A Book of Spirits and Thieves (Spirits and Thieves #1)(41)

“This way,” Lucas said, leading Farrell through the dim interior.

The place was huge, at least as large as the Grayson mansion. The floors were stone and the walls plaster, with original oil paintings that looked as if they’d hung there for a century. Just past an archway at the end of a hallway, Farrell’s gaze landed on what appeared to be a massive library where there were floor-to- ceiling bookshelves filled with leather-bound books.

Facing the door, in the center of the room beneath the skylight, was a large, heavy-looking wooden desk. Markus sat behind it, wearing a black business suit, white shirt, red tie. His elbows rested on the desk, and his fingers joined in a steeple before him.

“Come in, Mr. Grayson,” he said, his voice clear and precise. “Thank you, Mr. Barrington. You may wait outside.”

“Yes, sir.” Lucas bowed his head and then left, closing the door behind him.

Farrell wasn’t afraid.

Intimidated, however? Yes, he was definitely that.

He hadn’t been this close to Markus since his first society meeting three years earlier, at which he’d stood on the stage before the audience just as Adam had the other night, with the spotlight in his eyes.

Markus never socialized with the society members after meetings. He didn’t attend the charity functions or political rallies organized by his followers to help shape a better Toronto. He only ever addressed his gathered membership from his lofty position on the theater stage, where he brought forth prisoners and conducted their trials. Once certain guilt had been determined—and it always was—Markus performed the executions himself with his golden dagger, while the rest of the group beared solemn witness. Then he would slip out of sight, like a shadow, while his followers stayed behind and lingered for some time, engaging in whispered conversations that couldn’t be held in broad daylight.

There were so many whispered rumors about the man, the recluse, the genius . . . the god . . . that Farrell couldn’t count them, let alone remember them all and keep rumors straight from what he knew to be the truth.

“Thank you for coming,” Markus said. “I’m honored to have you visit my home.”

“It’s my honor, sir.” A thousand questions rose up in his throat, but he didn’t say any of them aloud. Not yet. He might be reckless and irresponsible at times—well, most of the time—but he knew when to keep quiet.

He wasn’t 100 percent certain about what Markus was that allowed him to have such power, but he didn’t underestimate the man for a single moment.

“I’m sure Lucas has already let you know that I believe you would make an excellent addition to my small, exclusive group.”

Farrell nodded, willing his heart to stop pounding so hard. “Yes. And anything I can do to prove myself to you, sir, I’ll do it.”

“Please, call me Markus. Your being here grants you many privileges that aren’t extended to others in my society. It makes you my friend. Would you like that? To be my friend?”

“I would . . . Markus.” He wisely chose not to blurt out anything about hair braiding or boy gossip. No jokes, he thought.

“Do you think you’re special, Mr. Grayson?”

That was a loaded question if ever he’d heard one, especially now, when he was still sore from his conversation with his mother. Farrell took a moment before answering this powerful man.

“Yes, I do,” he finally said, opting for simplicity.

No elaboration, just confidence. And he hoped his tone conveyed more than he currently felt.

“Good.” There was a smile on Markus’s lips. “I agree. Your brother was also special. It’s unfortunate that he ultimately proved himself unworthy.”

A muscle in Farrell’s cheek twitched, but he bit his tongue so as not to reply, afraid of what he might say. It probably wouldn’t be smart to get in an argument with a potential god of death.

“I know,” Markus went on, “that my speaking this way about your dead brother must seem very disrespectful to you. However, despite any familial loyalty you feel, you must admit that Connor took the coward’s way out of his single, precious life.”

The words stung. “He had his problems.”

Did any of those problems stem from being in your circle? Farrell thought.

“Of course. As we all do. But it’s how we deal with life’s challenges—both internal and external ones—that define us. Do we face them fearlessly, with courage and a sense of justice? Or do we run from them, seeking any easy answer to help hide from the harsh truths of life? Everyone is different, and it’s difficult to tell who’s who until one is tested. Which type are you, do you think?”

The type who likes vodka too much for his own good, he thought. But you’d probably consider that a strike against me. “I don’t hide from anything,” Farrell said aloud.

“And what do you want from this life you’ve been given, Mr. Grayson?” Markus asked. “Many claim that they simply want happiness. Some say they want peace and serenity. Some want money. Power. Sex. Excitement. What is it that you want?”

Farrell would be the first to admit that he hadn’t given his future a whole lot of thought. He scanned the shelves laden with the largest private collection of books he’d ever seen in his life as he considered his reply. “I want to be respected. I want to be powerful. And, yes, I want to be special. I want to leave a mark on this world so no one forgets who I was.”