The Raven King (The Raven Boys #4)(57)

Ronan’s feet were burned on to the asphalt. The electricity in the atmosphere crackled beneath his skin. He didn’t know if he was more furious with his brother, for knowing precisely how to loop the wire around his neck, or with himself, for his inability to duck out of the noose.

“About me,” Ronan echoed finally, his voice as dead as he could manage.

His brother didn’t reply. He just waited.

Ronan got back inside the car. He slammed the door. He opened it and slammed it again. He opened it a third time and slammed it another time before hurling the knob of his skull against the headrest and staring through the windshield at the turbulent clouds.

“All done?” Declan asked. He glanced back at Matthew, but the youngest Lynch was still playing pleasantly on his phone.

“I was done months ago,” Ronan replied. “If this is a lie …”

“I was too angry to tell you before.” In an entirely different tone, Declan added, “Are you going to be quiet?”

This, too, was an unfair shot, because it was what their father used to say when he was about to tell them a story. Ronan was already going to listen; this made him lay his head against the window and close his eyes.

Declan was unlike his father in many ways, but, like Niall Lynch, he could tell a story. A story, after all, is a lot like a lie, and Declan was an excellent liar. He began:

“There was an old Irish hero once, long ago, back when Ireland was not so much about men and towns and was instead mostly island and magic. The hero had a name, but I’m not telling it to you until the end. He was a god-hero, terrifying and wise and impetuous. He came to have a spear – the story is about the spear – that was thirsty for blood and nothing else. Whoever had this spear would rule the battlefield, because there was nothing that could stand against its killing magic. It was so voraciously bloodthirsty that it had to be covered to hide its eyes and stop the killing. Only blind would it rest.”

Declan paused then, sighing, as if the weight of the story was a tangible thing, and he needed to take a moment to regain his strength. It was true that the memory of the ritual was heavy enough. Ronan was all tangled up in half-formed images of his father sitting on the end of Matthew’s bed, the brothers tumbled together at its head, his mother perched on that tatty desk chair no one else would sit at. She loved these stories, too, especially the ones about her.

A sound like fingernails tapping pattered on the roof of the car, and a second later, a flock of dried leaves skittered across the windshield. It reminded Ronan of the night horror’s claws; he wondered if it had returned to the Barns yet.

Declan went on. “Once the spear was uncovered, it wouldn’t matter if the hero’s truest love or family was in the room with him; the spear would kill them anyway. Killing was what it was good at, and so killing was what it did.”

In the backseat, Matthew gasped dramatically to lighten the mood. Like Chainsaw, he could not bear to see Ronan distressed.

“It was a fine weapon, shaped for fighting and for nothing else,” Declan said. “The hero, defender of the island, tried to use the spear for good. But it cut through enemies and friends, villains and lovers, and the hero saw that the single-minded spear was meant to be kept apart.”

Ronan picked angrily at his leather wristbands. He was reminded precisely of the dream he’d had only days before. “I thought you said this story was about me.”

“The spear, Dad told me, was him.” Declan looked at Ronan. “He told me to make sure Ronan was the name of the hero, and not the name of just another spear.”

He let the words linger.

On the outside, the three Lynch brothers appeared remarkably dissimilar: Declan, a butter-smooth politician; Ronan, a bull in a china-shop world; Matthew, a sunlit child.

On the inside, the Lynch brothers were remarkably similar: They all loved cars, themselves, and each other.

“I know you’re a dreamer like him,” Declan said in a low voice. “I know you’re good at it. I know it’s pointless to ask you to stop. But Dad didn’t want you to be alone like he was. Like he made himself.”

Ronan twisted the leather bands tighter and tighter.

“Oh, I get it,” Matthew said finally. He laughed gently at himself. “Duh.”

“Why are you telling me this now?” Ronan asked finally.

“I got word that something big is about to go down here in Henrietta,” Declan said.

“Who?”

“Who what?”

“Where did this word come from?”

Declan looked at him heavily.

“How did they know to call you?”

Declan replied, “Did you really think Dad kept track of this stuff on his own?”

Ronan had, but he didn’t say anything.

“Why do you even think I was in D.C.?”

Ronan had thought Declan was there to get into politics, but that was so clearly not the correct answer that he kept his mouth shut.

“Matthew, put your earbuds in,” Declan said.

“I don’t have them with me.”

“Pretend you have your earbuds in,” Ronan said. He turned on the radio for a little background cover.

“I want you to give me a straight answer,” Declan said. “Are you even thinking about going to college?”

“No.” It was satisfying and terrible to say it out loud, a trigger pulled, the explosion over within a second. Ronan looked around for bodies.