here grants you many privileges that aren’t extended to others in my society. It makes you my friend. Would you like that? To be my friend?”

“I would . . . Markus.” He wisely chose not to blurt out anything about hair braiding or boy gossip. No jokes, he thought.

“Do you think you’re special, Mr. Grayson?”

That was a loaded question if ever he’d heard one, especially now, when he was still sore from his conversation with his mother. Farrell took a moment before answering this powerful man.

“Yes, I do,” he finally said, opting for simplicity.

No elaboration, just confidence. And he hoped his tone conveyed more than he currently felt.

“Good.” There was a smile on Markus’s lips. “I agree. Your brother was also special. It’s unfortunate that he ultimately proved himself unworthy.”

A muscle in Farrell’s cheek twitched, but he bit his tongue so as not to reply, afraid of what he might say. It probably wouldn’t be smart to get in an argument with a potential god of death.

“I know,” Markus went on, “that my speaking this way about your dead brother must seem very disrespectful to you. However, despite any familial loyalty you feel, you must admit that Connor took the coward’s way out of his single, precious life.”

The words stung. “He had his problems.”

Did any of those problems stem from being in your circle? Farrell thought.

“Of course. As we all do. But it’s how we deal with life’s challenges—both internal and external ones—that define us. Do we face them fearlessly, with courage and a sense of justice? Or do we run from them, seeking any easy answer to help hide from the harsh truths of life? Everyone is different, and it’s difficult to tell who’s who until one is tested. Which type are you, do you think?”

The type who likes vodka too much for his own good, he thought. But you’d probably consider that a strike against me. “I don’t hide from anything,” Farrell said aloud.

“And what do you want from this life you’ve been given, Mr. Grayson?” Markus asked. “Many claim that they simply want happiness. Some say they want peace and serenity. Some want money. Power. Sex. Excitement. What is it that you want?”

Farrell would be the first to admit that he hadn’t given his future a whole lot of thought. He scanned the shelves laden with the largest private collection of books he’d ever seen in his life as he considered his reply. “I want to be respected. I want to be powerful. And, yes, I want to be special. I want to leave a mark on this world so no one forgets who I was.”

He hadn’t even realized it was the truth until he spoke it out loud. He felt as if he’d just purged something dark and cold inside him by giving it a voice.

Markus regarded him silently. “Do you feel conflicted in any way about how I choose to deal with my prisoners?”

Farrell remembered his argument with Adam about how being judge, jury, and executioner of criminals wasn’t any less evil than the crimes those prisoners were accused of.

Of course Farrell had had his doubts in the beginning, but he’d come to accept that there was no other way. Markus’s mission, if somewhat extreme, was important to the world.

Four executions a year wasn’t that many. And they were symbolic. They meant something. They gave the society the motivation to go out and do good for the world around them whenever possible.

“I don’t necessarily enjoy witnessing those people die,” Farrell said, “but I know it’s important and necessary, and I’m honored that I’ve been given the chance to be a part of it.”

Lucas said Markus could sense a liar, so Farrell had not even tried to speak untruthfully. He had no idea what Markus could be thinking right now, or how Markus was judging him.

Was he saying the right things?

When Lucas first told him about the circle, he hadn’t been absolutely certain he wanted any part of it. He’d mostly just considered it as a means to trace Connor during his last days, taking his last steps. But being here, face-to-face with a man who emanated waves of power from anywhere he was, Farrell realized this venture was more than just an investigation into his brother’s suicide. He actually wanted this for himself. He needed this.

His mother thought he was nothing, especially compared with the perfect genius Connor was or the full-of-potential angel Adam was. But Farrell was not nothing, and this proved it in black and white.

This was his destiny.

“I have no reason to think you’ll ever amount to anything of note. Therefore, I expect very little from you.”

One day, he’d force Isabelle Grayson to eat every last one of her words, as if they were ingredients in a rancid soufflé.

“Do you have questions for me?” Markus asked.

Perhaps he should have just said no, but Farrell couldn’t resist the opportunity to gather more information.