“I don’t know. I lie really well.”
“He’ll know. But you should also be honest about what you want. If you don’t want in—”
“I do,” Farrell interrupted before Lucas could finish his sentence. Failure was not an option. He’d come this far, and he refused to leave without being accepted into the circle. Every step he took was one his brother had also taken. One way or another, Farrell was determined to get to the truth.
Lucas shrugged. “Then I don’t see a problem.”
Farrell absently played with the gold society crest he’d pinned to the lapel of his blue shirt, beneath his leather jacket. It was incredible to know that the circle had existed for decades, yet he had never heard of it before Saturday night. “How long has he been considering me?”
“A year,” Lucas replied.
So as long as Connor has been gone. The thought made him grimace but also brought up another question. “So am I taking my brother’s place?”
“I thought so to begin with, but apparently not. Markus believes he sees something special in you.”
Farrell considered that. Special, huh? That would be news to his mother. “What’s in it for you? What do you get out of being part of the circle?”
“I get to serve Markus,” Lucas said, as if it were obvious.
“Is that it? Why not just serve at the Red Lobster, then? Way less blood and death to clean up there. More tips, too.”
Lucas’s gritted teeth glinted in the torchlight. “Keep walking, Grayson.”
They walked for what felt like a mile, passing flickering lights set into the ceiling every twenty feet. It was damp down there and as cold as winter—like walking through a meat locker. The floor was slippery, coated thinly by patches of ice.
Finally, they reached an iron spiral staircase, nearly identical to the one that led to the theater, except that this one was painted red instead of black.
“Up we go,” Lucas said.
With trepidation, Farrell eyed the stairs leading up into more darkness. “If I’d known this would be a major hike, I would have worn my Nikes.”
Up and up the staircase went, until the air grew warmer again. Finally, they reached a silver door that bore the Hawkspear crest.
Lucas knocked. Two quick knocks, four slow knocks: a different sequence from the one used at the theater. Farrell filed that bit of information in his head for future reference.
The door creaked open, and a man Farrell recognized from the society meetings peered out at them. He wasn’t sure of his name; he’d never really paid much attention to the particularities of society life before.
“We’re here,” Lucas said.
The man opened the door wider to allow them entry, and suddenly Farrell found himself out of the dark stairwell and inside a warm building that was, judging by the walk through the tunnels, at least a mile from the cathedral. It must be accessible by secret passageway that also connected to the theater and the restaurant, Farrell thought.
“This way,” Lucas said, leading Farrell through the dim interior.
The place was huge, at least as large as the Grayson mansion. The floors were stone and the walls plaster, with original oil paintings that looked as if they’d hung there for a century. Just past an archway at the end of a hallway, Farrell’s gaze landed on what appeared to be a massive library where there were floor-to- ceiling bookshelves filled with leather-bound books.
Facing the door, in the center of the room beneath the skylight, was a large, heavy-looking wooden desk. Markus sat behind it, wearing a black business suit, white shirt, red tie. His elbows rested on the desk, and his fingers joined in a steeple before him.
“Come in, Mr. Grayson,” he said, his voice clear and precise. “Thank you, Mr. Barrington. You may wait outside.”
“Yes, sir.” Lucas bowed his head and then left, closing the door behind him.
Farrell wasn’t afraid.
Intimidated, however? Yes, he was definitely that.
He hadn’t been this close to Markus since his first society meeting three years earlier, at which he’d stood on the stage before the audience just as Adam had the other night, with the spotlight in his eyes.
Markus never socialized with the society members after meet-ings. He didn’t attend the charity functions or political rallies organized by his followers to help shape a better Toronto. He only ever addressed his gathered membership from his lofty position on the theater stage, where he brought forth prisoners and conducted their trials. Once certain guilt had been determined—and it always was—Markus performed the executions himself with his golden dagger, while the rest of the group beared solemn witness. Then he would slip out of sight, like a shadow, while his followers stayed behind and lingered for some time, engaging in whispered conversations that couldn’t be held in broad daylight.
There were so many whispered rumors about the man, the recluse, the genius . . . the god . . . that Farrell couldn’t count them, let alone remember them all and keep rumors straight from what he knew to be the truth.
“Thank you for coming,” Markus said. “I’m honored to have you visit my home.”
“It’s my honor, sir.” A thousand questions rose up in his throat, but he didn’t say any of them aloud. Not yet. He might be reckless and irresponsible at times—well, most of the time—but he knew when to keep quiet.
He wasn’t 100 percent certain about what Markus was that allowed him to have such power, but he didn’t underestimate the man for a single moment.
“I’m sure Lucas has already let you know that I believe you would make an excellent addition to my small, exclusive group.”
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?” Ma
rkus 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.
“How many are in your circle?” he asked.
“It would be six, including you. They become my eyes and ears in the world beyond these walls. I need those I trust without question to assist me.”
“Are there always six?”
“Now, yes,” Markus said. “At one time, years ago, there were eight, but two chose to leave the society and return to their regular lives. I require quite a lot of dedication from society members, and even more from those in my circle of trust, but neither needs to be a lifelong commitment, unless one chooses it to be so. One can always leave if they wish.”
Farrell considered this. It was a strange relief, knowing that the commitment to the society wasn’t forever if one chose a different path. “So you trusted my brother.”
