***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected proof*** Copyright © 2015 Morgan Rhodes Chapter1 CRYSTAL "Be careful where you point that thing, young lady. It'll get you in troubleone day." The old man Crys had been stalking for twenty minutes glaredat her through the lens of her camera. The deep wrinkles she'd found sofascinating now gathered between his eyes as he creased his forehead. She snapped a picture. "Thanks for the advice," she said, flashing him a grinbefore she quickly made her escape. It would be a great shot, one of her best yet. Eyes that hadseen at least eighty years of life. A face, weathered and aged, with a thousandstories to tell. Definitely portfolio-worthy. Crys passed a bank with a digital clock in the window andwinced when she saw the time. Becca'sgoing to kill me , she thought. The last class had let out at three o'clock, but because shehadn't gone to school today, she'd completely lost track of time. She couldsmell spring in the air, finally, after such a long, cold winter. The coolbreeze felt fresh and clean and full of possibilities, even beneath the scentof cement and dust and exhaust fumes. It was five minutes to six when she finally made it to herdestination. Five minutes to closing. The Speckled Muse Bookshop was located on the west edge ofthe Annex, a Toronto neighborhood adjacent to the U of T campus and the RoyalOntario Museum. Busy streets, a young crowd-- thanks to the proximity to theuniversity--lots of restaurants and little independent shops. Crys paused and snapped a shot of the weathered sign outfront--she'd taken the same pic from nearly every angle possible over the lastcouple of years. Along with the name of the shop written in quirky, paintedletters, there was an illustration of a little girl with big glasses, pigtails,and a sprinkling of freckles, sitting on top of a stack of books. It was a caricature of Crys from when she was five yearsold, before she even knew how to read. Before she got contacts for her annoyingnearsightedness and used her thick glasses only when she absolutely had to. Back when the Hatchers were a whole family, not justthree-quarters of one. Something warm brushed against her leg, and she lowered hercamera with a frown. "Who let you out, Charlie?" Charlie, an adorable black-and-white kitten, replied with atiny mew that seemed to have aquestion mark attached to it. "Come on." Crys leaned over and picked him up, pressing himagainst her chest. "You're way too close to the street out here, little guy." A month ago, when it was early March and still freezingcold, she'd found the kitten next to a garbage can a block away from the storeand next to her favorite sushi place. He'd been no bigger than the palm of herhand, and looked forlorn and miserable. She'd brought the shivering handfulhome and insisted they keep him. Her mother had taken one look at him and said no. But Crys'syounger sister, Becca, immediately stepped in and argued on behalf of the tinyfeline's fate. Between her two daughters' joint arguments, Julia Hatcherfinally relented. It was the first time in ages that Crys and Becca had agreed onanything. Becca then named him Charlie after Charlie and the Chocolate Factory , one of her favorite books. Now Crys pushed open the glass front door, triggering thefamiliar, melodious chime of the doorbell that signaled a customer had entered.Immediately, she felt the heat of Becca's glare from across the shop. Yeah, I know. I'm late, she thought. What else is new ? The mail lay on a small table near the door in an untouchedheap. Several brown cardboard boxes of books were stacked next to it. The Speckled Muse was housed in a historical three-storybuilding--one of the oldest in Toronto, dating to the mid-nineteenth century.Crys's great-grandfather, a man of wealth and influence in the city, hadpurchased the building seventy years earlier and given it to his book-lovingwife so she could open a bookstore. The current sign was relatively new, butthe name of the shop was more than sixty years old. If only great-granddaddy hadn't squandered his fortune onpoor investments, leaving nothing for his family line apart from the bookshopitself. The Speckled Muse--a Toronto landmark. One of the oldestbookstores in one of the oldest buildings and, as many ancient edifices were,rumored to be haunted. Crys had yet to see evidence of a ghost--apart fromhearing the occasional groans and creaks that are normal in any old building. All of this, both truth and rumor, helped to coax customersthrough the front door and into the maze-like shelves and nooks and crannies ofthe shop, which, contrary to its small and quaint storefront, had a massiveinterior that magically seemed to go on and on. The first floor of the building was dedicated to the store,and the upper two made up the Hatcher family home, accessed by a winding ironstaircase at the very back of the main floor. Three bedrooms