A phone rang, its shrill sound piercing through Crys’s rib cage like an arrow. She jumped and spun around, searching for the source of the noise, and saw her mother’s cell phone, wedged into the side of the chair.
Crys looked down at the call display, then grabbed it before it went to voice mail.
“Jackie,” she managed, her throat raw.
There was a long pause. “Crys? Is that you?”
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“It’s so good to hear your voice, sweetie. Where’s your mom?”
“She’s outside, getting some air. We’re at the hospital.”
“Becca . . .” Jackie’s voice caught and then grew very soft. “How’s she doing?”
“The same.”
Jackie swore under her breath. “I had no idea the book could affect her—or anyone—like this. Why did I send it directly to the store? I didn’t even consider it. . . . I didn’t think it through. . . .”
“What is it, Jackie?”
Instead of avoiding the topic or changing the subject like her mother had, Jackie sighed. “What do you already know?”
“Not much, thanks to Mom. She doesn’t want me to know anything.”
“Of course she doesn’t. She’s protecting you.”
“From what? All I know is that there’s a secret society that Dad’s a part of; a weird, old book that put my sister into a coma; and a boss guy named Markus who you think is a monster who’s at the center of it all.”
“Crys . . .”
“Do not try to tell me that I need to forget about this, Jackie. I won’t let go of it. I’m in pit bull mode. I’m latching on and not letting go until I get to the truth. About everything my mother has been keeping from me—about Dad, about the book, about everything.”
“Not all pit bulls are like that, you know. It’s all in the upbringing. Kind of a good metaphor, really, now that I think about it.”
“You’re changing the subject. You’re just like Mom.”
Jackie gasped. “How dare you!”
She said it so theatrically, in such a quintessentially cheerful Jackie-voice, that it brought everything back to normal between them. Jackie and Julia were as different from each other as Crys was from Becca.
“Look, sweetie, I don’t entirely agree with my big sister. You’re not a kid anymore. You’re a young woman, and, quite honestly, I think you could be a great help to us.”
“A help with what?”
“With my plan to destroy Markus King.” There was a pregnant pause, and Crys wasn’t sure if Jackie was being serious or still putting on a theatrical show. “That sounded epically melodramatic, didn’t it?”
Crys tried to compose herself because, yes, it sounded like the proclamation of a storybook warrior heading out on a quest to slay a dragon. “Well, according to Dad, Markus is one of the good guys. He’s set up this society of his to help save the world.”
“Oh my God. Kill me now. You’ve spoken to your father about this?”
“Yup. But don’t worry. I didn’t say anything about Becca or the book.”
“And what did that asshat say to you?”
“Jackie—” An unexpected burst of laughter escaped from Crys’s throat.
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry for saying that out loud,” Jackie said. “But he is an asshat, and that’s me being extremely gentle with my language. He told you Markus is a stand-up guy, did he?”
“He did. Only not in those words.”
“I’m not surprised he’s still fully on Team Markus, but he’s wrong. Look evil up in a dictionary and there will be a picture of Markus.” She went silent for a moment. “I know your mother can be an asshat, too, sometimes, and we don’t always see eye to eye—to say the least. But trust me—she’s only being an asshat because she loves you. She wants to protect you from . . . this.”
Trust me.
“If you want me to trust you, I need you to tell me everything you know about that book. What is it? Where did it come from? And why do you think Markus wants it so bad?” Crys reached for Becca’s hand again while cradling the cell phone on her shoulder.
“There’s too much to tell and no time to tell it.”
“This is not helping.”
“You’re a smart-ass, you know that?”
“I inherited that trait from my favorite aunt.”
Jackie laughed, a genuine sound from her belly. “Look, I’m trying to get back to Canada, but I’m having a bit of a problem leaving Paris.”
“What sort of problem?”
“Uh, let’s just say I’m currently wanted by certain . . . authority figures.”
Crys’s brows shot up. “Because you stole the book?”
There was a pause. “Because I steal a lot of things. Some shinier than others. Stay in school, sweetie. Get a good education and you won’t end up like your crazy aunt.”
“Too late for that advice.”
Jackie groaned. “A subject to discuss in further depth when I finally get my butt across the ocean. And I will. But in the meantime—and know that I’m going out on a limb here because your mother would murder me if I told her I was bringing you on board—you need to go see someone named Dr. Uriah Vega at his office tomorrow. He’s a professor of linguistic anthropology at the University of Toronto, and we go way back. Mention my name and tell him I said to give you the full monty on the book. He’ll know exactly what to tell you to help clear a few things up. Go after lunch since he teaches all morning.”
A name and a location. It was the best lead she’d had so far. “Thanks,” Crys said. “I’ll do that.”
“Hey . . . remember when I gave you and your sister those self-defense lessons?” Jackie asked.
“Like it was last summer.” Which it had been. “Why? Will I need them?”
“You never know. Just remember my number one lesson, because it’s the most important and useful one of all.” She swore again loudly. “Sorry, I need to scram. I’ll call again as soon as I can, okay?”
