Call Down the Hawk (Dreamer, #1)(110)

Declan leaned back to plug in an enormous sculptural stainless steel lamp in the shape of a violent, art deco angel. She was as tall as Jordan.

“Is that a—” He could see her thinking hard. “Stubenrauch? Right?”

“Reinhard Stubenrauch.” He was absurdly pleased that she knew. He was absurdly pleased to be here with her. He was absurdly pleased. This entire day, this entire week, what a disaster … but he was absurdly pleased.

Jordan, her head ducked, examined one of the pieces carefully taped to the wall with hinges of tape to avoid damaging the front. Black bloomed at either end, and darker black stripes bisected it both violently and delicately, like bamboo leaves or handwriting or wounds. “Jesus, this is an original, Declan. I thought it was a print. Who is this?”

“Chu Teh-Chun,” Declan said. “I know it deserves better; you don’t have to say it.”

“I wouldn’t have said it,” Jordan said. “And who’s this?”

More black ink, rolled and splattered in pleasing, architectural shapes, like a creature flying or a sentence she couldn’t quite read. She was touching her head again.

“Robert Motherwell.”

She looked at another abstract print. This one was marked with jagged red and black exclamations like fire licking up the canvas. She guessed, “Still? Clyfford Still?”

Fuck, he told himself. Do not fall in love with this girl.

“Why isn’t all this downstairs?” she asked. “Why do you have a hotel down there and Declan locked in the attic like a madwoman?”

He said, “Why do you paint other people and keep Jordan locked in your head like a madwoman?”

She was touching her temple again. Her throat. She looked at the Still for a long time, but she wasn’t really looking at it. She put down her latte, trying to look casual about it, but he could see from the fumble that it was so she wouldn’t spill it.

A sinking feeling was appearing inside Declan, invading in darkening blooms and jagged strokes, just like the paintings all around him.

“Why did you steal The Dark Lady?” he asked.

Jordan closed her eyes. Her voice was dreamy, dazed. “We said … we said we weren’t going to talk about that or about … your dreamer father.”

No, he thought. Please no.

“I don’t think,” Declan said, “I ever said the word dreamer.”

Jordan’s eyes were still closed. She was fighting valiantly. Harder than Matthew. But he thought he knew what it was anyway. She murmured, “No, probably … Crumbs … Come on.”

But this last bit was to herself, not Declan.

He stood up and laid a hand on her forehead. Not hot. He knew it wouldn’t be, really. He was already touching her, so he used it as an excuse to slowly tuck a piece of hair behind her ear. She opened her eyes.

“You look so sad,” she whispered.

“You’re a dream.”

“If I had a puppy for every time a man said that to me,” Jordan said.

He didn’t smile. “How long ago?”

“Decade. Give or take.”

“Where’s your dreamer?” He hated saying it. He hated everything. He couldn’t take it anymore. He didn’t have it in him to love another dream. It hurt too bad. Loving anything did.

It was not Niall Lynch’s fault, but Declan wordlessly cursed him anyway, out of habit.

“Mm. I don’t know. Getting pissed somewhere. How did you guess?”

“You aren’t the first dream I’ve seen do this,” Declan said. Then he told her a lot of truth, because he was too crushed to not say it out loud. “It’s not just that. I grew up surrounded by them. You start to … feel them. Dreams.”

He closed his eyes and shook his head.

“My feet keep bringing me back,” he said.

Jordan swayed. She was as bad as Matthew at his worst. There was air in the room but not the right kind for her.

“I’ll take you home,” Declan said. “You can come back for your car later. Okay? Is that okay?”

It was hard to tell what she was thinking. Her eyes were glazed. She had gone far away to someplace that was for either dreamers or dreams, not for someone like Declan.

She nodded.





70

Farther,” Liliana said. “There are houses there.”

Farooq-Lane and Liliana had been flying down the highway for several miles now. Liliana gazed out the window, her eyes on the lights of houses in subdivisions and speckled across increasingly broad fields. They were nowhere near the hotel. After leaving Ramsay, Farooq-Lane had told Liliana that she’d get her an end suite at the hotel until they could find a more private vacation rental. Just give her until morning, Farooq-Lane promised, and she’d have it all sorted out. Could she have that long?

No.

No, she couldn’t.

Liliana had not yet learned to turn her visions inside to make them harmless, but she promised Farooq-Lane that the episode would be productive regardless, as long as she was far enough away from other people.

So now they drove, and Farooq-Lane’s phone rang and went unanswered. It pinged as voicemails came in. She didn’t need to listen to them to know what they said; she had been on the other side of this part. Farooq-Lane had found a new Visionary and so now all over the world, planes were being boarded as Moderators got ready to mobilize according to the new visions.