and a bathroom onthe top floor, a kitchen, a living room, and another bathroom on the second.Plenty big enough for the three of them. And now Charlie, of course. "Thank you so much for coming in." Becca handed change to acustomer from behind the register. She wore her honey-blond hair off her face,in a loose braid that fell across her right shoulder. There was a pencil tuckedbehind her ear that Crys would bet she'd totally forgotten about. "I hope youenjoy the book." "Thank you for helpingme find it!" The woman--a redhead with ruddy cheeks and a toothy grin, whom Crysimmediately recognized as a regular customer--clutched the plastic bag bearingthe store's logo to her chest. "My mother read this to me when I was just alittle girl. It's an absolute treasure. And such a good price!" With a bright smile, and a friendly nod in Crys's direction,the woman left the shop with her reasonably priced treasure firmly in hand. "Becca Hatcher--making dreams come true, one book at a time,"Crys said with amusement. She received no response, just an intensified glare as heryounger sister moved from behind the long wooden counter toward the door,sidestepping the books that had piled up and needed to be logged and shelved.She flipped the sign to CLOSED. It smelled musty in here--like old paper and leather. It wasa smell Crys used to love, since it smelled like home, but now she thought theyneeded to give the shop a good airing out. "No greeting for your favorite sister in the whole wideworld?" Crys pressed. "You were supposed to be here two hours ago." Crys shrugged. "I was otherwise occupied. I knew you couldhandle things on your own." Becca groaned. "Unbelievable. You don't even care, do you?" "About what?" "That you . . . you . . ." Becca's cheeks reddened with every sputtered word. If there was onething that could be said about the Hatcher sisters, it was that they didn't trytoo hard to keep their emotions hidden. "I . . . I . . .?" Crys prompted. "What? Forced you to spend two extra hours around yourfavorite objects while Mom's out doing her daily chores?" "You made me miss book club." Crys inwardly cringed. Becca loved her stupid book club likea six-year-old loved gummy bears. "You know, you really should try to find ahobby that has nothing to do with books. Expand and grow. Live a little." Shegestured toward the front window, which looked out at the always-busy BathurstStreet. "There's a whole world out there to discover." "You're right. I do need another hobby," she replied. "MaybeI should take up photography ." She said it as if it were an insult. "Whatever." "You're so much like Dad--you know that?" Becca added. Great , Crys thought. Twist that knife in just a little more . Suddenly, Crys wanted to put down the camera--a Pentax fromthe eighties that took film that had to be developed in a dark room. It wasn'tfancy, and it definitely wasn't digital. The flash had broken long ago and beendiscarded, which, because Crys liked using natural light for her shots anyway,didn't make any difference to her. Instead, she held the device up with one hand while stillcradling a purring Charlie with the other and snapped a picture. Becca raisedher hand to block her face, but it was too late. "You know I hate having my picture taken!" "You should get over that." Crys had found that most peoplehated having their picture taken, which was why she much preferred takingstealth shots of strangers all around the city. She had no idea why Becca wasso camera-shy. The girl could be a model. The lion's share of the good looks inthe family had gone to the younger daughter, a fact Crys tried very hard not tolet bother her. "You're such a jerk. You know that?" Becca replied. "Youonly think about yourself." "Bite me." Despite her bravado, a trickle of guilt souredCrys's stomach, like always. It was definitely time for a subject change. "Didyou know Charlie got outside?" "What?" Becca glanced at the kitten, and her face blanched."I didn't even realize . . . If he'd been hit by a car--" She reached across thecounter so she could gently pet the top of his head. "Oh, Charlie, I'm sorry." "He probably just slipped out with a customer. It's fine.He's fine." The kitten began to squirm, so Crys gently set him down on thefloor. He flicked his tail and sauntered away, down a long aisle of crammedbookshelves toward his favorite napping spot in the mystery section. Becca swept her serious gaze across the front of the storeuntil it fell again on Crys. Her dark blue eyes narrowed, and she cocked herhead as if seeing her sister for the first time today. "You changed your hairagain." Crys twisted a finger around a long pale lock. Normally herhair was a medium ash blond, just like their mother's. A year ago, she'dstarted to dye it whenever she felt a whim, and it had since been black, darkbrown, red, and, for a short time--and much to their mother's dismay--brightpurple. Last night she'd gone