A Book of Spirits and Thieves - Morgan Rhodes Page 0,68
knowing she’d be furious if she learned Crys had gone to see Dr. Vega behind her back.
Julia Hatcher didn’t like it when her eldest daughter broke the rules.
All day Crys’s thoughts had stewed and simmered as she tried desperately to come up with a plan—something a seventeen-year-old girl who didn’t know anybody important could do to help her sister.
It all came back to Markus and the Bronze Codex.
It had been days since she’d met her father at the AGO. Three days with only silence as she waited for him to reach her with news about meeting the mysterious man in the flesh.
“I’m trying to figure this out,” Crys told Becca in the last few minutes before leaving for the night. “I refuse to sit back and wait for other people to make decisions for you or for me.”
As she headed home, she was distracted by the bright screen of her phone. She was composing another message to her father, which she’d deleted a dozen times, changing a word here and there, then writing it over again and again.
I’m still waiting. And hoping. Call me.
She felt just about ready to press Send. She hoped her message conveyed the right balance of patience and daughterly whimsy. How could he ignore that? And if he came back with a No, my boss won’t meet with you, then at least Crys would have an answer. Besides, her father couldn’t be the only way to get to the society leader.
“Hey, blondie. Nice phone.”
Crys slowed down at the nearby comment and glanced to her left to see a tall boy with dark hair studying her with a smirk.
“Gee, thanks,” she replied drily.
“I need a new phone.”
“Yeah? Then you should probably go to the mall and get one.”
“Let me rephrase that. I need your new phone.”
At first, she didn’t understand what he meant. Her head was in the clouds, so focused on the task of composing her message. “What?”
“And your bag, too.” The boy shrugged. “Now would be good.”
She swept her gaze around to see that, while the sidewalk wasn’t extremely populated, she and her new friend weren’t totally alone, either. This jerk didn’t seem to care that they had an audience. “Go to hell,” she said.
His smirk only got bigger as he came at her, fast, snatching the phone out of her hand and yanking her bag off her shoulder.
She got a hold of her bag and tried to pull it back. “Let go!”
“I’ll break your fingers if I have to, bitch. You let go.”
With another yank, he pulled her leather bag away completely, turned, and began running away.
Crys stared in shock at a couple of alarmed-looking people passing by. “Did you just see that?”
“Be careful,” a woman called to her. “He looks dangerous.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
She started running after the thief. Her phone—not to mention her bag—had her entire life in it. E-mails, texts, bookmarks. Addresses. Photos.
The guy had long legs and he was a fast runner, but she refused to give up that easily. He now had her wallet. Her money, her bank card, her ID.
And her Pentax was in that bag, along with six rolls of undeveloped film.
“Stop, thief!” she yelled, hoping someone might help her before she lost sight of him.
And someone did. Another boy stepped in front of the thief, who staggered to a halt. The new boy grabbed for the fuchsia bag.
She recognized him immediately, even from a distance. It was the boy from the university—the one who’d asked her questions. The rich kid . . . Farrell Grayson.
The thief slammed his fist into Farrell’s face, sending his head snapping to the side.
The thief went to hit him again, but Farrell ducked and punched him in the gut.
Crys caught up to them and jumped the thief, ready to use Aunt Jackie’s “groin and eyeball” self-defense lesson. Her momentum took him down, hard. Her phone dropped to the sidewalk, and the contents of her bag tumbled out. When the thief scrambled to grab it again, she kicked him in the face.
He yelped in pain, covering his nose, and sent a chilling look at her before he took off.
“Yeah, you run!” she yelled after him, outraged. “Run fast, asshole!”
Farrell helped her stuff her wallet, phone, and other items back into her bag. Then he picked up her Pentax, which had smashed against the sidewalk.
It was in pieces.
Time stopped as she registered that her beloved camera had been destroyed.
“No.” Her throat rapidly thickened to the point that she couldn’t swallow. A hot tear