followed by complete awe. Farrell had formed his own expectations as a young initiate. He’d imagined a wise, old man who watched over his society and its members with sharp eyes and no sense of humor.
Or, perhaps, a senile, old man who muttered to himself, and whom no one wished to upset by asking him to step down from his place of power after six decades to make way for a newer, younger leader.
Farrell quickly learned that Markus King could not be summed up by the naive expectations of a sixteen-year-old mind.
Tonight, he regarded their enigmatic leader with bottomless curiosity about what their private meeting would entail.
“How old is he?” Adam asked, his voice hushed.
“No one knows for sure.”
Markus had bought this theater soon after he’d arrived in Toronto. In the 1950s, he closed it down, choosing not to reopen it to the general public. To anyone walking along the street, the theater would appear as nothing more than a sad old building. This was oneof the reasons why it was accessed by the tunnels. If anyone noticed that two hundred men and women in tuxedos and evening gowns were entering an abandoned theater once every three months at midnight, there might be some difficult questions asked.
“I welcome you, brothers and sisters,” Markus began. The acoustics of the theater helped make his deep voice all the more majestic. “I welcome you, one and all, with open arms. Thank you for coming here tonight. Without you, I would not be able to share my knowledge and my miraculous gifts. Without you, there is no past and there is no future. Without you, I would be lost in a sea of enemies. Together we are strong. Together we can make a difference in this world today, tomorrow, and always.”
It was the credo of the society, which everyone repeated in unison: “
Today, tomorrow, and always.
”
In all the meetings he’d ever attended, Farrell had never paid as close attention to the standard greeting as he did now. This powerful man had chosen Farrell to join his inner circle—just as he’d chosen Connor. Before his suicide, Connor had kept this secret—even from his own brother, with whom he once shared everything. What did it mean?
“Spring beckons in this great city, a season that promises new beginnings, fresh starts,” Markus continued. “We will begin tonight, as always, with a report of our plans for the next few months.”
He called up several members to the stage to speak, including Gloria St. Pierre, a woman who practically dripped diamonds in her wake. She spoke about an upcoming charity ball all members would attend and beseeched them to invite friends to buy pairs of expensive tickets, whose proceeds would go toward grants for struggling artists.
Farrell usually tuned out the first half hour of these meetings,but tonight he tried—emphasis on
tried
—to remain present and attentive.
Once Gloria was finished, Bernard Silver, the owner of a popular string of local coffee shops, spoke of a meeting he’d had with the mayor of Toronto. Bernard had attempted to sway him on a policy that would pull funding from several homeless shelters, and he was proud to say that he had been successful.
“Charity and politics?” Adam said to Farrell under his breath. “Is that all this is about?”
“It’s a large chunk, but not all. Just wait. The boring part’s almost over.”
It was a rule that new members were not supposed to be told about the inner workings of a meeting before their first visit. Farrell wasn’t a fan of rules, but he knew which ones not to break.
He valued his membership more than any of his many possessions. And he knew Adam would, too.
Once Bernard finished speaking, Markus again took center stage.
“We have a new member joining our numbers tonight,” he said. “Adam Grayson, please stand.”
With a nervous glance, prompting a nod of encouragement from Farrell, Adam rose to his feet. The spotlight moved to light his face, and he blinked from the glare of it.
Or, perhaps, a senile, old man who muttered to himself, and whom no one wished to upset by asking him to step down from his place of power after six decades to make way for a newer, younger leader.
Farrell quickly learned that Markus King could not be summed up by the naive expectations of a sixteen-year-old mind.
Tonight, he regarded their enigmatic leader with bottomless curiosity about what their private meeting would entail.
“How old is he?” Adam asked, his voice hushed.
“No one knows for sure.”
Markus had bought this theater soon after he’d arrived in Toronto. In the 1950s, he closed it down, choosing not to reopen it to the general public. To anyone walking along the street, the theater would appear as nothing more than a sad old building. This was oneof the reasons why it was accessed by the tunnels. If anyone noticed that two hundred men and women in tuxedos and evening gowns were entering an abandoned theater once every three months at midnight, there might be some difficult questions asked.
“I welcome you, brothers and sisters,” Markus began. The acoustics of the theater helped make his deep voice all the more majestic. “I welcome you, one and all, with open arms. Thank you for coming here tonight. Without you, I would not be able to share my knowledge and my miraculous gifts. Without you, there is no past and there is no future. Without you, I would be lost in a sea of enemies. Together we are strong. Together we can make a difference in this world today, tomorrow, and always.”
It was the credo of the society, which everyone repeated in unison: “
Today, tomorrow, and always.
”
In all the meetings he’d ever attended, Farrell had never paid as close attention to the standard greeting as he did now. This powerful man had chosen Farrell to join his inner circle—just as he’d chosen Connor. Before his suicide, Connor had kept this secret—even from his own brother, with whom he once shared everything. What did it mean?
“Spring beckons in this great city, a season that promises new beginnings, fresh starts,” Markus continued. “We will begin tonight, as always, with a report of our plans for the next few months.”
He called up several members to the stage to speak, including Gloria St. Pierre, a woman who practically dripped diamonds in her wake. She spoke about an upcoming charity ball all members would attend and beseeched them to invite friends to buy pairs of expensive tickets, whose proceeds would go toward grants for struggling artists.
Farrell usually tuned out the first half hour of these meetings,but tonight he tried—emphasis on
tried
—to remain present and attentive.
Once Gloria was finished, Bernard Silver, the owner of a popular string of local coffee shops, spoke of a meeting he’d had with the mayor of Toronto. Bernard had attempted to sway him on a policy that would pull funding from several homeless shelters, and he was proud to say that he had been successful.
“Charity and politics?” Adam said to Farrell under his breath. “Is that all this is about?”
“It’s a large chunk, but not all. Just wait. The boring part’s almost over.”
It was a rule that new members were not supposed to be told about the inner workings of a meeting before their first visit. Farrell wasn’t a fan of rules, but he knew which ones not to break.
He valued his membership more than any of his many possessions. And he knew Adam would, too.
Once Bernard finished speaking, Markus again took center stage.
“We have a new member joining our numbers tonight,” he said. “Adam Grayson, please stand.”
With a nervous glance, prompting a nod of encouragement from Farrell, Adam rose to his feet. The spotlight moved to light his face, and he blinked from the glare of it.
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