The Raven King (The Raven Boys #4)(50)

“Thank you,” Adam said. “For finally telling us.” He meant for telling me. Gansey knew it; he gave an infinitesimal nod. Blue and Adam regarded each other. She sucked in her lip; he lifted a shoulder. They were both sorry.

“Good. I’m glad that’s out,” Gansey said in an airy voice. Long ago, Adam would have found this breezy response unbearable; he would have assumed it was flippancy. Now he knew that it was the opposite. When pressed too close to something huge and personal, Gansey ducked away into cheery politeness. It was so out of place here in this urgent care, in this tumultuous night, that it was truly unsettling, particularly paired with the continued disarray of his expression.

Blue took Gansey’s hand.

Adam was glad she did.

“Gross,” Ronan said, which was the most juvenile response possible.

But Gansey said, “Thanks for the input, Ronan,” with a proper look on his face again, and Adam saw how cleverly Ronan had released the tension of the moment. They could all breathe again.

Maura returned to them from the counter. Adam got the distinct impression that she had been loitering there intentionally, giving them all room. Now she took out her car keys and said, “Let’s get out of here. These places make me nervous.”

Adam leaned to bump his knuckles against Gansey’s.

No more playing around. There was only time for truth.





Depending on where you began the story, it was about Declan Lynch.

Although it was hard to believe, he hadn’t been born paranoid.

And really, was it paranoia when you weren’t necessarily wrong?

Caution. That was what it was called when people really were out to kill you. He’d learned caution, not paranoia.

He’d been born pliant and trusting, but he’d learned. He’d learned to be suspicious of people who asked you where you lived. He’d learned to talk to his father only on disposable mobile phones bought at gas stations. He’d learned not to trust anyone who told you that it wasn’t honourable to long for a historical town house in a corrupt city, a master suite with a tiger-skin rug, a case full of beautifully winking bourbons, and a German car that knew more about the world than you did. He’d learned that lies were only dangerous if you sometimes told the truth.

The eldest and most natural son of Niall Lynch stood in his Alexandria, Virginia, town house and leaned his forehead against the glass, staring out at the quiet morning street below. D.C. traffic was only beginning to growl to life, and this neighbourhood had yet to shake itself to waking.

He was holding a phone. It was ringing.

It was clunkier than the work phone that he used for his internship with Mark Randall, political denizen and golf ball killer. He’d intentionally chosen a model with a decidedly different shape for his father’s work. Didn’t want to scrape his hand through his messenger bag and grab the wrong one. Didn’t want to feel the nightstand in the middle of the night and speak easily to the wrong person. Didn’t want to give the wrong phone to Ashley to hold for him. Anything he could do to remind himself to be paranoid – cautious – while running the Niall Lynch business was a help.

This phone hadn’t rung in weeks. He thought he’d finally got out of it.

It rang.

He debated for a long time if it was more dangerous to pick it up or to ignore it.

He readjusted. He was no longer Declan Lynch, ingratiating political whippersnapper. He was Declan Lynch, Niall Lynch’s steel-jawed son.

It rang.

He picked it up.

“Lynch.”

“Consider this a courtesy call,” said the person on the other end of the phone. Music was playing in the background; some wailing string instrument.

A thin, viscous string of nerves stretched and dribbled down Declan’s neck.

He said, “You can’t possibly expect me to believe that’s all this is.”

“I would not expect any such thing,” replied the voice on the other line. It was clipped, amused, accented, invariably accompanied by music of some kind. Declan knew her only as Seondeok. She didn’t buy many artefacts, but when she did, there was no drama. The understanding was clear: Declan presented a magical object, Seondeok made an offer, Declan handed it over to her, and they parted ways until next time. At no point did Declan feel he might be capriciously stuffed in the trunk of his father’s car while listening to his father being roughed up, or handcuffed and forced to watch his parents’ barn get tossed in front of him, or beaten senseless and left half dead in his Aglionby dorm room.

Declan appreciated the little things.

But none of them could be trusted.

Caution, not paranoia.

“The situation is very volatile back in Henrietta,” Seondeok said. “I have heard it is no longer Greenmantle’s store.”

Volatile, yes. That was a word. Once upon a time, Niall Lynch had sold his “artefacts” to dealers all over the world. Somehow that had got narrowed down to Colin Greenmantle, Laumonier and Seondeok. Declan assumed it was for security, but maybe he was giving his father too much credit. Maybe he’d just alienated everyone else.

“What else have you heard?” Declan asked, neither confirming nor denying.

“I am glad to hear you do not trust me,” Seondeok replied. “Your father talked too much.”

“I don’t appreciate the tone,” Declan said. His father had talked too much. But that was for a Lynch to say, not some Korean dealer of illegal magical antiquities.