The Darkest Magic (A Book of Spirits and Thieves) (31 page)

“I suppose this isn’t a good time to tell you I’m a vegetarian, right?” she said.

“A vege-
what
?” Maddox asked.

“Never mind. I can deal.”

“The riddle-maker never rests!” Al said happily. He’d been so enchanted by the warm fire that he changed his mind about
staying in his sack. “It’s a delight to listen to you talk, lovely Becca. It’s as if you speak a completely different language.”

“You say
tomato
, and I say
toh-mah-to
.” She frowned. “Only I don’t actually ever say it like that.”

“Exactly!”

When the rabbit was finished cooking, Barnabas gave them all their portions. Becca eyed the meat with trepidation.

“It’s good,” Maddox told her.

“I’m sure it is.”

“I wish I too could partake in this meal,” Al said glancing downward, where his stomach would have been. “It smells delicious!”

Maddox watched as Becca tentatively took a small bite of the meat, grimacing.

“It’s fuel,” she said sadly. “I have to remember that. Sorry bunny.”

After they’d finished eating, Barnabas cleared his throat and poked at the fire with his dagger. “Perhaps we can take a moment to discuss what happened during our little visit from Valoria and Goran earlier today.”

“What about it?” Maddox asked.

“They had us. Even if I hadn’t stopped to retrieve this”—he held out the ring, which he now wore around his neck—“they would have easily taken us. If not for the air magic that swept through the village at exactly the right moment, we would have been at their mercy.”

“You truly think it was air magic?” Maddox asked. “Liana? What do you think?”

The witch nodded. “Yes. I’m as sure of it as I am that the rainstorm and the earthquake were caused by water and earth magic.”

“Given the sequence of events,” Barnabas said, “I first thought that Becca might have had something to do with it. But now I know she didn’t.”

“Then what caused it?” Liana asked.

“Not
what
.
Who.
” He looked directly at the witch, and this time his gaze wasn’t soft, as it had been ever since he kissed her. “
Who
caused it? And I think we both know the answer to that question.”

Liana frowned. “I don’t understand. I told you I possess fire magic, not air magic.”

“Yes, your fire magic is incredible. I’ve never seen another witch create a wall of fire like yours with only her inner magic. Light a candle? Yes. But a fierce barrier of flames?” Barnabas stopped to give a little scoff of disbelief. “At the time I was simply impressed by it and . . . by
you
. But the more I think about it, all I have are questions.”

Maddox found that he was holding his breath as watched these two discuss Liana’s magic calmly—which was strange, because there was something about this situation that was very
not
calm.

He glanced at Becca. She met his gaze, and judging by the guarded and uneasy look in her eyes, she felt this strangeness too.

“Questions?” Liana asked. “What questions?”

“Who are you really? Where are you from? What is your family name? All of the questions you’ve been unwilling to answer so far.”

“The answers to those questions are so inconsequential that they would be a waste of breath and good hearing to say aloud. Are there any others?”

“One comes to mind. Do you possess air magic?”

Liana let out a sharp laugh. “I think I’d have shared that with you if I did.”

He studied her for a silent moment. “A witch who possesses air magic can use it to change her appearance. I’ve witnessed my friend Camilla do this before. But since she is merely a common witch—no disrespect to her intended—she is only able to effect
subtle changes, and even then you can still see the shimmering and shifting of the air magic on her changed features. I assumed that the stronger the witch, the better and more impenetrable the disguise. Originally, I suspected that Becca was such a witch, but not anymore.”

As Barnabas had been speaking, he’d made his way over to Liana. Liana now stood to face him. She raised her chin, glaring at him defiantly.

“Get to your point, Barnabas.”

“How long did you think you could fool me?” Barnabas asked, his voice soft but dangerous-sounding.

“After you kissed me, I assumed I finally had you completely fooled into thinking that I was nothing more than I said I was: a young woman looking for something or
someone
to believe in. A young woman who might follow that someone to the very edge of the world.”

Barnabas’s jaw tightened.

“What’s going on?” Maddox demanded.

“Apologies, Maddox,” Liana said. She turned to him, a sad smile on her face. “It seems that our strange little family will be broken up much sooner than I would have liked. But it was inevitable, I suppose.”

“What are you talking about?” He shook his head. “Who are you? Who is she, Barnabas?”

“It’s all right,” Liana replied. “I’ve nothing to hide anymore. I’ll show you myself.”

She straightened her shoulders and stood as tall as her petite frame would let her. Then something very strange began to happen.

