A Book of Spirits and Thieves (Spirits and Thieves #1)(53)

His brother turned a sullen, unfocused glare on him and yanked his arm away. “I’m not a kid.”

“You’re right. You’re actually acting more like a baby right now.”

“I’m having fun.”

“I don’t care.”

“You can’t make me leave.”

“Sure about that?” He grabbed Adam’s arm again and pulled him off the dance floor. Adam swore and swung his fist but didn’t make contact.

“You’re hurting me,” he yelped.

Farrell let go of him, noticing that his fingers had left red marks on his brother’s arm. “Sorry.”

Adam rubbed the marks. “I don’t know why you’re being such a dick. You do this all the time. You did this when you were my age.”

“Maybe I want better for you.”

“Maybe I don’t care what you want.”

Farrell studied him. The kid’s face was flushed and sweaty, his pupils dilated. He wasn’t just drunk; he was high.

“Who gave you the coke?” he asked, his voice low and even.

“What does it matter? I could get it anywhere, anytime, if I wanted it. As long as Markus doesn’t kill off every drug dealer in the city.”

Farrell glanced around to make sure no one was listening. “I know you’re still having a hard time with what you saw at the meeting, but that’s no reason to lose control of yourself and act so recklessly.”

“That has nothing to do with this.”

“Doesn’t it?” People always turned to vices to escape, to forget. Farrell knew that better than anyone.

Adam was visibly messed up after seeing that execution. Farrell had understood to a point, but now he had no idea why it had affected his brother so deeply, far deeper than it had ever affected him. No other society member he knew of had reacted like this to the trial and Markus’s dagger marking.

Adam sneezed.

“That’s what happens when you stuff white powder up your nose,” Farrell said.

“I think I’m getting a cold. Or the flu. Something’s going around.”

Farrell eyed him, confused. “That’s impossible.”

Adam had been given the gift of Markus’s first mark, which meant he should be in perfect health from now on. He shouldn’t be able to get the common cold ever again.

“What’s happening over here?” A guy Farrell had never seen before joined them, his grin toothy and unpleasant.

“Who are you?” Farrell asked.

“Adam’s good buddy. Michael.” The grin widened. “You’re Farrell, Adam’s brother. Glad to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“How old are you?” Farrell asked, ignoring the introduction.

“Twenty-one.”

“And you’re hanging around with a sixteen-year-old?”

Michael shrugged and slung an arm around Adam’s shoulders. “Adam’s my boy. He’s a part of my pack now.”

“Is he.”

“Come on, man. Let’s go back to my table. I got some candy there I’m happy to share with my friends.”

“Candy.”

“Nose candy. You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I do.”

Farrell grabbed Michael and drove his knee into his gut. Michael let out a grunt of pain, his gaze clouding over with confusion.

All thoughts escaped Farrell’s mind, leaving only cold certainty. This kid had given Adam drugs, encouraged him to use them frequently. To party. To have fun.

And Farrell wanted to kill him.

“Wait, what are you—?” Michael began, but Farrell was there, yanking him to his feet.

“Stay the hell away from my brother. Hear me?” Farrell punched him in the throat.

Michael gasped and sputtered, clutching his neck. As Farrell came at him again, Michael tried to fight back, but he was at a disadvantage.

Senses, strength, clarity.

A cold and precise purpose: Protect Adam.

Farrell threw Michael onto the dance floor, which cleared immediately. The shrieks and yells echoed in Farrell’s ears. His fist connected with Michael’s nose, and he felt it break. Michael screamed.

A few more punches, and the kid collapsed to the ground. Farrell jumped on top of him, hitting him in the face over and over until all he saw was blood.

Someone grabbed hold of his arms to stop him. “You’re going to kill him!”

It was the club’s bouncer. He was strong and managed to drag Farrell up to his feet.

Michael just lay there, convulsing, whimpering.

“Don’t get up,” Farrell warned him.

“Trust me, buddy,” the bouncer said. “He’s not getting up anytime soon.”

Farrell turned a cool, calm look on the bouncer, sizing him up. He was larger than him, taller than him, and looked like trouble.

“Here.” Farrell pulled out his wallet and tucked five one-hundred-dollar bills into the bouncer’s shirt pocket. “Take care of this for me, okay, pal?”

The bouncer grabbed the money, frowning down at the bills.

Farrell didn’t wait for a confirmation. Money talked; it always did.

He grabbed Adam and pulled him out of the club, ignoring the stares from those who’d watched the one-sided fight. He didn’t let go of his brother until they were outside.