“Tell her how you killed him,” Damen said.
“I used Markus’s dagger,” he said, grimacing. “I stuck it in your father’s heart, twisted it, and watched the life fade from his eyes.”
“Tell her how it made you feel.”
“Incredible,” he said, hating himself. “Powerful. Worthy.” He drew in a shaky breath. “Terrible. Guilty. Horrified. But then those feelings went away, and soon I felt powerful again. I . . . I’m sorry, Crys.” How could someone apologize for doing something so heinous? Only a fool would try to use simple, empty words to explain away something so unspeakable. “I’m so sorry. I really am.”
She was shaking from head to foot. Her face was a tortured portrait of denial, fear, grief, and hate. Quickly, with a fierceness that made Farrell wince, she whipped her fiery stare over to him.
“You’re sorry?” she snarled, her voice cracking before she broke out into a scream. “You murdered my father!”
Suddenly, she was upon him, fists flying. She was beating him, throwing punches to his face, his arms, his chest. She didn’t hold back, and he didn’t try to stop her.
Farrell tasted blood and invited in the sting and hatred of each and every strike.
Angus hurried up behind her. He hugged his arms around her waist as he tried to pull her off of Farrell, silently and clearly still under Damen’s order to remain mute. He glared at Farrell, a tome’s worth of words behind his dark look.
“You may speak again, Mr. Balthazar,” Damen said.
“You bloody idiot,” Angus snarled.
“P-puppet,” Crys managed. “Farrell is a puppet—a slave. His marks make him Markus’s slave.”
“That doesn’t excuse what I did,” Farrell said, the truth of it sticking in his throat like poisoned syrup.
“No,” Julia Hatcher said. “It doesn’t excuse it at all.”
Slowly, Farrell turned toward the calm yet vengeful voice.
Angus’s gun was in her hand, pointed right at him.
The world around him slowed, and he watched her pull the trigger. He heard the muted crack of the gun.
Farrell staggered back a step as Julia fired again.
And again. And again.
Crys screamed.
Farrell looked down: Four black marks blossomed on his chest. Then came the blood, seeping out and soaking his favorite shirt.
“Yeah,” he whispered, as the delayed pain finally slammed into him. “I guess I kind of deserved that.”
He fell hard to his knees, then collapsed onto his side. He lay there, neck limp and head heavy on the floor, and watched as his warm red blood formed a pool beside him.
He heard Crys screaming and the clatter of a gun hitting the hard floor. How many other people had died on this stage over the last sixty years, had lain in this very spot and watched their blood soak into the very fibers of this old wooden floor?
His world grew darker and darker, until finally it went black and quiet and cold.
• • •
Farrell blinked. He coughed, over and over, smacking his hand down against the slippery blood in a desperate attempt for leverage. He kept blinking away at the blur in front of him until he could see Angus kneeling next to him, his fingers at Farrell’s throat.
“No, no,” Angus said hoarsely, shaking his head. “No pulse means you’re dead. Good God, boy, why are you trying to get up if you’re dead?”
Farrell ignored him and somehow managed to push himself into a sitting position. Dazed, he scanned the stage. Crys stood across from him, staring, her hand clapped against her mouth.
He looked down at his ruined shirt. He tore it open and wiped at the blood.
The bullet wounds were closing. All four bullets had gone straight through his chest and come out the other side. He reached over his own left shoulder to feel that the exit wounds were also healing. He wiped at the blood with confusion, so stunned he could barely think. Nothing was clear to him right now—except for the fact that there was something distinctly different about himself.
In the center of his chest he saw a mark that hadn’t been there before. It was a gray spiral, about four inches in diameter, that looked like a very old, very faded tattoo.
“Check his skin,” called Damen from the audience. “Check his arms. Show me.”
Two of his masked gunmen pulled Farrell up like a rag doll. They removed his jacket and what remained of his shirt.
Farrell looked down at his forearm.