platinum blond. Her scalp still burnedfrom the peroxide, and she resisted the urge to scratch it, hoping her hairwouldn't start falling out from the abuse she'd heaped upon it. Although . . . bald might be cool to try out for a while. "Yup," she said. "You like?" "Sure," Becca replied after a moment. "It makes your eyeslook even lighter." "Thanks, I think." Crys didn't know if that was a complimentor simply an observation. She had the same eyes as their father-- icy blue andso pale they nearly lacked any color entirely. Some people said her eyes werespooky. She was okay with this. "Mom'll be back in an hour," Becca said, glancing down ather watch. "Let's get some sushi in the meantime. I'm starving."Walking around all day would do that, and Crys had forgotten to have lunch. "I'm sick of sushi. Let's figure out dinner after we finishwith the store." How could anyone ever get sick of sushi? Crys could happilyeat it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner if given the option. "Fine. Just tellme what to do, boss." "Sort the mail." Becca gestured toward the pile near thefront door. "And I'll . . . I guess I'll shelve these." She grabbed a cardboardbox and hoisted it up onto the counter. "A customer came in and had a bunch ofused children's books she wanted to unload. Mom wasn't here to vet them asquality, so I took them all. I don't know why anyone would want to get rid ofall these books, but I guess it's good for business, right?" "Sure," Crys replied distractedly, eyeing the mail. She'dspotted a suspicious-looking letter at the top of the pile and started walkingtoward it. "Shelve away." The letter was addressed to her mother, and it was fromSunderland High--Crys's school. She ripped it open without a second thought and scanned thecontents, which informed Mrs. Hatcher that her daughter, Crystal, had aquestionable attendance record. She'd missed three weeks' worth of classessince the year began. The principal wanted to meet to discuss her frequentlytruant daughter's choices and how it could put her graduation in June at risk. Crys ripped the letter into tiny pieces and threw it in thegarbage can. She didn't need to graduate with top marks to be a photographer.And ever since her two best friends, Amanda and Sara, had both moved away inthe last six months, classes held no interest for her anymore. She only needed to survive until June to leave school behindher forever. And in seven months she'd turn eighteen. That number meantthe freedom to do whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted. Eighteen meant shecould finally leave Toronto and travel around the world, taking pictures,fleshing out her portfolio, so she could get a job at a magazine such as National Geographic . That was both the dream and the plan. And only a matter ofmonths and the occasional annoying letter from school stood in her way. Along with letters and bills there was a larger parcel,wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. It was covered in what looked likeEuropean stamps. She recognized the sender's handwriting immediately. It was from her aunt Jackie. Again ignoring the fact that the parcel was addressed to hermother, not her, Crys tore off the paper, curious to see what her aunt hadsent. Crys felt it'd been forever since she'd seen or talked to Jackie, wholived in Europe most of the time, exploring and having adventures and romancesand getting into trouble like the free spirit she was. Jackie hadn't graduatedhigh school, either, and her aunt was the coolest and smartest person Crys hadever known. She'd received her education from living life, not from readingtextbooks. "And you've sent us . . ." Crys pulled the object out of thepackaging, her enthusiasm quickly fading. ". . . a book. Hooray." The book did look very old--which meant it might be valuableon the secondhand market. That was one point in its favor. Its cover was smoothbrown leather. Handmade, by the feel of it. It was the size of an old atlas andas thick as a dictionary. As heavy as one, too. It had cost Jackie a smallfortune in postage to send this overseas. Affixed to the cover was a metal relief of a bronze bird,its wings spread in flight. Crys traced it with her index finger. There was no title, and nothing was written on the weatheredspine. A piece of paper fell out as Crys opened the cover. Shesnatched it up off the worn hardwood floor. This is it, Jules. I finally found it.Grandma would be proud. Keep it safe, and I'll be in touch as soon as I can. --J Crys opened the book. It appeared to be a one-of-a-kindtext, similar to the ones ancient monks slaved over all their lives, withdecorative calligraphy, careful penmanship, and intricate paintings. The pagesfelt as fragile as onionskin, but the words inside were crisp and clear, theillustrations of flowers and plants, green landscapes, robed figures, andunfamiliar furry animals as sharp as if they'd been