The Darkest Magic (A Book of Spirits and Thieves) by Morgan Rhodes Page A

of substance—words, thoughts, images, memories—fell out of her mind as she shut her eyes and braced herself against the sound of Farrell Grayson’s voice.
    Fate indeed.
    As her heart violently played bongos against her rib cage, Crys struggled to remind herself that they were in public. Which was a good thing—nothing bad could happen here. Nobody was going to get hurt.
    Which was too bad, since she really, really wanted to hurt him.
    “Look at her,” Farrell continued, speaking in a mock-lofty tone. “So enraptured by this photo that the rest of the world fades away, becomes meaningless. She’s truly a sight to behold.”
    “I swear to God,” Crys growled, “if you take another step closer to me I’m going to start screaming.”
    “Well, that would be rather embarrassing. For you, of course.”
    Crys finally willed herself to focus enough to cast a glare in his direction. He leaned against the wall, right next to the photo of the old woman, studying Crys as if she were a piece in the exhibit as well. That half smile she’d come to loathe was firmly fixed on his lips.
    “Stalking me, are you?” she said. “Are you on your own this time? Or are you here under order from your lord and master?”
    “
Me
, stalking
you
?” He raised his brow. “And here I thought it was the other way around.”
    Crys scoffed. “Ha! As if it’s a coincidence that you came to this exact show at the exact same time I’m here.”
    “Vanity, thy name is Crystal Hatcher,” Farrell said, shaking his head and gazing around the room. “Actually, I’m here for a friend. And with a friend.”
    “Sure you are.” Crys scanned the crowd, searching for her mother, but she was nowhere to be seen.
Damn.
She knew coming here had been a mistake. “Get away from me.”
    “Are you a fan of this photographer? Or do you just stop by all the shows?”
    “I said,
Get away from me
. What language do I need to say it in for you to understand?” Farrell ignited within her such an odd mix of emotions—fear and hatred, blended with about three times as much sheer annoyance. But she didn’t underestimate how dangerous he was.
    And where was her mother?
    Farrell took his eyes off Crys and set his gaze somewhere behind her. “Andrea!” he called. “Andrea, stop for a sec. I have someone I want to introduce you to.”
    Slowly, her stomach a pit of gravel, Crys turned around. Walking toward them was none other than Andrea Stone.
    “This is Crystal Hatcher,” Farrell said. “She’s quite young but already an accomplished photographer. Crys, this is Andrea Stone.”
    “May I call you Crys too?” Andrea Stone held out her hand, a smile on her ruby red lips. “It’s lovely to meet you.”
    Crys was frozen. She was in front of her idol, with a chance to say anything she wanted, and she had absolutely no idea how to respond.
    Somehow, as if an invisible puppeteer were controlling her muscles, she grasped the hand of her idol.
    “I’m such a fan of your work,” Crys managed to sputter out, still unable to truly believe that it was Andrea Stone herself standing right in front of her.
    “Thank you,” Andrea said. She put a hand on Farrell’s shoulder. “You’re one of Farrell’s friends?”
    Crys knew that her mouth was moving, but words refused to come out.
    “
Close
friends,” Farrell replied with a smirk. “In fact, I don’t mean to brag, but I was the one who convinced Crys to finally try digital photography. She’s a modern girl, but old school in so many ways.”
    “Oh?” Andrea said. “You worked primarily in film before, then?”
    Crys found herself nodding. “It’s how I learned. Black-and-white only. With a manual Pentax from the eighties.”
    “And you develop it yourself?”
    She nodded again, which made her wonder if she’d ever stopped. “In the bathtub. My mom hates it.”
    Andrea grinned. “My mother didn’t like it either—I did the same thing when I was your age. Trust me, Crys, if you want to be a