Another nod. “I did.”
His heart ached at remembering Connor, at walking in his older brother’s footsteps. “How long was he part of your circle?”
“Only a few months, I’m afraid.”
Farrell cast away the memory of his brother’s bedsheets, covered in blood from the cuts on his wrists. “And what does your trusted circle do for you that the other society members do not?”
Markus folded his hands on the desktop. “Their most important task is to search the city for specific criminals to be tried at our meetings. These searches can sometimes take quite a while, as the evil ones among us prefer to hide in the shadows, away from the glare of judgment.” Markus paused, as if giving Farrell time to consider the gravity of what he’d just said. “And of course my circle also completes various other tasks and errands for me when required.”
He didn’t go into further detail, but Farrell got the impression that he shouldn’t ask any more questions, and that he’d learned enough for today. If he were to join the circle, he’d need to capture criminals and bring them to the theater, knowing fully that he’d be leading them to their deaths. He would be responsible for claiming lives so that the society could grow stronger in their efforts to watch over the city—the world—to keep it safe from evil.
At the thought, he felt a rush of power similar to what he felt every time Markus spilled blood on the stage.
“Are you really a god of death like they say you are?” Farrell asked under his breath before he realized what he’d said. He half hoped that Markus didn’t hear him.
“I am,” Markus replied plainly and without hesitation.
Farrell’s eyes snapped to his. He hadn’t expected an answer from the mysterious man, let alone a perfectly clear and simple one, but there it was: confirmation that Markus was so much more than a secret society leader with a few magic tricks up his sleeves.
“Knowing this to be true, will you accept your position as a trusted member of my circle?” Markus asked. “And will you pledge to do whatever I ask of you, whenever I ask it?”
“I will.” The words left his mouth before he realized it, an echo of his original commitment to the society.
“Good. Your agreement means that you will also accept a generous gift from me, one that will aid you in your service.”
Then Markus fell silent for a full minute, watching Farrell with dark eyes.
Finally, he rose to his feet. He pulled his infamous golden dagger from a hinged mahogany box on his desk, its lid ornately carved with the Hawkspear emblem set against a backdrop of mountains, and inlaid with gold. “Give me your arm.”
Was he about to give Farrell a second mark? Is that what Lucas had meant during that whole tattoo discussion?
The first mark had gifted Farrell with perfect health—he hadn’t been sick a single day in the last three years (though, unfortunately, Markus didn’t seem to have any power over hangovers).
What gift would this second mark bring?
He wanted to ask but knew this was not the time. Instead, he unbuttoned and rolled back the sleeve of his shirt, then offered his left arm to Markus.
Don’t flinch, he reminded himself.
Markus grasped his wrist, then cut deeply into Farrell’s forearm, guiding the tip of the dagger along his flesh. Farrell gritted his teeth, forcing himself not to react to the pain as he watched the blood flow from the wound, drip to the floor, and flow over the symbol that Markus etched into his skin.
When it was done, Markus placed the dagger on his desk and pressed his bare hand against Farrell’s arm. A healing white light began to emanate from the wound, and Farrell felt a burning sensation—horribly painful, nearly as much as the cutting itself had been.
Moments later, Markus drew back from him. The wound had healed, and Farrell’s skin was unmarked.
“Do you feel it?” Markus asked.
“Feel—?” Farrell started to ask but then closed his mouth.
He felt it.
He could hear the tick of the clock in the adjoining room. He could hear Lucas, who stood waiting for him on the other side of the door, tapping on his phone as he wrote a text or answered an e-mail.
He could smell bread baking in the kitchen, somewhere in the house. He could see with perfect clarity each and every title
written in gilded gold and silver and bronze on the spines of the books throughout the room.
“My senses . . . ,” he breathed.
“Are much improved,” Markus finished. “This will help you in countless ways.”
So this was how Lucas had been able to see in the near-pitch darkness of the tunnels, unafraid of tripping over his own feet. Now Farrell could do that as well.
“Thank you, Markus,” he said, lowering his head in deference.
“How do you feel, Mr. Grayson?”
“Incredible.” It was true. He’d never felt so good, so healthy, in his entire life.
Another nod from Markus. “Good. I have officially accepted you into my circle with this second mark. If you prove your worth fully to me, I will give you a third.”
A third mark? What gift would that give him?
“Now. I have an assignment for you, Mr. Grayson.”
My first assignment already? Farrell had barely begun to recover from the amazing effects of his new mark. He needed a drink. A big one. Straight up.
Still, clarity of mind shone through him. Above all else, he wanted to prove himself to this powerful god—the sooner the better.
“What is it?” he asked.
“There’s a girl who I believe is attempting to seek information about me and the Hawkspear Society. I feel her particular investigation could be problematic, for many reasons we don’t need to get into now. I want you to get to know her, make her trust you, find out what she’s hiding, what she knows of the society, and what she may want from me in particular. And I want you to report back everything you find.”
Farrell blinked. “You want me to spy on a girl.”
“Yes. Will you do this for me?”
He’d been hoping for some epic task that would allow him to prove his worth. Spying on some girl playing at being Nancy Drew sounded simple enough, but it wasn’t remotely groundbreaking.
Still, there was only one answer he could give, and he knew what it was.
“Of course I will, Markus.”