Golden wisps formed, born from nothing at all, and began to float and wind around her. Maddox was unsettled to find that the
wisps reminded him of the magic Valoria had used as she’d entered Cassia’s village.

He watched, gaping, as that golden magic spun around Liana, encircling her face, her hair, her body.

Within the tornado of gold, she began to change.

Her dark blond hair grew lighter and longer, until it became bright gold and flowed past her waist. Her muted eye color shifted to an intense blue. Her freckled skin turned glowing and flawless. Her plain traveling dress transformed into a gown of glittering orange and gold, like a sunset.

In a matter of moments, Liana had transformed from a pretty witch into a young woman so ethereally beautiful that she was fearsome.

So beautiful and fearsome that she was worthy of being called a goddess.

And all Maddox could do was gape at her, mouth open and eyes wide.

“It’s true what they say about me, Maddox.” Even her voice sounded more powerful now, traveling across sound waves and penetrating his very body, holding his rapt attention. “When people speak my name, I can hear it, carried on the wind—thousands upon thousands of times a day. It’s one of the reasons why I’ve come to loathe my true name. It’s maddening.”

“
Cleiona
,” Maddox whispered.

Becca reached down to clutch his hand.

“Oh my goddess!” Al exclaimed.

The goddess swept her gaze around the campsite. “I recognized Barnabas immediately. After that, it didn’t take long to realize who you are, Maddox, and why Valoria is so desperate to get her talons on you. I needed to know your motivations, your heart. Why you
wished to seek me out. I needed to know about your magic and how dangerous you might be.”

“Stay the hell away from him,” Barnabas growled. He gripped his dagger and pointed it at her, but she merely glanced at the blade and then met his gaze.

“Really, Barnabas? Do you really think that tiny weapon will have any effect on me? You of all people should know better than that.”

She flicked her wrist. The dagger flew out of his hand and embedded itself into a nearby tree.

“You hateful bitch,” he snarled, his hands now clenched at his sides. “You deceived me!”

“And this from someone who is desperate for my help?” Cleiona shook her head. “I’d suggest starting with honey rather than venom.”

“I despise you.”

“Of course you do. And this is exactly why I chose to conceal my identity from you.”

Maddox stared at them, knowing that to get in the way of this fight would only amplify it. This was the woman that, just a short time ago, Barnabas had kissed very passionately, and, to his recollection, she hadn’t tried to stop him.

Now his father looked at her as if he wished her dead every bit as much as the other goddess.

Becca remained at his side, holding tightly to his hand.

He would protect her. If Cleiona tried anything, he swore he would use his dangerous magic to protect her.

“I needed to learn more about you—about both of you,” the goddess said. “And I knew that, in my true form, you wouldn’t allow it. So I chose another. One that wasn’t so familiar to you.”

“I didn’t come to know
you
,” Barnabas snarled. “I came to know a secretive young witch named Liana.”

“This conversation is over,” she spat. Slowly, she stretched her arms out to her sides, revealing two marks—the fire-magic triangle and the air-magic spiral—one on each of her palms. The symbols began to glow. “If you wish to continue this journey, make haste. You must arrive at my palace before my sister catches up to you. I will consider speaking with you again at that time.”

Cleiona swept her gaze over them all. Maddox saw both pride and regret in her eyes as she regarded them.

Their color may have changed, but they were still Liana’s eyes.

A sudden wind picked up, swirling around the goddess until it gathered into a tornado. It disappeared just as quickly as it had appeared, and so did she.

Barnabas remained standing in the same spot, his expression fierce, his body trembling.

Maddox had no idea what to say.

“Incredible,” Al breathed. “Absolutely incredible!”

“Oh no!” Becca cried. She clapped her free hand over her mouth.

“What?” Maddox turned to her with alarm.

She pointed at the spot where Cleiona had been standing. “That was . . . oh crap! I just remembered! It’s all rushing back to me now. And she was here, right in front of me the whole time!” She grabbed the front of Maddox’s tunic. “We have to go after her. I need to speak to an immortal!”

“What? An immortal? But why?”

“I—I can’t explain it all now. There’s no time. My world is in danger. I was sent here—Markus sent me here.”

“Who’s Markus?”

“He gave his life, all of his magic, for this! So that I could come
here and deliver a message to an immortal. I hate the man with everything I have, but for him to do something like that . . . Oh, Maddox, I need to talk to Cleiona. It’s so important!”

