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

don’t you think?”
    Her smile fell. “Excuse me?”
    “I’m all for gender equality, but
Why don’t I buy the next round?
Pathetic. Bye now.”
    She stared at him for a moment, eyes narrowed then widened in shock, before she turned around and returned to her friend in the corner.
    “Grumpy, are we? Is some meaningless girl’s opinion really enough to dent that fragile ego of yours? Or are you just having a bad night?”
    Farrell’s subconscious had been talking up a storm lately, and unfortunately it had chosen the familiar voice of his dead brother, Connor.
    He pushed a twenty-dollar bill toward the bartender, who poured him another drink.
    “
Don’t make the same mistake I did, kid
,” not-Connor said.
“Plaster on acharming smile whether you mean it or not. Make them know you don’t care.”
    “I don’t,” he mumbled.
    “Remember, you want a girl who wants you for more than your bank account or your looks. She should value your shining personality and kind heart.”
    Farrell couldn’t help but chuckle at that. He raised his glass. “To Connor Grayson, long may that dumbass’s gift for sarcasm haunt me.”
    But his dead brother’s advice did help bring him back to the present. He’d come here to have fun, and that was what he was going to have. He got up and went to a nearby table and, despite the many protests hollered by its occupants, climbed on top of it.
    “May I have your attention!” Farrell called out. “All of you, look at me. Over here. Come on. Focus, people.”
    It only took a few moments before the sight of him standing on a table, waving his drink around and shouting, brought the room to a standstill.
    “Someone lower the music, please?” He waited until the booming pulse of the speakers eased off to a quarter of the volume. “Much better.”
    He could hear people whispering, many asking each other who this whack job was. It didn’t take long for the response to filter around the bar, that he was Farrell Grayson, the middle son of Edward Grayson, one of the wealthiest men on the continent.
    With the mention of his name came the recognition of Farrell’s reputation as the black sheep of his family, and he could only imagine what they expected of him as he stood before them in the middle of the club. Likely they were expecting a drunken tantrum or some other form of public embarrassment. But behavior like that had no place within his brand new philosophy.
    Kill ’em with kindness.
Just like Connor suggested. He’d lost his composure with the blonde, but he’d recently decided to believein the chance for new beginnings. He paused to let the whispers hush, took a deep breath, and smiled.
    “Today is my birthday,” he said. “You’re all now looking at a wise and ancient man of twenty years.”
    “Happy birthday!” someone shouted.
    Farrell raised his glass and smirked at the crowd. “In celebration of this milestone, the next round is on me. Drink up, everyone!”
    The crowd cheered, the music returned to full volume, and everyone started moving toward the bar. A group of guys congregated around Farrell and started to sing “Happy Birthday.” Farrell found his smile again—he’d lost it at some point as he watched the revelry unfold around him—and he got down from the table.
    Now back on ground level, a hint of a familiar face caught his eye. He turned sharply, his breath catching in his chest.
    Markus?
    Was he here now, watching him? Waiting for him to slip up?
    The tall blond guy moved past the crowd that was blocking him, and Farrell realized it was just some random guy, with only a passing resemblance to Markus King.
    He hadn’t seen Markus in several days. After the drama of the previous weekend, Farrell had chosen not to go in search of his new boss and instead let Markus seek him out.
    In the meantime, he was in the habit of checking his phone every few minutes. He flashed the screen on now and was greeted by nothing but the time and a text from Felicity