A Book of Spirits and Thieves - Morgan Rhodes Page 0,16
everything goes smoothly. Your mother’s concerned that his reaction to his first meeting will be . . . unpredictable.”
His mother was always concerned about something. “How about my first reaction? Was it unpredictable?” Farrell asked.
His father studied him. “You are always unpredictable.”
He decided to take that as a compliment. “I try my best.”
“Adam cannot embarrass himself or this family.” It was Isabelle Grayson’s voice that now sliced between father and son. Farrell glanced at his mother as she approached, her four-inch Louboutin pumps clicking on the marble floor. Her jet-black hair was pulled into a tight coil at the nape of her neck. Her lips were bright crimson, her eye makeup applied flawlessly. She wore a dark blue gown that brushed the floor and diamonds on her wrist, fingers, neck, and ears.
Her current expression held no discernible emotion. That could be because of her chilly personality or her most recent visit to her favorite Botox syringe, Farrell thought.
“He won’t,” Farrell said. “Adam will be fine.”
“I hope you’re right.” His mother swept her appraising gaze over him before moving down the staircase. Farrell watched her go with a tight feeling in his chest.
“Son . . . ,” his father said, his voice softening a fraction. “Are you all right?”
Farrell blinked, glancing at him sideways. “Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”
A shadow crossed his father’s concerned face. “You’ve been very quiet this week, which is unlike you. The anniversary of . . . well, it’s been difficult for all of us, of course, but I know, for you, having found him like that, it must be—”
“I’m fine,” Farrell bit out, shuttering up his emotions as best he could. Numb was best. Numb was always best. He felt the reassuring weight of the silver flask in his pocket. “We should go. Wouldn’t want to be late, would we?”
Adam’s face fell as soon as they got out of the limo.
“It’s just a restaurant,” he said blandly.
“Yes.” Their father’s eyes sparkled at the sight of the five-star restaurant where their attire wouldn’t seem out of place in the slightest. “One of my favorites, actually.”
“So, what? Do they reserve a room at the back for us? Like a birthday party?”
Farrell smirked. “Just wait till you see the balloon animals.”
“Enough talking.” Their mother’s words were clipped. “Be silent. Eyes forward. Consider yourself blessed to have been allowed this opportunity at your young age, and don’t embarrass me.”
Adam clamped his mouth shut and met Farrell’s gaze. The two nearly started to laugh. They might be unpredictable, but their mother certainly wasn’t.
They entered the restaurant, practically vacant at nearly midnight. The familiar hostess’s eyes flicked to their golden pins before she nodded.
“This way,” she said, gesturing toward an elevator that slid open at the end of a short hallway. No party room or balloon animals in sight.
Adam kept quiet now, watching and waiting, as they got on the elevator together without a word. The doors closed, and they began moving down.
It wasn’t very long before the doors opened again.
The hallway had fluorescent lights set into the ceiling about every fifteen feet. If Farrell stretched out his arms, he would easily be able to touch both sides of the narrow corridor. They walked two-by-two, parents in front, brothers in the rear.
Farrell had expected something much different than this on his initiation night—perhaps thick stone walls covered in mold and mildew, lit by blazing torches, leading to a cavernous hall with mysterious strangers in hooded robes. The scent of ancient traditions and history itself in the musty air.
Instead, he got something much less medieval and much more modern. This hallway reminded him of a narrower version of the city’s PATH system: a maze of underground tunnels connecting the subway to stores and buildings in the business district so that commuters could avoid the slush and ice whenever possible during Toronto’s harsh winters.
But this wasn’t the PATH. These hallways were privately owned and maintained. Only a privileged few ever got to see these walls. But it was a maze of tunnels that led to many different places—or so he’d heard. So far, he’d only used them to travel from the restaurant to the society’s inner sanctum.
Left turn, right turn, right, left, left . . . and so on. Farrell had never bothered to fully learn the route himself, because his parents had always been there to guide him.
“How far until we get there?” Adam asked.
“Not very,” Farrell replied. Up ahead, he could see some other members headed to the same