A Book of Spirits and Thieves (Spirits and Thieves #1)(29)

Weakness was unacceptable. The weak didn’t survive very long—not in the society, not in the world at large.

He hated that Adam’s attitude this morning had started questions coursing through his own head, questions that had faded in the time since he’d been initiated.

Who was Markus King? Who was he really? Where had he come from? And how was he able to do the things he did?

Maybe he’d learn the truth if Markus accepted him into his inner circle.

The thought sent a shiver of anticipation down his spine.

“Always keep one thing clear in your head, Adam. The magic that Markus can do—it’s for good.”

“Good magic. Public executions. Prophecies. Gods of death.” The pain and doubt on Adam’s face had swiftly been replaced by fierceness. “Do you even hear yourself? Taking the law into your hands, whether you’re waving around a magic knife or not, isn’t good. It doesn’t make him any less evil than that guy he had on the stage.”

Farrell rubbed his temples. It was too early for this talk, and it had succeeded in making his hangover that much worse. This conversation was pointless, but he had to keep trying. He didn’t want his little brother to get himself in trouble by asking too many questions.

He narrowed his eyes and threw some fierceness back at Adam. “It’s over. You need to accept that you made a binding agreement to the man who gave you this.” He squeezed Adam’s forearm and his brother gasped in pain. Even though there wasn’t a scar or mark, Farrell remembered how extremely tender his wound had been for weeks afterward. “You’re going to screw it up, for yourself and for all of us, if you don’t get a grip on yourself. Hear me?”

Adam’s face had gone pale, his dark eyes standing out like burning coals. “I’m done talking about this.”

“You might be pissed at me right now, but I’m here for you whenever you need me. I’m your brother. I’ll always be your brother. Remember that, okay? Now quit this sick act and get to school before Dad comes in and dishes it out way worse than me.”

Farrell left the room feeling furious and helpless and like he’d only made Adam feel worse than he already did.

He made his way down the hallway, then froze as he reached a closed door at the end. He eyed it before trying the handle. It was unlocked.

He pushed the door open and glanced inside Connor’s old bedroom. He felt at the wall for the light switch and flicked it on.

His mouth went dry.

This was where Farrell had found him, lying on that bed. Now it was made, its sheets and duvet perfect and pristine.

A year ago, they’d been covered in blood.

Other than that, the room was exactly the same. Even Connor’s art, including an unfinished oil painting propped on an easel by the window that looked out at the back garden of their Forest Hill estate, hadn’t been changed. It was a shrine to the firstborn Grayson. The perfect son. Talent, looks, intelligence—a triple threat. That was his big brother.

He went to the easel and looked at Connor’s last painting.

If there was one flaw the eldest Grayson kid had, it was vanity. His paintings were almost always self-portraits.

Connor had been painting this one as if it were a Renaissance commission by a king or a wealthy lord. Chiseled jawline, curved lips, straight nose, and hair the same shade of brownish-black as Farrell’s—only Connor wore his hair long, to his shoulders. Black eyebrows slashed over hazel eyes that, even though they were created with dabs of paint, seemed to pierce Farrell right through his soul.

“Miss you, brother,” he whispered. “Miss you bad.”

“I always thought it was his best piece.” A voice startled Farrell, and he turned to see that his mother had entered the room, her gaze fixed on the canvas. “It seems to come alive the more you stare at it, doesn’t it?”

He was surprised that she’d greeted him like this instead of with harsh words about his daring to enter her shrine to her lost firstborn. “He was talented,” he said.

“I know he would have become a very famous artist.” Her brows drew together a fraction, but then she shook her head a little and a cool smile stretched across her lips. Her attention remained on the canvas, as if she could reach in and stroke the hair back from her eldest son’s forehead. “One year. I can’t believe it’s been that long. I sensed his deep sadness after he and Mallory ended their relationship. If I’d known his heartbreak was so great, I would have made an appointment for him with my therapist. I could have stopped him from doing something so final.”

A trip to the therapist was his mother’s standard solution for any emotional conundrum.

“Why didn’t he finish it?” Farrell asked. There was no background behind the painted figure, only white canvas. Pencil marks showed what he’d meant to paint. A window. A sky. A wall.

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

He stared into his brother’s painted eyes. “The Connor Grayson I knew always finished what he started. The Connor I knew never would have taken his own life, either. He loved life.”

She looked at him sharply. “Until he didn’t love it anymore. We change just like the seasons change. He wasn’t any different.”

“Don’t you ever think there could be another explanation for what happened?”

“No,” she said with finality. “He was a sensitive artist who had his heart broken. He chose to take his own life when he fell into despair. Over the last year, I’ve accepted that that’s what happened. For you to question it . . .” Her lips pressed tightly together. “It’s too painful.”