A Book of Spirits and Thieves (Spirits and Thieves #1)(17)

“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.