A Book of Spirits and Thieves (Spirits and Thieves #1)(39)

“It’s time, is it?” Farrell said. “Cryptic, much? Is there a secret handshake I should memorize before I leave the house?”

Lucas snorted softly. “Always with the jokes. I’d probably curb that tendency a bit tonight if I were you. Markus’s sense of humor is . . . singular.”

Whatever that meant. “I’ll be on my bestest behavior—cross my heart,” Farrell said.

“You don’t have to be nervous.”

“Do I sound nervous to you?”

“I would be, if I were you.” Lucas told him where to meet in half an hour.

Farrell left the mansion and directed his driver to the address, which was a large cathedral on the west side of the city that looked more like a castle, with tall spires and towers and stained glass windows that sparkled despite the overcast day.

“Shall I wait here for you?” Sam, his driver, asked.

Farrell had tried very hard not to start to like him, or even get to know him. Sam, who was somewhere in his midtwenties, had been hired as a temporary solution to the problem that was Farrell Grayson’s lack of a driver’s license. But Farrell would be back in a brand-new Porsche the first moment that the lawyers sorted out his DUI, and then Sam would be nothing more than a distant memory.

“Don’t make friends with the hired help,” his mother had shrilly told him a decade ago when she’d caught him playing with one of the maid’s kids.

But Sam had been a huge help in the last few months, and it was hard not to think of him as a friend, rather than just someone his parents paid to drive him around.

Farrell smiled as he recalled a conversation from a recent night out.

“Ever think about, oh, I don’t know, not drinking?” Sam had asked as he waited for Farrell to stop puking at the side of the road.

“I’ve thought about it,” Farrell had replied, wiping his mouth. “And . . . nah.”

“Just asking.” Sam grinned and shook his head. “It’s your liver.”

Sam was reliable and friendly and went above and beyond to help him out. Farrell appreciated that more than he’d ever admit out loud.

“No, Sam. Don’t bother waiting, since I have no idea how long I’ll be,” Farrell said now. “Go get yourself some dinner. I’ll call when I’m all done.”

Not one minute after Sam had driven off, Lucas approached Farrell on the sidewalk. He offered his hand, and Farrell grasped it and shook it.

“You ready for this?” Lucas asked.

“Hell yeah.” Farrell eyed the intricate building and gestured up at it. “Do I need to confess my sins first? I admit—it’s been a while, and I have quite a few.”

Lucas grinned. “Follow me.”

He led Farrell around to the back of the cathedral, where they found what looked like an unmarked subway entrance blocked off by construction tape and wooden panels. He shoved away a panel, which revealed a trapdoor beneath.

“After you,” Lucas said after lifting the door.

Farrell raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Looks dark down there.”

“Yes. Very dark.” Lucas waited patiently, as if issuing an unspoken challenge. Are you a coward, Grayson? Or are you worthy?

“Let’s do this,” Farrell mumbled, then stepped through the trapdoor, grappling in the darkness to find the stairs. He braced himself with his hand against the cool concrete wall as he slowly began his descent. The door slapped back down into place as Lucas fell into step behind him.

“It’ll just take a few moments for my eyesight to adjust,” Lucas said. “Then I can get us where we need to be pretty quickly.”

“Yeah, sure. My eyes will take a minute, too.”

“Not like mine. Not yet, anyway.”

“Oh, I love it when you talk in riddles. It gives me tingles.” Farrell kept moving down the stairs, taking them slowly so he wouldn’t fall and twist his ankle. Finally he reached what he was pretty certain was the ground floor. He saw the glow of fluorescent light from about fifty feet ahead and he followed Lucas in that direction.

“So how many are in this circle?” Farrell asked, trying to make conversation to distract himself from thoughts about the unknown destination before him.

Lucas shook his head. “I can’t talk details with you. Not till you’re officially in.”

“What happens then? Do I get a prize? A chest tattoo of, I don’t know, a hawk and a spear?” The prospect of getting a tattoo didn’t bother him. He already had two. One—a quote from his favorite Korean action movie (in Korean, of course)—Bright is life. Dark is death.—on his left side over his ribs. And on the inner bicep of his right arm, he’d gotten a crown to remind him that he was the king of his own life, that no one controlled him.

“No tattoo,” Lucas said. “You’ll see.”

“You’re so helpful. Anyway,” Farrell started, ignoring Lucas’s ban on questions, “who got into the circle first? You or Connor?”

“Me. I was invited two months before Connor was. I suggested him, actually, but Markus had already been considering him.”

“Did he handle it well? Being chosen like that?”

“I thought he did.”

“He had started to become a real prick before . . .” Farrell had to force himself to say it. “Before he died. It was like his personality did a one-eighty.”