rendered this week. The language, however . . . Crys frowned down at it. Itwasn't recognizable to her. Definitely not Latin. Or Italian. Or Chinese. The alphabet was odd, made up of curls and swashes insteadof discernible letters. There were no breaks between words; the text lookedlike lines of gibberish and nonsense rather than an actual language. But it wasall rendered with a fine hand as if it might make perfect sense to someone,somewhere. Some of the text was printed in gold ink, some in black. Thegold ink shimmered even in the most shadowy areas of the overstuffed shop asCrys walked it back to the children's section, easily navigating the maze-likeshelves without looking up. Becca was there, on her knees, sliding the new books intoplace after noting them in the open ledger beside her. Crys glanced around atthe shelves, which were painted pink and blue and green in this area, ratherthan the standard brown and black in the rest of the store. Kid-sized chairsand a small sofa, both upholstered in bright polka-dotted fabric, were therefor reading comfort. A decade ago, on the wall next to the large, round windowthat made this alcove the brightest part of the shop, her father had painted amural of a fantasy land with a golden castle and two princesses who looked agreat deal like Becca and Crys. The painted words Imagination is Magic curved around the fluffy white clouds in thebright blue sky. Daniel Hatcher used to organize and host readings everySaturday in this kids' nook, free for all children and parents. He always madesure there were drinks and snacks available. Local children's authors wouldvisit and talk to the kids and sign books. And this had also been the placeCrys and Becca had lounged for hours in their childhood, spending time togetherreading and discussing book after book after book. Times had changed. The nook, once a place of magic and fairytales, now looked weathered and old. The only ghosts to be found back here werememories of a different time. "What's that?" Becca asked, drawing Crys out of her reverie. "Good question. Jackie sent it. I don't know what it is, butI hope it's worth big bucks." Becca stood up and brushed some dust off her jeans. "Let mesee it." Crys handed it over, and Becca's eyes widened as she took it. "Wow.It's beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. I wonder how old it is." " Very old," Crysreplied. "That's my professional opinion." Becca sat down on the small sofa and began to carefully flipthrough it. "I wonder what language this is." "No idea whatsoever." "This is like something you'd find in a museum." "Do museums pay lots of money for ancient books no one canread?" This earned Crys a sharp look. "It's not all about money,you know." "Let's go ahead and agree to disagree on that." Becca traced her hand lightly over a fully gold page, thewriting so tiny and cramped that there was barely any of the thin papershowing. The ink shone bright in the light from the window, even as dusk hadstarted to descend over the city. "Don't get your greasy fingers all over it," Crys said."It'll decrease the value." "Quiet." Becca's voice was hollow now, distracted, as shepeered at the pages, her brows drawing together. "What's wrong?" "I don't know." "You look constipated." Becca shook her head, not bothering to respond to Crys'ssmart-ass comment with even a glare. "This book . . . I feel like I can . . . Idon't know. Sense something from it." "Sense something?" Crys laughed and looked up at theceiling. " Spirits, come to us now! Speakto us through the pages of this weird old book. " "Shut up. It's not like that. It's not . . ." "Not what?" Crys prompted when Becca fell silent. Becca's breathing quickened, her chest rising and fallingrapidly. That was alarming. "Becca, what's wrong?" "This book . . ." Becca whispered hoarsely, as if the wordswere getting stuck in her throat. She began to tremble. "It's doing something .. . to me. I can feel it . . . pulling." "Pulling? Pulling what?" In seconds, a chill spread throughCrys, bringing with it a dark and heavy feeling of dread. "You're starting tofreak me out. It's just a dumb book. Give it back to me." She held out her handand waited for her sister to hand it back to her. "Come on! What are youwaiting for?" Becca lurched up to her feet off the small sofa. "I can'tseem to let go of it. I'm trying, but I can't." The golden page began to glow. Crys swore under her breath. What the hell was going on ? She reached forward to grab it out from her sister's grip.The moment she touched the book this time, a violent shock tore through her, asif she'd jammed her hand into a light socket. It knocked her backward, and shefell flat on her back on the far side of the alcove. The wind had been knockedfrom her lungs, and she struggled to find her breath. As fast as she could, shescrambled to her unsteady feet. "Get that thing away from you, Becca!" she gasped. Becca's