A Book of Spirits and Thieves (6 page)

“She sounds so shiny that I’d need sunglasses to date her.”

“I’ve set up a dinner for the two of you at seven o’clock, Tuesday evening at Scaramouche.”

Before he could protest, the lights began to dim and the theater
went silent. A spotlight shone down on the brocade curtains as they parted to reveal the figure of a man. Like all the men here, he wore a tailored tuxedo that perfectly fit his tall frame.

“Who is that?” Adam whispered to Farrell.

“Our illustrious leader, Markus King,” he whispered back.

Adam’s eyes widened. “Seriously?
That’s
our leader?”

“Uh-huh.”

Markus King, the leader and cofounder of the Hawkspear Society, an organization that had existed for sixty years. A man who stayed out of the public eye and who cherished his absolute privacy, trusting very few.

Those who saw him for the first time always had the same reaction: disbelief followed by complete awe. Farrell had formed his own expectations as a young initiate. He’d imagined a wise, old man who watched over his society and its members with sharp eyes and no sense of humor.

Or, perhaps, a senile, old man who muttered to himself, and whom no one wished to upset by asking him to step down from his place of power after six decades to make way for a newer, younger leader.

Farrell quickly learned that Markus King could not be summed up by the naive expectations of a sixteen-year-old mind.

Tonight, he regarded their enigmatic leader with bottomless curiosity about what their private meeting would entail.

“How old is he?” Adam asked, his voice hushed.

“No one knows for sure.”

Markus had bought this theater soon after he’d arrived in Toronto. In the 1950s, he closed it down, choosing not to reopen it to the general public. To anyone walking along the street, the theater would appear as nothing more than a sad old building. This was one
of the reasons why it was accessed by the tunnels. If anyone noticed that two hundred men and women in tuxedos and evening gowns were entering an abandoned theater once every three months at midnight, there might be some difficult questions asked.

“I welcome you, brothers and sisters,” Markus began. The acoustics of the theater helped make his deep voice all the more majestic. “I welcome you, one and all, with open arms. Thank you for coming here tonight. Without you, I would not be able to share my knowledge and my miraculous gifts. Without you, there is no past and there is no future. Without you, I would be lost in a sea of enemies. Together we are strong. Together we can make a difference in this world today, tomorrow, and always.”

It was the credo of the society, which everyone repeated in unison: “
Today, tomorrow, and always.
”

In all the meetings he’d ever attended, Farrell had never paid as close attention to the standard greeting as he did now. This powerful man had chosen Farrell to join his inner circle—just as he’d chosen Connor. Before his suicide, Connor had kept this secret—even from his own brother, with whom he once shared everything. What did it mean?

“Spring beckons in this great city, a season that promises new beginnings, fresh starts,” Markus continued. “We will begin tonight, as always, with a report of our plans for the next few months.”

He called up several members to the stage to speak, including Gloria St. Pierre, a woman who practically dripped diamonds in her wake. She spoke about an upcoming charity ball all members would attend and beseeched them to invite friends to buy pairs of expensive tickets, whose proceeds would go toward grants for struggling artists.

Farrell usually tuned out the first half hour of these meetings,
but tonight he tried—emphasis on
tried
—to remain present and attentive.

Once Gloria was finished, Bernard Silver, the owner of a popular string of local coffee shops, spoke of a meeting he’d had with the mayor of Toronto. Bernard had attempted to sway him on a policy that would pull funding from several homeless shelters, and he was proud to say that he had been successful.

“Charity and politics?” Adam said to Farrell under his breath. “Is that all this is about?”

“It’s a large chunk, but not all. Just wait. The boring part’s almost over.”

It was a rule that new members were not supposed to be told about the inner workings of a meeting before their first visit. Farrell wasn’t a fan of rules, but he knew which ones not to break.

He valued his membership more than any of his many possessions. And he knew Adam would, too.

Once Bernard finished speaking, Markus again took center stage.

“We have a new member joining our numbers tonight,” he said. “Adam Grayson, please stand.”