His fourth mark was no longer red and raw. It was black.
“Oh, Markus,” Damen breathed. “How very clever. I never would have guessed.”
“What?” Angus said. “What the hell just happened? What the hell is this?”
“Eva must have shared some of her greatest secrets with him. She was the only one who knew that there is a way for beings made of pure magic to cheat death. The immortal must find a vessel perfect enough to hold his magical essence until he is strong enough to return. Connor Grayson was originally supposed to be that vessel. But then he found that you, Farrell, would be just as perfect.”
Farrell couldn’t speak. He knew what Damen said was true.
The massive pain he’d felt when Markus had died . . .
No, he hadn’t died. He’d merely faded. He’d shed his physical form and transcended into pure magic.
“That’s right, Farrell,” Damen said evenly, a sinister smile stretching his pale cheeks. “You are the flesh and blood vessel for Markus’s immortal magic. Whatever shall I do with you now?”
Chapter 27
BECCA
And just like that, Becca remembered everything. It all came hurtling back to her the instant Liana, a normal girl only a few years older than Becca herself, transformed into a golden goddess.
In a moment of desperation, she tried to find humor in the fact that the very person she was sent here to seek help from had been standing right next to her all day. But the moment quickly faded as the severity of her mistake settled in.
Barnabas finally, grudgingly, agreed to accompany her and Maddox—and Al—to Cleiona’s palace, which was another day’s journey from where they’d made camp. They set off, and though Becca was overwhelmed and exhausted by what her failure might have caused, she knew she had a very important message to deliver.
Becca sat with Maddox in the back of the wagon only a short time after Liana left. She hugged her knees to her chest, trying to keep herself calm.
“Tell me everything you remember,” Maddox urged.
And she did.
He gave her his full attention. With Barnabas listening from the front of the wagon, she told them all that had happened in her world while she was away, right up to her clash with Damen Winter.
Maddox sat, completely rapt and clearly stunned, as Becca told him that Damen was Eva’s twin brother. The dark one. The evil one. Eva had been full of light and life and the magic of creation, while Damen was death itself.
She told him how Eva had siphoned the death magic out of Damen in an attempt to weaken him enough to kill him and save what was left of their world.
She finished catching him up, but she left out the dire conclusion she’d drawn from all of this: that when Eva became pregnant, the magic she’d stolen from Damen had been transferred to her child, Maddox.
Of course this was only a guess, but it made so much sense. Still, she didn’t feel she could share this with him. Not yet.
She had to talk to Cleiona.
She had to be brave.
As soon as she’d remembered her mission and how she’d gotten here, she thought of the inky shadow of magic. She searched everywhere for it, but the strange shadow that had followed her for days back in Toronto was nowhere to be found now. All she could think was that one of two things had happened: The energy of that dark magic had been used up in transporting her to Mytica, or it was still right where she’d left it, back in that dungeon in the Hawkspear Society headquarters.
How am I supposed to get back home? she wo
ndered, an uneasy feeling settling deep in her gut.
Thunder rumbled up above. Becca turned around to see a dark and distant rainstorm traveling toward them from the north—the same storm that had been following them ever since they left camp. It was the only sign they’d seen that Valoria and her army were still tracking them, but Becca thought it was a pretty convincing one.
To help distract her from the unsettling weather, Maddox told her the story of how they found Princess Cassia and what she’d asked of him. Hearing that he’d denied Cassia’s chilling request helped to ease Becca’s mind, if only a little.
“You did the right thing,” she told him.
“I know,” he replied, but he didn’t sound completely convinced.
“This day is dark enough without dwelling on such unpleasantness,” Al said. He was sitting next to Becca, less than an arm’s reach away from her. “Why don’t we converse about some more lighthearted topics?”
“What else should we be talking about, Al?” Maddox asked.