eyes had filled with the bright golden light fromthe book. "I don't know what's happening. What . . . what is it doing to me?Help me!" Her voice broke with fear. "Please, Crys, help me !" Crys lunged toward her sister just as light started tostream out of the book, momentarily blinding her and making her stagger backagain. She blinked, rubbing her eyes, only to see that sharp beams of thisimpossibly bright light had wrapped around Becca, slithering around her chestand arms and face like a thousand golden snakes. Becca screamed, and the bone-chilling sound drew afrightened shriek from Crys's throat. The book finally dropped from Becca'shands as she crumpled to the floor in a heap next to it. Crys scrambled to Becca's side and grabbed her sister'sshoulders, shaking her. "Becca! Becca, look at me! Look at me!" The golden glow from the book coated her skin and gatheredin her eyes for a moment longer before it finally extinguished. Becca stared straight ahead, her expression slack. "Please!" Crys yelled, shaking her harder. "Please saysomething!" But her sister didn't respond. She stared, she blinked. Shebreathed. But Becca Hatcher was gone--mind and soul. Gone. In an instant. Leaving Crys behind, alone . . . with the book responsible. Chapter2 FARRELL The Raven Club wasn't his favorite bar, but it was the noisiest one he knew.Silence meant thinking. And thinking meant remembering. Tonight he wanted to forget. Half a bottle of vodka also made forgetting a lot easier.And the club offered its fair share of dark-haired beauties to help take hismind off the date on the calendar. "You are very helpful, you know that?" he said to the girl on his lap, weaving his fingersinto her long hair, which was stiff with hair spray. She wore a low cut,sparkly top and a skirt short enough to get her arrested in many places aroundthe world. Luckily, Toronto wasn't one of them. She brushed her lips against his throat. "I aim to please." "Aim a little lower, would you?" "Anything you want." He did another shot and glanced at the time on his phone.Midnight. He'd successfully made it through the third of April. Suddenly, the sickly sweet scent of the girl's floralperfume had begun to chase his buzz away. Girls, thinking it made them smelllike money, piled that garbage on way too thick for his taste. "Enough," Farrell said as he pushed her off his lap. "Oh, come on. We've barely gotten started." She stroked hischest and unbuttoned the top of his white Prada shirt. "Here we are, all alone,just the two of us. It's destiny, baby." He tried not to laugh. "I don't believe in destiny." The private lounge he'd reserved offered a sliver ofprivacy, but Farrell would hardly call them alone .Only twenty feet away, through a shimmering curtain, was the rest of the club.The sound of throbbing music had begun to make his head ache. He'd kill for a cigarette, but he was trying to quit. The brunette had caught his eye when he'd gone to fetch abottle of Grey Goose from the bar. He had no idea how old she was under allthat makeup. Maybe twenty. Maybe thirty. He didn't really care. "The night's still young," he told her. "We have time,Suzie." "It's Stephanie." He gave her one of his best smiles, which never failed towork wonders with difficult females. Right on schedule, her serious expressionfaded and her eyes sparkled with interest. He didn't have many talents, buteffortless charm and a way with women were two of them. Also, the public knowledge of Farrell Grayson's upcominginheritance helped get him all the female attention he'd ever want. One hundred million dollars of his grandmother's vastestate, left to him in her will--with a stipulation: He didn't get his hands onit until he turned twenty-one. Only 576 days till he finally had the freedom to do as hepleased without being caught under his parents' thumbs, totally dependent onhis monthly allowance. "Suzie . . . Stephanie . . . Sexy . . . come back over here,whoever you are," he said, patting his knee. She did as requested, smiling now. Her tongue tasted like rum, he thought absently. And DietCoke. His phone vibrated and he glanced down at it. It was amessage from his kid brother, Adam. im in big trouble can youcome get me It included an address to one of the seedier neighborhoodsdowntown. Another text message swiftly followed: never mind im fine Yeah, right . Farrell slipped the phoneinto the inner pocket of his jacket. He grabbed the bottle of vodka and took aswig from it, feeling the pleasant burn all the way down his throat. Fun was over. Duty called. "Got to go," he said. Stephanie's eyes widened with surprise. "What? Where?" "I need to deal with a family thing." "I'll come with you." "No thanks," Farrell said without hesitation. "Oh, come on." She traced her long fingernails up his arm. "We're having such a good time. You reallywant it to end so soon?" "I really couldn't care less." He kept his smile fixed asher expression