“All right, all right.” He gripped her shoulders. “We will. Everything’s going to be all right.” He glanced over his shoulder at his father. “Barnabas, we need to—”

“We need to do nothing of the sort,” Barnabas said through gritted teeth. “We’ll not chase after that evil creature. That’s exactly what she wants us to do. There we were, traveling with her all these days, and she said nothing. She knew what was at risk, what we wanted. And yet she stayed silent.”

“Barnabas, I’m sorry, but I have to go,” Becca told him. “Just point me in the right direction, and I’ll go on my own.”

“Now you’re speaking nonsense,” Barnabas replied.

Becca stiffened. “
Nonsense?
Are you saying that me trying to save my world is
nonsense
?”

“Your world is of no concern to me. Maddox, gather your belongings. We’re going back to the North to make a new plan.”

“No,” Maddox said flatly.

Barnabas raised his brow. “No?”

“That’s right,
no
. We’re going south, to the palace, to talk to Cleiona.”

“Maddox . . . ,” he growled.

“My decision is final.” Maddox turned his back on the stubborn man and took Becca’s hand in his. “We’re going to see Cleiona, with or without you.”

FARRELL

T
he first three marks had made Farrell feel like a billion dollars. They had increased his strength, his senses, his ego.

Now it seemed the fourth mark had taken all of that away.

Markus had been dishonest, to say the least, about its side effects, which so far included debilitating weakness and random bursts of massive pain.

And now that Markus had once again drained him of his strength, this time rendering him all but feeble, most of his new skills and sensory advantages had also been dampened.

Terrible timing, really. As Julia Hatcher marched him and Crys out of the dressing room, all he wanted was to be able to overtake her, to use his formerly quick reflexes to come up with a plan to free themselves. But he couldn’t do anything except follow her.

Silently too—it seemed that even his gift for conversation was currently lacking. Perhaps he had Crys and not Markus to blame for that—he wouldn’t be surprised if she’d stolen his tongue entirely when she’d kissed him in the closet—a handful of moments that had perfectly defined the words
torture
and
bliss
for him.

He glanced at Crys out of the corner of his eye as they walked
down the hall in front of Julia, who had Angus’s gun trained on them. Crys’s face was flushed, her pale blond hair covering half of it.

As he looked at her, two polar opposite compulsions raced through his mind:

Kill her.

Kiss her.

And then a third compulsion butted in:

Save her.

“Mom, don’t do this,” Crys said, her voice strained. “
Fight this.
Becca needs us. Both of us.”

She laughed lightly. “Damen speaks, and I obey, Crys. His power is without equal in this or any universe.”

Crys’s face blanched. “Mom, you have to break free of this.”

“Aw, sweetheart. Quite honestly? I don’t want to. This is how it has to be.”

“
Oh, little brother
,” imaginary Connor suddenly piped up. “
You are so screwed. All because of this incompetent blonde.”

“Shut up,” he growled.

Julia poked him in the back with her gun. “Keep moving.”

He narrowed his eyes but kept shuffling forward until they reached the end of the hallway, which opened up to the backstage area. He was half expecting to see Markus waiting for him at their destination. It was his theater after all, his stage. His domain.

The stage lights were on. Farrell looked out at the audience, and the brightness blinded him. He shielded his eyes and scanned the stage, then looked out at the familiar sea of red seats.

No sign of Markus. No sign of Crys’s kid sister.

Suddenly, a memory of his Hawkspear initiation three years ago washed over him. Markus himself—an enigma, a god—had called a sixteen-year-old Farrell up in front of the whole society.
Farrell, whose flesh was still free of any marks, agreed to abide by society rules. He swore to honor their code and keep the society’s secrets safe from the rest of the world—especially the details of what happened at their quarterly meetings.

Soon after Farrell had made these promises, Markus called a stranger to the stage. It became clear that Markus had brought this man to the stage to be tried for the crime of murdering a society member’s cousin and husband.

The jury of society members swiftly found him guilty, and just as swiftly Markus’s dagger found his heart.

Afterward, Markus had turned to Farrell and reemphasized the purpose of these criminal hearings: Hawkspear members had been called to perform the duty of ridding the world of evildoers and thus evil things. He then asked Farrell if he was still prepared to pledge his support, and Farrell had responded with a quiet but resolute
yes
.

Though he’d said yes almost immediately, he foggily remembered feeling a large measure of reluctance to join in the horror that he’d just witnessed.