But Crys couldn’t remember which lesson was the number one. Right now all she could recall was that a knee to the groin and a finger to the eyeball were very effective methods for suppressing an attacker.
What was the first lesson?
“Wait, Jackie—”
The line went dead, and Crys stared down at the phone in disbelief.
A few moments later, Julia returned and stood at the doorway. “Did I just hear you talking on the phone? Who was it?”
“Jackie,” she said, her voice hushed. “But she’s gone now.”
Her mother snatched the phone out of her hand and stared at the home screen with dismay. “What did she say?”
“To not trust anyone but you and her.”
“Good advice for once,” Julia said, though the way she was looking at Crys told her that she was more than a little suspicious about what Jackie might have divulged. “Let’s go home. We can’t do anything more for Becca today.”
Her mother took hold of her arm, and Crys didn’t protest or try to squirm away.
They didn’t get along most of the time, but Crys had always thought she at least knew her mother. Jackie said her sister was hiding the truth because she loved Crys. But Crys had to wonder: Was that love? Was that trust?
Frankly, she wasn’t sure who this woman directing her out of Becca’s room and into her silver Mazda hatchback in the parking lot really was. Julia Hatcher had more secrets than Crys ever would have guessed.
Two could play at that game.
Chapter 11
FARRELL
Farrell tried to read while he waited for the call from Lucas. He’d bought the entire Walking Dead graphic novel series but still found that flipping through images of zombies and a plethora of blood and guts and angst did nothing to distract him.
“Farrell . . . yo
u busy?”
He glanced at the doorway of his room to see Adam silhouetted in the frame.
He set the books aside on his bed and put his arms behind his head in a lounging position. “Come on in.”
Adam took a seat on the side of the bed, eyeing the graphic novels. “Walking Dead?”
“You can borrow them.”
“Are you finished with them?”
“With these two.” He nudged the first volumes toward his brother, who took them, staring at the covers with interest.
“Awesome,” Adam said. After a pause, he looked up from the books to his brother. “Look, I know I overreacted and bitched you out this morning. I’m sorry.”
Farrell frowned. “Wait. Are you really apologizing right now?”
“I’ve been thinking a lot about what happened Saturday night, and . . . it was just a shock. That’s all.”
“I know.”
“I wasn’t expecting that, especially not with me on the stage, so up close and personal. But—that guy, he was dangerous. If we had let him go, he’d have gone out and caused the deaths of tons of other people. If he went to jail, it probably wouldn’t have been for nearly long enough. There was no other answer.” Still, his face looked bleak and haunted about this harsh realization.
“I get it, kid. I do.” Farrell leaned forward and gripped his brother’s shoulder. “And you don’t have to apologize to me for anything. Ever. Okay? I should have been more understanding.”
Adam blinked. “Wow, is this, like, a sentimental brotherly moment? Should we hug tenderly?”
Farrell laughed. “I don’t give hugs out liberally, especially not to family.”
Adam grinned in the lopsided way that made Farrell know that his happiness was genuine.
Farrell’s phone buzzed, interrupting this rare peaceful moment. It was Lucas.
“Gotta take this, kid,” he said, bringing the phone to his ear. “Yeah?”
“It’s time,” Lucas said.
He covered the receiver with his hand. “Adam, why don’t you take the whole set? I won’t be reading them anytime soon.”
“Really? Okay.” Adam gathered the books and headed for the door. He hesitated there, as if he still had something more to say. But after a moment, he left the room, closing the door behind him.
“It’s time, is it?” Farrell said. “Cryptic, much? Is there a secret handshake I should memorize before I leave the house?”
Lucas snorted softly. “Always with the jokes. I’d probably curb that tendency a bit tonight if I were you. Markus’s sense of humor is . . . singular.”
Whatever that meant. “I’ll be on my bestest behavior—cross my heart,” Farrell said.
“You don’t have to be nervous.”
“Do I sound nervous to you?”
“I would be, if I were you.” Lucas told him where to meet in half an hour.
Farrell left the mansion and directed his driver to the address, which was a large cathedral on the west side of the city that looked more like a castle, with tall spires and towers and stained glass windows that sparkled despite the overcast day.
“Shall I wait here for you?” Sam, his driver, asked.
Farrell had tried very hard not to start to like him, or even get to know him. Sam, who was somewhere in his midtwenties, had been hired as a temporary solution to the problem that was Farrell Grayson’s lack of a driver’s license. But Farrell would be back in a brand-new Porsche the first moment that the lawyers sorted out his DUI, and then Sam would be nothing more than a distant memory.
“Don’t make friends with the hired help,” his mother had shrilly told him a decade ago when she’d caught him playing with one of the maid’s kids.
But Sam had been a huge help in the last few months, and it was hard not to think of him as a friend, rather than just someone his parents paid to drive him around.
Farrell smiled as he recalled a conversation from a recent night out.
“Ever think about, oh, I don’t know, not drinking?” Sam had asked as he waited for Farrell to stop puking at the side of the road.
“I’ve thought about it,” Farrell had replied, wiping his mouth. “And . . . nah.”
