Call Down the Hawk (Dreamer, #1)(100)

At the next Fairy Market, Jordan saw a deal go down badly. She didn’t see the fine details of it, but she heard the man shorting the woman for the price of her dyes. She saw the edge of the whispered conversation, the threats he made to keep the woman from making a fuss about it. Later, she saw the man being beaten by three women in the parking lot as other vendors walked by without turning their heads. They sliced a cross on his clothing that matched the squat, square one on the logo’s face. Jordan understood a little better.

At the Market after that, Jordan saw another woman arguing with the blazer-wearing woman from her first meeting. The blazer was saying it was time to pay what was owed; she had known it was a fair exchange. The woman said she didn’t have it. Later, when Jordan and the girls had packed up, Hennessy said that she’d seen the arguing woman strung up in the elevator, half-dead, a cross marked on her face.

Jordan understood even more.

Boudicca offered protection, it seemed, opportunity, maybe. But Jordan was already tied to one group of women. She wasn’t tempted to be tied to another. She wouldn’t have ever called the number on the back of the card.

But she was willing to go with Declan Lynch to see what there was to see.

“Do you know what you’re walking into?” Jordan asked, after she’d found parking on the congested streets. They were within walking distance from where they’d spent the night before, actually; they could’ve walked there without much trouble. Boudicca had arranged for the meeting to take place at the gardens at Dumbarton Oaks, at the edge of Georgetown. Jordan had been to Dumbarton Oaks, many times, more often to the museum than to the gardens, and she thought she understood their choice. The garden was a place that would be private but also a place where extreme violence would be noted. It was polite for both parties.

Declan said, “Not at all. All they said when I called the number was ‘who?’ ”

“What’d you say?”

“I didn’t know what to say. I just said ‘the new Fenian.’ That’s what was written on the card. Then they asked ‘where’ and I said DC. They told me to call back in ten minutes, and I did, and they told me Dumbarton Oaks. I didn’t expect it to happen so fast. Not the same day.” He didn’t sound pleased about this and Jordan understood; it would’ve made her a little nervous, too. One didn’t like to be too wanted. As they turned to walk through the gates to the garden, he said, “So that we’re on the same page, this is my understanding: Boudicca is the mob, right? They take a cut in exchange for protection?”

“I think so,” Jordan said. “There might be a bit of marketing to it, too. Access to their client base and all that.”

“You’re not tempted?”

“Not a golden chance,” Jordan said as the attendant waved them on; he recognized her.

“I was going to call you anyway,” Declan said. “Not for this.”

She grinned. “Crime syndicate today, maybe a steak dinner tomorrow.”

Declan frowned, completely earnest. “Maybe not steak.”

Now it was her turn to laugh outrageously.

They were to meet the Boudicca contact by the fountain terrace, so they made their way there. The surroundings were striking this time of year: the lawns were still bright, lush green, but the trees were moodily arrayed in autumn browns and reds. The winds and rains had not been strong enough here to strip them of their leaves. Everything smelled good—the damp released the scent of the oak leaves, a smell that couldn’t help but be nostalgic. The gardens were impeccable, and so, too, she thought, was Declan Lynch among them in his good sweater and collared shirt, in his good shoes and his good watch. He was very good at being companionably quiet, and for ten or twenty strides, Jordan let herself imagine it was an ordinary date, an ordinary stroll, two people walking in companionship instead of the strange demands of a powerful secret group.

“Go on, tell it,” she said eventually, as they moved through the dormant rose garden.

“Tell what?”

“I know you must have a story about this place you’re dying to tell.”

He smirked a little. “I don’t know very much about it.”

“Liar.”

“That’s what they tell me.” But after a moment, he said, “All of this was created by the Blisses. What a name. The Blisses. Mildred and Robert. A couple notable for many things, including managing to make the ambitious move from stepsiblings to spouses.”

“The scandal! How old were they when they met? Do you know? Of course you do.”

“Teens, I think, I—” Declan broke off.

A figure was already standing at the fountain as they came down the stairs to the fountain terrace, clad in a dark jacket and dark slacks, a square gray bag by his shoes. Jordan turned Declan’s wrist enough to look at his watch. The time was right, but she didn’t think that could be the contact—it was a man.

The figure turned around, and both Declan and Jordan stopped in their tracks.

It was Ronan Lynch.

But then he stepped toward them and Jordan saw that it wasn’t Ronan at all. The way he carried himself was all wrong, the way he wore his face was all wrong. His hair was curled like Declan’s, but longer, chin-length. This man looked like a brother, perhaps, more like a brother to Ronan than Declan was.

“Look at you, Declan,” the man said to Declan, and his face was delighted. “Look at yourself. What a handsome devil. You could knock me over with an eel. Declan himself, all grown.”