But all of his doubt and fear faded as soon as Markus sliced the dagger through his skin to create his first mark.

“Crystal and Farrell,” echoed a voice from the audience. Farrell squinted again until he could just make out Damen Winter, the man who’d made that very dagger. “Welcome to my stage.”

“This isn’t your stage,” Farrell said, forcing himself to sound much stronger than he currently felt. “Where’s Markus?”

“Odd,” Damen eerily cooed. “I was going to ask you the very same question.”

Farrell tried very hard not to react, to make himself look as calm and collected as he possibly could. Was Damen no longer keeping Markus here? If not, where was he?

Suddenly, stumbling in from stage left was Angus, pushed along by one of Damen’s masked men. Angus glared at the man, then dusted off his sleeve.

“Hi, kids,” he said. “Hello again, Julia. What a fine gun you have there.”

“Angus Balthazar,” Damen said. “It’s certainly a pleasure to meet you.”

Angus frowned out at the audience, straining to see past the blinding lights. “From the little I’ve heard about you, I’m sure I’m quite pleased to meet you too. What can I tell you that might prevent my swift and untimely death?”

Farrell shot the thief a dark look. From the moment they’d met, Farrell could tell by Angus’s tacky, faux-sophisticated demeanor that he was an opportunist who’d sell out his own grandmother—or steal from someone else’s—to save his own neck.

“
You got a plan, little brother?”
not-Connor asked. “
Or are you going to stand here like a victim in waiting? Then again, so many of Markus’s victims have lost their lives here on this stage. Why should you be any different?”

He’d thought he and Markus had been growing closer, that they were becoming friends, but all this time Markus had been grooming him to become the victim of the mysterious fourth mark.

Did you get one too, Connor?
he wondered, but this time his imaginary brother chose to remain silent.

“Hold on to that thought, Mr. Balthazar,” Damen said. “I very well may need some information that only you can provide.”

“Please, call me Angus.”

“Very well, Angus. Now stop talking.”

Angus made a strange little squeaking sound. He kept opening his mouth, but no words came out.

Damen turned his hollow black eyes to Crys. “Crystal, how are you feeling?” he asked. “I know it’s been a difficult couple of days for you.”

She was trembling. Farrell was expecting her face to fill with fear at this sudden confrontation with Damen, but as his eyes adjusted to the glare of the bright stage lights, all he saw in her was fury.

“Let my sister and my mother go,” she said.

“Did you have a pleasant tour of the dressing rooms?” he said, ignoring her request completely. “Of course I noticed the moment you three snuck in. You were quite quiet little mice, but not nearly quiet enough.”

Crys frowned. “The Whisperer . . . that’s what Angus said some people are calling you, right? I didn’t understand that nickname before. What you did at the ball, it . . . it was the opposite of a whisper . . . when you killed those people . . .”

“I didn’t kill
you
,” he pointed out.

Angus squeaked again.

“But . . . but it’s you I’ve been hearing in my head. Whispering. At the ball and here too. I thought it was me, my own thoughts, my own voice in my head telling me what to do, what to believe. It was impossible to ignore.” She pressed her hands against her temples. “It was
you
, wasn’t it?”

Damen smiled coldly, his mouth set in a grim line. “Have I really
told
you what to do? I didn’t tell you to kiss Farrell. Not specifically, at least. But all it took was a gentle nudge to make you take action. Imagine what I could make you do if I actually tried.”

Wait, Farrell thought. That kiss had been a result of Damen’s magical persuasion?

Of course it had been. Why should this come as even the slightest surprise? Crys would never have kissed him of her own free will.

He was surprised to find himself disappointed at the truth.

He forced himself to focus again on Damen, hate rising within him. He’d never felt loathing like he did for this creature—this monster who had appeared from nowhere to destroy everything that crossed his path.

He was far more powerful than Markus—that much was clear.

Farrell had to admit how truly frightening that fact was.

Markus, where the hell are you?
he thought.

Crys stared at Damen, her expression a mix of shame and shock. Julia watched her watching him, her brow furrowed slightly but her expression otherwise blank. Crys blinked a few times, as if willing any distracting feelings away, and then stood up straighter.

“Do you do this with everyone you meet?” Crys asked. “Force them to do things because you’re just that terrible at face-to-face communication? And I thought Markus was evil.”

