A Book of Spirits and Thieves (Spirits and Thieves #1)(50)

“Becca’s in a coma from touching the book. She started off catatonic, but now it’s turned into a full-blown coma.” A shiver sped down her spine. “The book did it to her. I need to know how to wake her up again.”

His brows drew together. “I’m sorry you have to deal with all this at your young age.”

Crys waved his concern away. “I held the book for as long as she did, and nothing happened to me. Why would it affect her and not me?”

His lips thinned. “I honestly don’t know. I’m sure many people have had physical contact with the book in the past, but this is the first I’ve heard of it having a tangible and negative effect on its handler.”

“So what do we do?”

Dr. Vega riffled through his top drawer, pulled out a lined notebook, and scrawled something into it with a blue pen. His handwriting was nearly as unintelligible as the Codex’s. “I will make haste in my attempt to translate these pages. In the meantime, I’ll try my best to come up with some hypothesis of what’s happened to your sister.”

Anxiety welled in Crys’s chest. “You’ll try your best? I thought you were the expert here. You have to give me more than a maybe.”

“I am the expert. But it doesn’t mean that I know everything about it, especially having only had these photocopies in my possession for less than two weeks. I can’t possibly unravel an enigma like that in such a short amount of time.” His expression softened. “I’m sorry, Miss Hatcher. I wish I could tell you something that would ease your mind.”

Crys stood up, her legs now weak. “Me too.”

Of course she wouldn’t find an answer so easily. Dr. Vega might have a bunch of theories about the book, but if he didn’t know it was capable of doing something like this, he might not be as useful as she’d hoped.

But yet again Markus King’s name had come up in a conversation about the book. The way Jackie and Vega talked about him made him sound terrifying and evil, but it didn’t make sense. Why would her father not only trust him, but also think he was capable of saving the world, if he were such a monster?

It didn’t match up.

“I promise to call as soon as I have more information,” Dr. Vega promised.

All she could do was nod. Just then, there was a knock at his door. Dr. Vega tentatively moved toward it, unlocking it and peering outside. It was a student, asking for time to talk about an assigned paper. Without another word, Crys slipped past them and left the office, her head in a fog.

She’d received so much information, but none of it helped.

Magic languages. Spell books from other worlds. Immortals.

If this were any other week, she might laugh off everything Dr. Vega said as ridiculous ramblings—just another fantasy from one of Becca’s favorite books.

She shoved open the main door and emerged from the Anthropology Building into the cool air. It was overcast again, no blue sky showing at all. The city seemed gray and bleak. And to think, only a week ago little green buds were emerging on flowers and trees. Now it felt as if winter was threatening to return.

A hand on her arm stopped her in her tracks. She turned, finding herself face-to-face with a boy wearing a black leather jacket and a red scarf.

“You know . . . ,” he said. Fashionably messy, mahogany-brown hair, hazel eyes, a killer smile. “You look really familiar to me. Do I know you?”

“I don’t think so.” Although, she had to admit, he also looked vaguely familiar to her, too.

He’d caught her at a moment when she was incredibly close to the edge of her patience, but she didn’t want to take out her frustration on a stranger.

“I’m thinking about taking a few classes here,” the boy said. “I could use some tips from someone in the know. Are you free right now? This might sound crazy or impulsive, but can I buy you a coffee? I’d love the chance to talk to you.”

His smile was charmingly lopsided. He had a mark under his right eye, which some might think marred his looks but which Crys found interesting. His nose seemed a little crooked, as if it had been broken once or twice. But that, combined with the birthmark, kept his face from being too perfect, too symmetrical.

Comparing him with the golden boy from earlier, she found this one much more interesting, and definitely worthy of her camera. She’d love the chance to take his picture.

But not now. Not ever, actually—she had far more urgent needs to focus on.

“I don’t go to school here,” she said. “Sorry.”

“But—”

“Someone else will help you, I’m sure. Good luck.”

Before she turned to walk away, she couldn’t help but notice that his friendly and flirtatious expression had darkened a shade.

It was then that she knew where she recognized him from.

Farrell Grayson—the middle son of one of the richest men in Toronto. She remembered paging through FocusToronto magazine last year and seeing the feature on the Grayson family and their three gorgeous sons. But something was different . . .

The mark under his eye. He didn’t have it in the pictures.

I can’t believe I remember something like that, she thought.

Farrell Grayson, the overprivileged rich kid whose handful of arrests and bad boy ways landed him regularly in the Toronto headlines. Yes, she definitely knew who he was by reputation alone.