Call Down the Hawk (Dreamer, #1)(101)

Declan hung back.

All the handsomeness Jordan had seen in him had vanished, just like that, and suddenly he had become the bland and invisible Declan she had first met. Young Man on a Terrace, name unknown.

“Always the clever one,” the man said. He had a bit of an Irish accent, mostly on the Rs. “Slow to trust. That’s all right. I won’t ask you for trust. I might look like your dad, but I don’t offer things I can’t give.”

Jordan looked from Declan to the man. Dad?

“Who are you?” she asked.

The man stuck out a hand, seeming relieved that she had spoken to him. He was jumpy, nervous, flighty in a way that Ronan wasn’t. It was hard once he was moving to see how she’d ever mistaken him for Ronan. “The new Fenian is what they call me, and it’s good enough for this.”

“Hennessy.”

He shook Jordan’s hand, but he was still looking at Declan, his expression complicated. Longing. Proud. “Smart of you to be wary. This is nothing you want.”

“What is it?” Jordan asked. “What is it we’re talking about?”

“It’s a box you get into and don’t get out of. It’s a bigger box than you’re thinking. It’s a stronger one. You came here thinking it’s a racket, right? Maybe that it’s a cult. You’re thinking maybe it’s a bunch of lady thugs and you might want in on that because things have been getting rough out there for you. I promise you, it’s rougher in here for you.” To Declan, he said, “And you don’t want them finding out about Ronan, tomcat.”

Declan physically flinched.

The man saw it, looked sorry. “I’m sorry, boy-o. I know I’m not a father to you, but you have to know that you’re my kids to me. I remember you when you were this tall.”

Declan finally said, “You’re a copy.”

It was an unsettling thing to hear. Jordan had gotten used to the idea of being an I to Declan instead of a we. He didn’t know she was anything more than Jordan Hennessy, singular, and she liked it far more than she was allowed to.

This was a reminder that he was brother to a dreamer, son of a dreamer, and he knew what mysteries they were capable of.

Jordan expected the man to dislike being called such a thing, but he just laughed a little. “Maybe my face. But it’s been nearly two decades; I’ve got different stories than Niall Lynch. But this head still loves you like you were mine. It’s been watching when it can. And you can’t get tied up in this; it’ll be the end of you. They’ll use him till you don’t recognize him.”

Declan swallowed. He was as dazed as she was during her episodes. But Jordan hadn’t forgotten his task. “We’re not here about that, though, friend.”

Declan shot her a grateful glance and then said, “I didn’t expect the number to bring me to you. I’m here about Mór ó Corra?”

“That’s a name you definitely don’t want to be whispering,” the man said.

“Is she in Boudicca?”

He inclined his head. “But forget it, forget Boudicca. Pretend you never met me. I’ll tell them you didn’t show. They’ll leave it at that. Mór will make sure of it.”

“This is very cryptic,” Jordan said.

“And it has to be. Please go. It’d break my heart and not much breaks it anymore.”

Declan said, in his most dull tone, “I don’t owe you anything, though. I owe him nothing and you less. If I wanted to talk to her, what would I do next?”

“Ask someone else, boy, because I won’t be the one to kill you.”

“Does she not want to see me?”

This made Jordan look away, much to her own surprise. This felt a little too personal, like she wanted to give him privacy for it.

“I wouldn’t answer for her,” the man said. “She deserves that much. That’s all I can say.”

Declan’s eyes narrowed just a hair, judging this, and then he nodded a little and pressed no more.

“You see, he knows,” the man said, clearly relieved. “There’s the one who knows how to stay alive. Can’t trust Ronan to save himself. He throws his heart and then runs in after it.”

Jordan knew someone like that.

“That’s that, then,” Declan said.

The man hesitated, then reached a hand out toward Declan. “Can I—I don’t know if I’ll see you again like this.”

Declan didn’t draw back, and so the man stepped forward and put his arms around Declan’s neck. He hugged him, the simple, complete hug of a parent hugging a son, hand on the back of his neck, cheek rested against the back of his head.

Declan stood stiff as a middle-schooler hugged by a parent in front of school, but Jordan saw his nostrils flare and his eyes go terribly bright. He blinked, blinked, blinked, and then he had his usual bland expression by the time the man stepped back.

“I’m proud of you,” he told Declan. Her dauntless Declan.

“Thanks for meeting us,” Jordan said, because it felt like someone ought to say it.

The man leaned and picked up his bag. “Stay alive.”





65

Hennessy had not had a dream that wasn’t the Lace for so long that she’d forgotten what they could be like.