The Raven King (The Raven Boys #4)(79)

Adam moved past it as something screamed behind him.

Here was Ronan. Finally. Finally.

Ronan was circling something in the burned-out grass between ruined trees; when Adam drew closer he saw that it was a carcass. It was hard to tell what it had first looked like. It seemed to have chalky white skin, but deep slashes bit through the flesh; the edges of them curled in on themselves pinkly. A snarl of intestines roped out from under a greasy gray flap and hooked on a red-tipped claw. Mushrooms burst through parts of all of it, and there was something terribly wrong about them; they were difficult to look at.

“No,” Ronan said. “Oh no. You bastard.”

“What is it?” Adam asked.

Ronan’s hand hovered over two parted beaks, side by side, both rimmed with black and something purple-red that Adam didn’t want to consider too deeply. “My night horror. God. Shit.”

“Why would it be here?”

“I don’t know. It cares about what I care about,” Ronan said. He peered up at Adam. “Is this a nightmare, or is this real?”

Adam held his gaze. This was where they were now: Nightmares were real. There was no difference between dreams and reality when they stood here in Cabeswater together.

“What’s doing this?” Ronan asked. “I can’t hear the trees. Nothing’s talking to me.”

Adam held his gaze. He didn’t want to say demon out loud.

Ronan said, “I want to wake up. Can we? I don’t want to bring any of it back. And I can’t keep my thoughts – I can’t —”

“Yes,” Adam interrupted. He couldn’t, either. “We need to talk to the others. Let’s —”

“Kerah!”

The Orphan Girl’s thin cry caught Ronan immediately; he craned his neck to see her among the dark branches and pools.

“Leave her,” Adam said. “She’s with us in real life.”

But Ronan hesitated.

“Kerah!” she wailed again, and this time Adam heard the pain in her voice. It was small and childlike and piteous, and everything in him had been coded to respond to it. “Kerah, succurro!”

It was impossible to tell if this was the Orphan Girl they had back at the Barns, or if this was a copy, or if it was a monstrous devil bird with her voice. Ronan didn’t care. He ran anyway. Adam crashed after him. Everything he passed was hideous: a forest of willows sagged into each other, a bird singing a note backwards, a fist of black insects crawling over the stub of a rabbit carcass.

The voice did not belong to a monstrous devil bird. It was the Orphan Girl, or something that looked just like her, and she knelt in a scruff of dry grass. She had not been crying, but she burst into tears when she saw Ronan. As he reached her, out of breath, she held out her arms to him imploringly. Adam did not think she was a copy; she wore his watch with its bite marks on the band, and in any case, this feeble Cabeswater lacked the strength to produce such an incorrupt version of her.

“Succurro, succurro,” she sobbed. Help, help – The arms she stretched to Ronan were coated and spattered in blood up to the elbow.

Ronan skidded to his knees, his arms around her, and it hurt Adam, somehow, to watch how ferociously he hugged his little strange dream creature, and how she buried her face into his shoulder. He stood with her in his arms, holding her tightly, and he heard her saying, No, you did good, it’s going to be OK, we’re waking up.

Then Adam saw it. He saw it before Ronan did, because Ronan had not yet looked beyond the Orphan Girl. No, no. The Orphan Girl had not stopped here because it was all the further she could run. She had knelt there because that was all the further she could drag the body. Body was a tender word for it. Long strands of hair stuck to the largest of pieces; all of it was strung out long like a string of viscous pearls. This was how Orphan Girl’s arms had got painted with blood; this futile rescue effort.

“Ronan,” Adam warned as dread welled up in him.

At the tone in Adam’s voice, Ronan turned.

There was a brief moment where he was looking just at Adam, and Adam wished that he could keep him in it for ever. Just wake up, he thought, but he knew Ronan wouldn’t.

Ronan’s gaze dropped.

“Mom?”





Depending on where you began the story, it was about the Gray Man.

The Gray Man liked kings.

He liked official kings, the sorts who had the title and crown and all that, but he also liked unofficial kings, who ruled and led and stewarded without any noble bloodline or proper throne. He liked kings who lived in the past and kings who lived in the future. Kings who had become legends only after their death and kings who had become legends during their lives and kings who had become legends without living at all. His favourites were the kings who used their power in the pursuit of learning and peace rather than status and property, who used violence only to create a country that did not have to live by violence. Alfred, the king the Gray Man most idolized, epitomized this, having conquered the squabbling kinglings of Anglo-Saxon England to create a unified country. How acutely the Gray Man admired such a man, even as he found himself a hit man instead of a king.

It seemed peculiar that he couldn’t quite remember his decision to become a hit man.

He remembered the academic portions of his life as a historian back in Boston: the lectures, the papers, the parties, the archives. Kings and warriors, honour and wergild. He remembered the Greenmantles, of course. But everything else was difficult to piece together. Hard to discern what was true recollection and what was merely dream. Back then he’d strung one gray day into another, and it seemed likely that he had lost weeks or months or years to this foggy dissociation. Somewhere in there someone had breathed the word mercenary, and somewhere in there someone had given up his identity and become the Gray Man.