Damen laughed lightly. “Oh, you mortals. Always hearing only what you want to hear, believing what you want to believe. Watching you all is so fascinating . . . and so very tiresome. Now I’m going to repeat myself, and you see if you can listen carefully and understand this time. For some mortals—mortals like you, Crystal—no force is necessary to push them where I need them to go. When it comes to their basest desires, all mortals can be manipulated with only the quietest of whispers. Rarely does anyone even attempt to fight these kinds of suggestions. Crystal certainly didn’t, did she, Farrell?”

Again, he was rubbing the fake kiss in Farrell’s face. Damen seemed to know that would bother him, even before Farrell himself did.

“No,” Farrell replied, still fighting to appear calm. “She certainly didn’t. Best kiss I’ve had all week, so I guess I should thank you.”

“What
are
you?” Crys managed, her voice breaking.

Damen turned his icy gaze on Crys. “I’m the whisper in your ear encouraging you to take the first step. To be brave. To follow your heart and kiss the boy. Or to listen to your fear and run away and hide. Or to recognize a loss and give up, jump off the ledge.” Damen paused, turning back to Farrell now. He waited, just staring at him with that evil, grimacing grin that set Farrell’s chest on fire with dread. “Or even,” he finally continued, “to slit your wrists.”

It took a moment for his words to sink in.

But then they did. Farrell turned to ice.

“It was you,” Farrell said, his voice now raw and brittle. “You got into Connor’s head. You told him to kill himself.”

“Did I?” Damen’s tone was casual as he let his chilling question hang in the air. He just sat back and watched them, lurking like a black-eyed predator in the shadows of the auditorium.

Silence hung in the air as Farrell began to tremble with rage and a fresh, stomach-churning dose of grief.

Not-Connor remained quiet, offering no commentary.

“My—my great-grandmother committed suicide too,” Crys said, glancing at her mother, who stood stiff like a soldier on the stage. “She jumped off a building.”

“Pushed,” Julia said under her breath, shaking her head. “She was pushed by Markus.”

“Ah, yes, Rebecca Kendall,” Damen said. “She was such a single-minded woman. Always so determined to protect her family yet failing at every turn.”

Julia’s frown deepened. Crys tore her gaze from her mother’s to look accusingly at Damen. “So you just decided she should take her own life?” she asked.

Damen shrugged slightly. “She was already old, sick. She didn’t have much time left. In a way, I did her a favor.”

“Connor was young. He had his whole life in front of him,” Farrell growled. “I knew it. I knew my brother would never kill himself, no matter how bad things got.”

Not-Connor was silent inside Farrell’s head. It was the first time since he’d taken up residence there that he hadn’t piped in to comment on the topic of his own death.

“You look at me and you see a monster,” Damen said. “But your eyes deceive you. The real monster is the mutual friend Rebecca and Connor shared.
Markus King.
Markus needed Connor, so I took Connor away. Markus needed Jackie, but he lost her the moment Rebecca died and she was led to believe that Markus pushed her. And what a fool he’s been, completely unaware that I’ve been here the whole time. Watching. Waiting. Manipulating the world around him until it was the perfect time for me to come forward to destroy it completely.”

It took every last scrap of control for Farrell not to make a suicide leap into the audience and tear Damen into small, bloody pieces with his bare hands. He seethed, his body blazing with hatred for this dark creature.

“Did my great-grandmother’s death also have to do with you wanting the book too?” Crys asked. Farrell could tell she was fighting tears.

Damen frowned. In the loaded silence that followed Crys’s question, Farrell could tell that Damen had no idea what she was talking about.

Farrell went very still. He hoped that Crys would notice this too and know to close her mouth, not to say another word. Damen seemingly knew everything, was omnipotent, and could control
the fate of this and any other world. But if he didn’t know about the Bronze Codex . . .

Maybe there was still hope.

He almost laughed.
Hope.
What a strange word to come to his mind. Until just now he’d thought that word had been dropped from his vocabulary altogether.

Maybe Crys felt that same hope: She didn’t say another word after Damen failed to acknowledge her question, and Farrell knew she noticed his confusion too. But now it was too silent in the theater.

“You know, the book?” he said. “The one that Rebecca Kendall owned for years and refused to sell to him? It needs to be translated from some ancient language and he’s still looking for where it went after all these years.”

“Markus and his books,” Damen said, shaking his head. “His first love.”

“Where is he?” Farrell demanded. Thanks to the bizarre bonding and visionary magic of his fourth mark, he knew Markus had been here earlier. “I know you’re keeping him here somewhere. Markus and Becca.”

Damen nodded shallowly, his eyes narrowing. “They were here.”