With a nervous glance, prompting a nod of encouragement from Farrell, Adam rose to his feet. The spotlight moved to light his face, and he blinked from the glare of it. The members seated behind Farrell began to murmur with approval about the handsome, young Grayson boy.

“Join me onstage, Adam,” Markus said, beckoning to him.

All went silent, except for Farrell’s loud heartbeat, which hammered in his ears as he watched his brother move toward the side of the stage, climb the six steps up, and walk over to stand next to the society’s leader.

The real meeting was about to begin.

“Welcome, Adam,” Markus said, then gave a dramatic pause, “to the Hawkspear Society.”

“Thank you, sir.” Adam’s voice remained strong.

Farrell felt a burst of pride, which helped ward off the whisper of uneasiness circling his gut.

“Have you been told anything about what we do here?” Markus asked.

“No, sir. Nothing.”

“But you are aware that this organization must remain hidden from the world at large.”

“Yes, sir.”

“These people”—Markus spread his hands out toward the audience—“are essential to my life’s mission. They have seen the truth that my existence brings with their own eyes, and they know it is important, that it is the most crucial gift I can contribute to this world.”

Adam didn’t reply right away. It was, after all, a rather cryptic statement.

After a moment, he found his voice. “What is it that you do, sir?”

“My purpose . . . my mission, Adam . . . is to help protect this world from evil—true evil—that would do irreparable harm without my interference. Eradicating that evil helps to shine a light on that which is good. You’ve heard much talk of that already tonight: charity balls, politics with purpose, the building and nurturing of strong relationships. We take a stand, collectively and separately, to do what we can to make a positive difference in this city and also work toward protecting the world at large. And what we do here, at these meetings, is essential to bringing us together as one mind, one heart. One purpose.”

He paused, as if leaving space for a question. Had Farrell been unaccustomed to how Markus spoke, he would have likely laughed out loud at such grandiose speeches that didn’t answer any questions in a completely satisfying way.

Perhaps Markus had been a politician in a previous life.

Adam’s brow was furrowed. “How exactly do you protect the world from evil, sir?”

Markus nodded as if to acknowledge an excellent question. “When I first came to this city sixty years ago, I met a man who befriended me when I was alone and had no one. By the time I met him, he had already begun undertaking the insurmountable task of protecting this city. Together we formed the Hawkspear Society. A hawk, because it watches from high above. It sees all—nothing escapes its attention. And a spear, the weapon that, to us, represents protection and defense. We are an organization committed to truth and justice.”

Adam sent an uncertain glance at Farrell, who nodded, trying to will strength toward his brother.

You can handle this, kid. Don’t be nervous.

“Watch,” Markus said. “Observe. And then decide if you are ready to be a part of my mission from this day forward.”

Two of Markus’s helpers—perhaps they were also part of his inner circle, Farrell thought—led a bound, gagged, and blindfolded man to the center of the stage. He had black hair that was graying at the temples and wore a dirty T-shirt. His face had a week’s worth of stubble on it. One of the helpers removed the gag and blindfold. The man’s dark, glittering eyes scanned the silent audience with both confusion and outrage.

“Where the hell am I?” he demanded, squinting at the bright spotlight.

“Tonight,” Markus said, walking a slow circle around him, “John Martino, forty-eight years old, appears before us. A man who has been in and out of prison since he was eighteen.”

“So you know who I am.” John eyed Markus with disdain, then glared at the two men who stood on either side of him like silent sentries. He turned back to Markus. “Who are you?”

Markus ignored him, keeping his gaze fixed on his audience. “John is an executive in a very profitable industry—the illegal drug trade. Twenty dealers work under him. He supplies them with product, which they push on the streets to addicts and other victims of substance abuse. One of his recent shipments of ecstasy was laced with arsenic—”

“I had nothing to do with that!” John protested.

