A Book of Spirits and Thieves

“This book . . .” Becca whispered hoarsely, as if the words were getting stuck in her throat. She began to tremble. “It’s doing something . . . to me. I can feel it . . . pulling.”


“Pulling? Pulling what?” In seconds, a chill spread through Crys, bringing with it a dark and heavy feeling of dread. “You’re starting to freak me out. It’s just a dumb book. Give it back to me.” She held out her hand and waited for her sister to hand it back to her. “Come on! What are you waiting for?”

Becca lurched up to her feet off the small sofa. “I can’t seem to let go of it. I’m trying, but I can’t.”

The golden page began to glow.

Crys swore under her breath. What the hell was going on?

She reached forward to grab it out from her sister’s grip. The moment she touched the book this time, a violent shock tore through her, as if she’d jammed her hand into a light socket. It knocked her backward, and she fell flat on her back on the far side of the alcove. The wind had been knocked from her lungs, and she struggled to find her breath. As fast as she could, she scrambled to her unsteady feet.

“Get that thing away from you, Becca!” she gasped.

Becca’s eyes had filled with the bright golden light from the book. “I don’t know what’s happening. What . . . what is it doing to me? Help me!” Her voice broke with fear. “Please, Crys, help me!”

Crys lunged toward her sister just as light started to stream out of the book, momentarily blinding her and making her stagger back again. She blinked, rubbing her eyes, only to see that sharp beams of this impossibly bright light had wrapped around Becca, slithering around her chest and arms and face like a thousand golden snakes.

Becca screamed, and the bone-chilling sound drew a frightened shriek from Crys’s throat. The book finally dropped from Becca’s hands as she crumpled to the floor in a heap next to it.

Crys scrambled to Becca’s side and grabbed her sister’s shoulders, shaking her. “Becca! Becca, look at me! Look at me!”

The golden glow from the book coated her skin and gathered in her eyes for a moment longer before it finally extinguished.

Becca stared straight ahead, her expression slack.

“Please!” Crys yelled, shaking her harder. “Please say something!”

But her sister didn’t respond. She stared, she blinked. She breathed. But Becca Hatcher was gone—mind and soul.

Gone. In an instant.

Leaving Crys behind, alone . . . with the book responsible.





Chapter 2


FARRELL



The Raven Club wasn’t his favorite bar, but it was the noisiest one he knew. Silence meant thinking. And thinking meant remembering.

Tonight he wanted to forget.

Half a bottle of vodka also made forgetting a lot easier. And the club offered its fair share of dark-haired beauties to help take his mind off the date on the calendar.

“You are very helpful, you know that?” he said to the girl on his lap, weaving his fingers into her long hair, which was stiff with hair spray. She wore a low cut, sparkly top and a skirt short enough to get her arrested in many places around the world. Luckily, Toronto wasn’t one of them.

She brushed her lips against his throat. “I aim to please.”

“Aim a little lower, would you?”

“Anything you want.”

He did another shot and glanced at the time on his phone. Midnight. He’d successfully made it through the third of April.

Suddenly, the sickly sweet scent of the girl’s floral perfume had begun to chase his buzz away. Girls, thinking it made them smell like money, piled that garbage on way too thick for his taste.

“Enough,” Farrell said as he pushed her off his lap.

“Oh, come on. We’ve barely gotten started.” She stroked his chest and unbuttoned the top of his white Prada shirt. “Here we are, all alone, just the two of us. It’s destiny, baby.”

He tried not to laugh. “I don’t believe in destiny.”

The private lounge he’d reserved offered a sliver of privacy, but Farrell would hardly call them alone. Only twenty feet away, through a shimmering curtain, was the rest of the club. The sound of throbbing music had begun to make his head ache.

He’d kill for a cigarette, but he was trying to quit.

The brunette had caught his eye when he’d gone to fetch a bottle of Grey Goose from the bar. He had no idea how old she was under all that makeup. Maybe twenty. Maybe thirty. He didn’t really care.

“The night’s still young,” he told her. “We have time, Suzie.”

“It’s Stephanie.”

He gave her one of his best smiles, which never failed to work wonders with difficult females. Right on schedule, her serious expression faded and her eyes sparkled with interest. He didn’t have many talents, but effortless charm and a way with women were two of them.

Also, the public knowledge of Farrell Grayson’s upcoming inheritance helped get him all the female attention he’d ever want.