She regarded Maddox now as he responded so patiently to Al’s interruption. Becca had almost forgotten how cute he was, with his messy dark hair and chocolate brown eyes. His quirky nose that had a slight slant to it, as if it had been broken once. And that shy smile of his that shot straight to her heart every time she saw it.
“I know,” Al said. “I’ll tell you a story I wrote many years ago, long before Valoria chose me as her personal scribe. It’s about a handsome prince and a beautiful sorceress who lived atop a tall mountain. One day, a cruel sea witch put a curse on the handsome prince that turned him into an immortal merman. He grew fins where his legs once were, and he was cast out to live in the sea. Then the beautiful sorceress started to dream about the handsome prince, and he started to dream about her. They would dream about each other every night, and in these dreams they fell in love. They began to search for each other by day, but the searches were never fruitful, because the prince could not leave the sea. The sorceress called out his name over and over until she lost her voice. When she grew too old to continue searching, she died, and her body was swept away by the tide. The sea people drew her down to their kingdom, where her remains were transformed into a young mermaid. Finally, she found the prince, they were wed, and they lived together forever in bliss.”
When Al finished, Becca looked to Maddox for his reaction. His mouth had dropped open, and he stared at Al, shocked. “I’ve read that tale before,” he said excitedly. “It was in a collection of my favorite stories . . .”
“The Teller’s Tales,” both Maddox and Al said in unison.
“Oh!” Al exclaimed. “You’ve read my stories! How wonderful!”
“I had no idea you were the scribe behind those tales!”
“I certainly was. And I still have many such tales within me, but, alas, thanks to the goddess’s new laws, I will need to keep them within me.”
“Or you can share them with us.”
“I would be happy to do that!”
Despite all the stress of the day and the urgency of reaching the goddess, Becca had to smile. Al had managed to find his most ardent fan right in this very wagon.
“What did you think of my tale, Becca?” Al asked.
“I thought it was well told,” she said, deciding not to point out the problems so glaring that any creative writing class would have sniffed them out in no time.
“Yes. Yes it was,” he agreed.
“There are no such things as sea people,” Barnabas said from the front as he guided the horses along the narrow winding road. According to him, they weren’t very far from the goddess’s palace.
“That is why it’s a tale of fantasy,” Al said.
“I don’t have time for fantasy. There’s far too much reality to deal with.”
Becca shared a tense look with Maddox. Barnabas had been in an extremely unpleasant mood ever since Liana had revealed her true identity, but they hadn’t dared pry him about it yet. Still, after spending so many days observing him as a spirit, Becca was fairly certain that Barnabas wasn’t someone who would let a personal grievance stand in his way of making a difference in this kingdom.
Cleiona could be an ally. And Becca believed the goddess could help him make that difference.
“There it is,” Barnabas said. “And it looks just as loathsome as I’ve always heard.”
“The palace?” Al cried. “Let me see the horror with my own eyes.”
Maddox picked Al up and held him aloft so they could look ahead together. Beyond rolling green meadows and hills, past patches of lush farmland, beneath the sunny sky, and at the edge of a river, sat a palace. It shone like gold and sprawled out for what seemed like miles. The tops of its tall spires were inset with sparkling gems so that each one resembled a point in a jewel-encrusted crown.
“Horrifying,” Becca said under her breath as the country road transformed into a pathway through a large village. As they rode through, each cottage and shop was nicer and newer than the next. “Yes, I’ve never been so horrified by anything in my entire life.”
Al frowned. “This can’t be. Her Radiance told me that all of Southern Mytica is in smoldering ruins, for whenever the goddess has a temper tantrum, she breathes fire through her nostrils.”
Barnabas eyed him. “Is that really what Valoria told you?”
“Yes. She also told me that the southern goddess herself is the size of a large cow. All she does is eat lard and ham hocks and sit upon her massive throne all day while jesters entertain her.”
“You saw her yourself,” Maddox said. “Definitely not like any lard-eating cow I’ve ever seen.”
“I assumed that was more air magic at work.”