“—which caused the deaths of six people, including the daughter of one of our loyal members. After an investigation by the grieving father, her possession of the drug was linked to you, Mr. Martino. My loyal colleague asked that you be tried for your crimes here, tonight, so you will not harm anyone else in the future. Do you deny what you’ve done? Do you accept your guilt and your punishment? Only then can you be purged of the evil that taints your mortal soul.”

“Who are you?” John’s expression had grown even more wary. “You’re not the police. This isn’t a court of law.”

“The girl who died—the girl you
murdered
—had a bright future. She wanted to be a doctor, who would have made a difference in this world someday. She was only fifteen years old.”

“She was the one who swallowed the pill. She made her choice.”

“And you’ve made yours—over and over again.” Markus paused and then turned to address his members. “How many murders is this monster responsible for? Dozens? Hundreds? Thousands?
And how many more will he be responsible for if we were to set him free without answering for his crimes?”

“Just give me the chance,” John snarled. “You’re next, you son of a bitch.”

“Pass your judgment,” Markus instructed the audience.

Silence fell over the theater.

A moment later, a man in the front row stood up. “Guilty,” he said.

Slowly, others stood and repeated the word. Another moment later, many more rose together, including Farrell and his parents, their voices rose in unison.

“Guilty.”

Markus glanced at Adam, who was watching all this with wide eyes. “And you, Adam? What is your verdict?”

Adam looked at John, really looked at him for a long searching moment. John stared back at him, as if trying to intimidate the kid. Then John threw his head back and laughed, the sharp sound cutting through the silence.

“You’re just a little kid, aren’t you? What, your babysitter wasn’t available tonight?”

Adam’s eyes narrowed. “Guilty,” he said.

“Great!” John was still laughing. “Guilty, guilty, guilty. How about I get a lawyer and sue all your asses for kidnapping me?”

Markus regarded the audience. “How can I protect the world from the darkness this murderer brings with him wherever he goes? The harm he dispenses with every selfish choice he makes? How shall John Martino be punished here tonight? What will cleanse him of the evil inside him that darkens this world wherever he goes?”

“
Death
,” the audience said in unison. Farrell felt the word leave his lips as it had at every meeting before.

This man before them was evil. Judgment had been passed by the Hawkspear Society.

And that judgment was final.

“What? What are you talking about?” John now struggled against the men who held him firmly in place. “Let me go!”

Markus approached him slowly, reaching beneath his jacket to pull out a golden dagger.

“I free you from this life of pain,” Markus preached to John. “I free you from this life of darkness. You can rest now. You will never harm anyone else ever again.”

“Wait, what is this? You can’t—!”

Markus thrust the dagger into the man’s chest. John gasped in pain and shock, then shrieked as Markus twisted the blade.

“Blood for blood, death for death,” Markus said, yanking the dagger from the man’s flesh.

“
Blood for blood, death for death
,” the society repeated.

John dropped to his knees, staring up at Markus. For a moment, it looked as if he were a wounded peasant kneeling before a conquering king, begging for mercy.

Then he fell to his side, blood welling next to him in a shallow crimson puddle.

Farrell felt it then, the same powerful sensation that overcame him four times a year after each execution.

Magic—Markus’s magic—strengthened by the spill of blood.

It charged the room like a whisper of electricity, raising the hair on Farrell’s arms and the back of his neck. It brought with it a sense of serenity, of righteousness. Of power.

“It is done,” Markus said solemnly. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the blood from the blade.

Farrell’s gaze shot to Adam to see his reaction to witnessing
a public execution with no prior warning. His brother’s face was unreadable, but he stood rigidly, fists clenched at his sides, his attention fixed on the dead body.

“Adam Grayson,” Markus said solemnly. “Will you accept the invitation to join my society as an official member, and in that capacity, will you agree to contribute heart, body, and mind to my mission to protect this world from evil? Will you keep our secrets and do all you can to serve the Hawkspear Society? Will you accept that the sacrifices made here are symbols of our focus on the greater good of this city, this country, and this world?”

Adam hesitated for only a moment. Then he raised his chin and, without looking in Farrell’s direction again for encouragement, spoke the words that would seal his destiny.