A Book of Spirits and Thieves

“The worst kind.”


She considered him in silence, this boy she never would have met had coincidence not brought them together twice, before she spoke again. “Do you believe in magic?”

“Actually, I do.”

Her gaze snapped to his again with surprise. His hazel eyes were so lovely—one moment stormy and intense, the next sparkling with humor.

Forget about his eyes, she told herself firmly. This wasn’t a date. This was a conversation with a potential new friend who could be very useful.

She had no idea what kinds of contacts the Graysons had, but if they were as rich and powerful as Crys believed they were, they were sure to know a lot of equally influential people.

They might even know a man like Markus King.

“I mean, I’m not talking about card tricks,” she clarified.

“Me neither.” He shrugged. “I don’t know what I believe, really. I just know I’m open to the possibility that there’s more to this world than meets the eye.”

“Exactly.” She bit her lip, feeling a giddy urge to confess all her secrets to him.

After one cocktail, she didn’t think she was drunk, but she wasn’t quite sober, either, especially since she hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast.

“So . . . let’s talk magic.” Farrell glanced at a couple in a nearby booth, their lips locked in a passionate kiss. “There are so many strange things in this world. Why can’t it be possible that magic is real? Agree?”

Maybe their paths had crossed on purpose . . . like it was some sort of universal plan. Fate.

Maybe they were soul mates.

Go home, her brain told her. You are drunk.

“I totally agree,” she said instead.

He raised an eyebrow and leaned forward conspiratorially. “Do you know something, Crys Hatcher? Or are you just making conversation?”

If he only knew. What would his reaction be if she told him about Dr. Vega’s theories about the magic language? About the Codex? But just before she opened her mouth, she closed it again and glanced down at the time on her phone. It was already after nine o’clock. Her mother had texted her twice, wondering where she was.

“You know, I should probably get going. I said one drink, and I managed to devour it in record time.” She stood up. “Thanks, Farrell. For the help . . . and for the company. I needed a distraction tonight.”

“I aim to distract. You’re not planning to walk, are you? I can get my driver to take you home.”

“I’m fine. Really. What happened with that mugger . . . that, like, doesn’t usually happen in this neighborhood. And home is only a couple of blocks from here.”

“Can I see you again?” At her startled look, he tempered his words with a fresh grin. “As just a friend, of course. Capital-P Platonic.”

Crys tended to be wary of things that seemed too good to be true. And Farrell, despite his DUIs and his interest in cigarettes and vodka, was just that. “Maybe.”

“I can accept a maybe.” He reached across the table and grabbed Crys’s phone. “Here’s my number. Text me if you ever want to hang out, talk about magic, confess your deepest, darkest secrets. I’m available twenty-four-seven.”

“Really. Twenty-four-seven?”

“What can I say? I get bored easily and I’m not a big TV fan.” He handed her phone back, and his fingers brushed against hers as she took it. “But it’s funny. You don’t bore me, not one little bit. That’s rare.”

“Ditto,” she said.

Yes, she said ditto. Like something out of a dumb old movie.

With a mumbled goodbye, she left the bar and let the cool air pull her out of her slightly tipsy state. Alcohol—not a great idea. She’d almost told him everything.

It would be smartest not to contact him again. She knew one thing for certain: He might not have anything to do with magic books or secret societies, but Farrell Grayson was definitely dangerous.





Chapter 17


FARRELL



Once again, Farrell’s hypothesis had been proved: Deep down, all girls were the same. Flash them a smile, buy them a drink, make them feel important.

Putty in his hands.

Despite her disinterest that first day on the university campus, Crys Hatcher was no different from the rest. Too bad he couldn’t get her to stay a little longer. A couple more whiskey sours and he was sure he could have gotten all the information he needed to satisfy Markus.

His target was cute enough, he supposed, but a tad too artsy for his usual taste in girls. Still, he had to admit there was something about her that intrigued him. Maybe it was the way she bit her bottom lip when she was nervous. It made him wonder if that mouth of hers also tasted like strawberries.

The only new information he’d managed to learn about Crys was that she believed in magic. That was a big clue as to why she might matter to Markus. Maybe she’d taken an incriminating photo with that old camera of hers. Maybe she’d inadvertently discovered some dangerous information about the society.