fell. "What? You thought this was an open casting call for therole of Farrell Grayson's girlfriend? Sorry to disappoint you." Her surprise faded and her eyes flashed with anger."Asshole. Everything they say about you is true." She got up from his side and stormed out of the lounge,shoving the curtains out of her way, but her arms and hair still got caught inthem in her furious need to make a dramatic exit. Fine with him. He'd never liked the taste of rum anyway. --- Sincehaving his license suspended four months ago, Farrell had had to get used tohaving a chauffeur. It was either that or take public transit--and both of hisparents were appalled by the thought of a Grayson riding the subway. Not that any of this was theirfault; it was entirely his. Wrapping his Porsche around a tree had totaled thecar, landed him with a DUI the family lawyers were still sorting out, and senthim into the hospital with a serious concussion. You're damn lucky you didn'thurt anybody else ,the voice of his conscience snarled. It sounded exactly like his older brother,Connor. All their lives, he'd been the one offering up such pearls of wisdom,whether Farrell wanted them or not. When the limo reached its destination, Farrell, unsteady onhis feet from the amount of liquor he'd consumed, approached a low-rentapartment building. Out front, several of the streetlamps were broken, castingthe treeless area in darkness, apart from the light of the nearly full moon.Shadows moved to his left across the concrete parking lot, but he paid them noattention. He wasn't looking for trouble--not tonight. "Wait here," he told his driver. Farrell went upstairs and knocked on the door to theapartment number Adam had texted. After a moment, it opened a crack. "Sorry, we didn't order any," the kid said with a smirk. Farrell smiled at him, then kicked the door open, breakingthe security chain. "Where's my brother?" The kid scrambled backward. "Hey, I was just kidding around.I was going to let you in. Farrell, right? I'm Peter." He nodded toward thecorner. "That's Nick." The other boy, Nick, watched the two of them warily, takinga shaky step backward as Farrell fisted his hands and moved menacingly towardthe first kid. "Where is Adam?" he growled. "Don't make me ask again oryou'll regret it." "Back room," Peter said, then cleared his throat. "It's coolyou're here. You're welcome to join the party. We don't mind sharing." Farrell moved through the small apartment toward the closeddoor at the rear. It opened before he reached it, and Adam's nervous facegreeted him. "Oh, hi," Adam said. Yes, his brother definitely looked nervous. Nervous and guilty. "What the hell's going on?" "Nothing." Adam rubbed a hand through his light brown hair."I mean, everything's fine. You should go back to whatever you were doing, andI can . . . fix this." "Fix what?" When Adam didn't answer, Farrell shook his head."I'm taking you home. It's after midnight. Isn't that your curfew?" Adam scowled. "I'm too old for curfews." "Our beloved parents might disagree with that. I know theydid when I was sixteen. Let's go." He blew out a breath. Maybe he was takingthe wrong approach. "I got the latest KillerMan movie all loaded up. I know youwant to see it as much as I do." One thing the brothers shared was their love of Koreanaction movies. Never dubbed, always with subtitles. They watched at least one aweek together in the Graysons' home theater. "But the party's not over yet," Peter whined. So these were Adam's new friends. Both of them gave Farrella deeply uneasy feeling. "Party, huh?" he said. "Three kids out late on a Fridaynight in some sketchy apartment. Doesn't seem like much of a party to me." Hewas met with silence, and he returned his attention to Adam. "What's in theroom?" Adam grimaced. He held the door open only wide enough forhim to look at Farrell, not wide enough for Farrell to see beyond. "I told you not to come." "Yeah. Right after you said you were in trouble. What's in the room ?" he repeated. "Nothing." Farrell already felt his hangover circling like amean-spirited vulture. "Show me right now." "Yeah, let's show him." Nick, with a big, sleazy grin on hisface, approached slowly. "The fun just got started. Adam's first, but you cango second, if you'd like." Farrell pushed the door open to reveal a small bedroom. Thebed was unmade, the curtains askew. It smelled sour, like unwashed clothing. An unconscious woman lay on the bed. "Explain," he bit out through clenched teeth. " Now ." "She was looking to party--she just needed a bit of a push."Peter shrugged. "Led the three of us back here before she passed out. It's herplace." She was at least ten years older than the boys. Her redlipstick was smeared, and she smelled like cigarette smoke and alcohol. "Who drugged her?" Farrell asked as evenly as he could, flickinga glance at Adam. "You?" Adam shook his head, his expression bleak. "Did you touch her?" She