“Just asking.” Sam grinned and shook his head. “It’s your liver.”
Sam was reliable and friendly and went above and beyond to help him out. Farrell appreciated that more than he’d ever admit out loud.
“No, Sam. Don’t bother waiting, since I have no idea how long I’ll be,” Farrell said now. “Go get yourself some dinner. I’ll call when I’m all done.”
Not one minute after Sam had driven off, Lucas approached Farrell on the sidewalk. He offered his hand, and Farrell grasped it and shook it.
“You ready for this?” Lucas asked.
“Hell yeah.” Farrell eyed the intricate building and gestured up at it. “Do I need to confess my sins first? I admit—it’s been a while, and I have quite a few.”
Lucas grinned. “Follow me.”
He led Farrell around to the back of the cathedral, where they found what looked like an unmarked subway entrance blocked off by construction tape and wooden panels. He shoved away a panel, which revealed a trapdoor beneath.
“After you,” Lucas said after lifting the door.
Farrell raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Looks dark down there.”
“Yes. Very dark.” Lucas waited patiently, as if issuing an unspoken challenge. Are you a coward, Grayson? Or are you worthy?
“Let’s do this,” Farrell mumbled, then stepped through the trapdoor, grappling in the darkness to find the stairs. He braced himself with his hand against the cool concrete wall as he slowly began his descent. The door slapped back down into place as Lucas fell into step behind him.
“It’ll just take a few moments for my eyesight to adjust,” Lucas said. “Then I can get us where we need to be pretty quickly.”
“Yeah, sure. My eyes will take a minute, too.”
“Not like mine. Not yet, anyway.”
“Oh, I love it when you talk in riddles. It gives me tingles.” Farrell kept moving down the stairs, taking them slowly so he wouldn’t fall and twist his ankle. Finally he reached what he was pretty certain was the ground floor. He saw the glow of fluorescent light from about fifty feet ahead and he followed Lucas in that direction.
“So how many are in this circle?” Farrell asked, trying to make conversation to distract himself from thoughts about the unknown destination before him.
Lucas shook his head. “I can’t talk details with you. Not till you’re officially in.”
“What happens then? Do I get a prize? A chest tattoo of, I don’t know, a hawk and a spear?” The prospect of getting a tattoo didn’t bother him. He already had two. One—a quote from his favorite Korean action movie (in Korean, of course)—Bright is life. Dark is death.—on his left side over his ribs. And on the inner bicep of his right arm, he’d gotten a crown to remind him that he was the king of his own life, that no one controlled him.
“No tattoo,” Lucas said. “You’ll see.”
“You’re so helpful. Anyway,” Farrell started, ignoring Lucas’s ban on questions, “who got into the circle first? You or Connor?”
“Me. I was invited two months before Connor was. I suggested him, actually, but Markus had already been considering him.”
“Did he handle it well? Being chosen like that?”
“I thought he did.”
“He had started to become a real prick before . . .” Farrell had to force himself to say it. “Before he died. It was like his personality did a one-eighty.”
“Really? I didn’t notice anything.”
“Yeah, he went from being a nice guy to being a total dick. Could it have been the circle? Did it do something to him?”
“Like what?” Lucas eyed him sideways. “Like mak
e him want to kill himself? Is that what you’re insinuating?”
“You’re right. It doesn’t make sense. I’m still just trying to figure it all out.”
“Trust me, Farrell. Nobody wants your brother alive more than I do. I was his best friend. I didn’t see it coming, even when Mallory dumped him. And if I did, I damn well would have done whatever I could have to stop it.”
The words were there, the words Farrell needed to hear from Lucas. But his tone was off. Lucas spoke without any emotion, like he didn’t care one way or the other. Like he was paying lip service to shut Farrell up.
A horrible thought rose to the surface of Farrell’s mind. Did you have something to do with my brother’s death, Lucas?
“I think you and I could be friends, now that we’re about to have a lot more in common,” Lucas said. “Which is interesting, since I always thought you were a prick.”
“Ditto.” Farrell had no idea how to interpret this conversation, but he knew he didn’t want to push Lucas too far. It would be best to befriend him, to get to the real story of his brother’s final days. He needed to coax the truth—if there was any new truth to tell—out of the guy as smoothly as possible. “But I need more friends in my life. I’ve almost run out of people to braid my hair and talk about cute boys with.”
They both laughed, Farrell trying to sound as natural as possible, as they navigated the maze of tunnels. The hallways now had better lighting, but they were still much dimmer than the tunnels under the restaurant leading to Markus’s theater.
“Do all these tunnels connect?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
Farrell glared at him for giving yet another nonanswer. “How about I ask you all these questions again after I’m in?”
In the faint light, he saw Lucas’s lips quirk up. “Good idea.”
They walked in silence for a while, Lucas leading the way as the tunnels got narrower, then wider, then narrower again with each turn they made. Finally, Farrell ventured to speak again. “Any advice when it comes to my meeting with His Majesty?”
“Sure. Be honest. Answer his questions with nothing but the exact truth. He’ll know if you’re lying.”