A Book of Spirits and Thieves (Spirits and Thieves #1)(52)

She wore a black satin dress that was a tad too elegant for an eighteen-year-old on a Tuesday evening, but to each their own.

As they made pleasant conversation, Farrell felt that he was suitably holding up his end of this deal with his mother, even though his mind was a million miles away. Finally they finished with dinner, and then turned down dessert.

“If I eat another bite I’m going to burst,” she claimed.

She’d barely picked at her plate of sea scallops.

Farrell tucked his credit card into the bill holder, not bothering to glance at the amount on the check.

“It’s been so wonderful getting to know you,” she said.

He resisted the urge to yawn. “I couldn’t agree more. I hope to see you again soon.”

“Yes, absolutely.”

He fixed another cool smile on his lips during the drive to her parents’ Rosedale estate. “Till next time,” he said.

“Next time,” she agreed.

“Unless,” he began, “you don’t want this night to end so soon?”

She turned and met his gaze with interest. “You couldn’t stay here tonight. My parents would lose their minds to find a boy in my room—whoever he is. We’d have to go to a hotel.”

He widened his eyes. “Why, Miss Seaton, whatever did you think I was suggesting?”

Her cheeks flushed. “I . . . I mean, I—”

He leaned closer and gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek. “Best to take things slowly, I think. If that’s all right with you.”

“Of course. More than all right.”

He walked her to her front door, said another gentlemanly good-night, and then made his escape.

Girls were all the same. It was so much fun to toy with them.

The unexpectedly wicked thought made him grin.

“She seems nice,” Sam said as he stood by the open back door of the limo.

“Yeah, she’s a peach.” Farrell swung himself into the backseat. “Let’s go get some drinks.”

“I can’t drink, sir. I’m driving.”

“Then you can drink chocolate milk and watch me drink vodka.”

“Very well,” Sam agreed. “Chocolate milk it is.”

On the way to the Raven Club, Farrell decided to check up on his little brother, maybe see if he wanted to catch a late movie.

The phone rang twice before Adam answered.

“Yeah?” he yelled. The music was so loud on the other end that Farrell could barely hear him.

“Where are you?” Farrell asked.

“What?” Adam shouted, and Farrell let out a frustrated sigh.

“Where. Are. You.”

“Firebird! I’m at Firebird with some new friends! They’re great!” Adam’s words were slurred.

Firebird was a new dance club on Lake Shore Boulevard near the exhibition grounds, one that Farrell knew for a fact didn’t cater to the underage crowd.

His grip tightened on the phone. “You’re drunk.”

“You’re, like, psychic! Hey, everyone, my brother is psychic. He knows I’m wasted!”

“I’m coming to get you.”

“Oh, please. Are you seriously giving me a hard time about this? So I’ve had a few drinks and maybe, I don’t know, maybe I did a line or two. I’m having fun.”

A line or two?

Farrell reached forward to knock on the partition, which then rolled down immediately. “Sam, head to Firebird instead.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Adam, stop whatever it is that you’re doing,” Farrell said into the phone. “Go outside and wait for me.”

“No way,” Adam replied. “I’m not going anywhere. Why are you being such a jerk about this? You party all the time. I’m just following in your footsteps. You should be proud of me.”

At the beginning of the call, Farrell thought he’d be furious at his little brother, but a cool sensation flowed over him instead. A calmness that slowed his heartbeat and ramped his senses up. He smelled gasoline, the rubber of the limo’s tires. He could pick out individual voices beyond the blare of music. “I expect better from you, and so do Mom and Dad.”

Adam just laughed and hung up without another word.

Farrell and Sam arrived at the dance club fifteen minutes later.

“You need help?” Sam asked.

“No, stay out here. This won’t take long.”

Farrell entered the club, wincing as the loud dance music assaulted his enhanced sense of hearing after the comparable silence of outside.

Firebird’s decor lived up to its name. Everywhere he looked, he saw flames—painted on the walls, flickering in the gigantic digital displays hanging over the bar, stitched into the fabric of the chairs and sofas. Under the strobe lights, the dance floor was a glittering mosaic depicting a phoenix, its feathers made of fire as it rose from the ashes.

The place was packed, the scents of body odor and cheap cologne assaulting Farrell’s sensitive nose. He scanned the club, trying to hear his brother’s voice and pinpoint his face in the crowd.

And there he was, in the center of the dance floor, grinding against some trashy-looking girl who was at least twice his age.

He made a beeline for Adam and grabbed his arm. “Time to go, kid.”