was still wearing all her clothes,even her panty hose and stiletto heels. But he had to ask. "No," Adam replied in barely a whisper. "He's been in here for half an hour," Peter said with alaugh. "We were getting bored waiting for him to get started." Farrell ignored him, keeping his attention on Adam. "Wereyou going to?" A shadow of fear and uncertainty slid behind Adam's eyes.Nick shook his head, grinning. "We tried to help your brother pop his cherry,and this is what--" Farrell couldn't hold his anger in anymore. He exploded. Hegrabbed Nick by his throat and slammed him against the wall, rattling the cheapframed art. "Listen to me very carefully. If you ever-- ever --get my brother involved in something like this again, I'm goingto kill you--both of you." He sent a death glare toward Peter before returninghis attention to the kid in front of him. "You hear me?" Nick's eyes bugged. "Whoa, wait--" "If you come anywhere near Adam again, I will personallyslit you open and watch your guts spill onto the floor, and I'll enjoy everyminute of it. And if I hear that you ever do this to another woman, you willdeeply, deeply regret it. Understood?" Nick nodded frantically. Peter's acne stood out like brightred dots on his pale face. They both answered in unison: "Understood." Farrell finally released Nick. "Get the hell out of here,both of you." The two boys scrambled to leave the apartment withoutanother word of protest. Adam had pressed himself back against the wall, as if wishinghe, too, could run away. "Farrell . . . I swear I wouldn't have--" "Shut up. Just shut your mouth." He looked down at his handsto find that they were shaking. He clasped them together as he moved toward thewoman on the bed. She groaned and shifted on the sheets. A tacky necklace witha big, fake ruby hung around her neck. Her hair was a brash yellowy blond, withan inch of black roots. Her fake lashes fluttered, and her eyes opened a crack. Adrunken smile stretched her red lips. "Hey, baby. You ready to have some fun?" "I've had my fun for tonight." He grabbed a blanket andpulled it over her. "Sleep it off. You'll feel better tomorrow." He caught another whiff of cigarette smoke. Farrell made amental note to stop somewhere for a pack of smokes. He needed nicotine in theworst way. He'd gone three days without a cigarette. That was more than enough. "Farrell . . . ," Adam began again, his voice choked. "Just tell me why you'd want to get involved in somethinglike this." Farrell didn't look at him as he moved through the apartment towardthe open door. Adam trailed after him like a ghost. "It's been a year tonight, you know that?" Farrell froze. "You're using that as your excuse?" "It was a mistake." "You're damn right it was." He should know what mistakeswere. He'd made so many of them himself he'd lost count. "Ever since Connor died, you've been so distant. Mom and Dad. . . they've practically ignored me. I don't feel like I belong anywhere. AndNick and Peter wanted to be my friends. I know it was wrong--and I know Iwouldn't have done anything to her or let them do anything. But tonight . . .for a moment I felt like I belonged somewhere. Like I had a group to call myown." One year since Connor died . It would be so nice to forget. But it didn't matter how muchhe drank. That image of Connor was always there, burned into his brain. "I get it, kid. I do. The need to belong, to have people todepend on through thick and thin. But losers like Peter and Nick aren't goingto give you that. I know what you need." "What?" "Dad was going to tell you over breakfast, but I'm more thanhappy to spoil the surprise. The next society meeting is tomorrow night, andyou're on the list. You're going to be initiated." Adam gaped at him, his eyes wide. "Are you serious?" "Yup. You're in." "I mean, I know practically nothing about it." Farrell shrugged. "What happens at the Hawkspear Societystays at the Hawkspear Society. But you'll learn soon enough." Adam just stood there, shaking his head in disbelief, beforea gigantic smile spread across his face. "This is amazing." "Congrats." Farrell couldn't help but smile at his littlebrother's exuberant reaction. It wasn't every day that someone got initiatedinto a secret society made up of Toronto's most elite and powerful. Adam had no idea what lay behind those locked doors, butFarrell knew it would most definitely make him feel like he belonged somewhere.Somewhere incredibly special. Somewhere powerful. Somewhere magical . Sixteen was the minimum age for members, but it was stillvery young. Farrell wasn't totally certain his brother was ready for what he'dwitness tomorrow night. But rules were rules. And family was family. Adam Grayson was about to grow up fast. Farrell could onlyhope like hell that he wouldn't end up like Connor. Excerpted from A Book of Spirits and Thieves by Morgan Rhodes All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.