Maddox furtively rolled his eyes as they moved swiftly through the village. As they drove, citizens going about in the village greeted them with waves and smiles.
“Supposedly the place is populated by cruel, horrible, overworked, and angry people,” Al whispered.
“They look rather happy to me,” Becca said, waving back at an old lady whose smile revealed sparkling diamonds in her teeth.
“Teeming with fire,” Al said, his voice getting quieter and quieter. “Flames and screaming and misery.”
“Only in my soul,” Barnabas growled. “Now do me a favor and shut up for a moment.”
Al pressed his lips together, but his frown remained.
Gradually the buildings became sparse as the village gave way to a grassy field and then the riverbank. They crossed a bridge over the river and were greeted on the other side by the sight of the tall, ornate golden gates leading to the palace grounds.
A guard wearing a blue-and-gold uniform approached and halted them.
“What is your business here?” he asked.
Barnabas stopped the horses but didn’t reply.
Maddox sighed and stood up from the back of the wagon. “We’re here to see the goddess.”
The guard scoffed. “You assume you can simply drive up to the palace and be granted audience with Her Goldenness?”
Barnabas shot a cold look at the man. “Apologies, but did you just refer to that . . . being in there as Her Goldenness?”
The guard nodded. “That’s what we’re to call Her Goldenness. She commanded it herself only this morning. It is the title with which she now wishes to be addressed, and of course we obey.”
“Of course,” Barnabas replied flatly.
“She’ll see us,” Maddox persisted. “Tell her who we are: Barnabas, Maddox, Becca, and Alcander. She knows us.”
The guard swept an appraising gaze over the cart. “Yes, she mentioned you. She said you might be arriving today.” Frowning, he turned and signaled to another guard, who opened the gates. “Go right in. Kostas will take your horses and vehicle to the stables.”
• • •
Kostas took the horses away, and another guard swept them up to take them inside the palace. Becca tried her best to remain calm, to remember everything she needed to say as quickly as she could pos
sibly say it.
Several more guards joined them as they were ushered in, and suddenly Becca’s gaze was pulled in every direction as she took in the incredible beauty the palace had to offer. Everything gleamed—the mosaic stone floors inlaid with the swirling patterns of red, orange, and yellow flames; the immaculate ivory-colored stone walls adorned with beautiful paintings evoking different aspects of this part of Mytica. And of course there were also several portraits of Cleiona to greet them at every turn as they made their way down a main hallway.
“Vain,” Barnabas grumbled, gazing up at a particularly massive depiction of the goddess. “No surprise there.”
“I can’t see anything,” Al complained from the sack Barnabas held.
Becca looked out the multipaned windows and admired the palace grounds, which featured perfectly manicured gardens filled with sculpted hedges and trees. Colorful flowers bloomed everywhere, and now Becca knew where all of the fragrant bouquets set in vases throughout the palace had been gathered.
They stopped at a set of doors that had to be about thirty feet tall. Two of the guards pulled them open to reveal a gorgeous throne room, and a third guard gestured for them to go inside.
This was the second Mytican throne room Becca had seen, and this one—easily the size of a football field—was just as massive as Valoria’s had been. The main difference between the two was that Valoria’s was beset with earth and water magic to make it resemble a tropical jungle, while Cleiona’s was much simpler and more streamlined—but still beautiful.
Yet another mosaic gleamed on the floor of Cleiona’s throne room, this one composed of colorful, intricate landscapes. Thick golden pillars reached up from the floor to the gilded ceiling, and the walls were decorated with tapestries and more paintings. In the back of the huge room sat a golden throne, mounted at the top of a dozen steps.
And standing before the throne was the goddess, watching them as they approached. She wore a gown that looked to Becca like it was made from millions of threads of real gold. Woven into her hair—a shade of blond so brilliant it made Becca feel that hers was as dull as dishwater—were dozens of diamonds and sapphires. A hawk was perched on the arm of her throne.