Call Down the Hawk (Dreamer, #1)(29)

“Don’t make it a dare, or he just might,” Declan said as he backed into a spot, scrutinizing his automotive neighbors, assessing their desire and aptitude for opening their doors into the side of his car.

“We’re at an illegal black market and you’re worried about some Honda opening their door into you?” His brother’s Declanisms never ceased to amaze Ronan; just when he felt he had reached peak Declan, he always dug deep and found another gear.

“Not that Honda—they keep it clean. Are you carrying anything that might be construed as a weapon? Sometimes they search.”

“I have this.” Ronan slid what looked like a pocketknife out of his pocket and flicked the button that would normally release the blade. Instead, an explosion of wings and talons surged out. They shredded the air, a flock of terror contained in a small handle.

“Mother Mary,” Declan snapped. “Don’t ruin my dashboard.”

Ronan released the button. Immediately, the wings folded back inside. Declan leaned over to brush a speck of feather dust off his dash and then shot his brother a cutting look.

Outside, the asphalt glistened darkly. Red taillights ignited puddles here and there. The air smelled like shawarma and exhaust. The sky was the dull black of a cloudy night, the storm of the past few days still persisting. On the news they had said this was climate change, this was what storms did now, they moved to a place and camped there, they lavished attention on one place instead of many, until the objects of their affection could no longer stand all the love and washed away. We have flooding, the anchor noted, but think of Ohio, think of their drought, as if thinking would change any of it. It all made Ronan feel itchy. It was worse to think it wasn’t only his personal world that was askew.

Declan peered up at the old sign with its block letters: CARTER HOTEL. It could have been from this decade, from four decades ago. It felt like they had time-traveled. “The last one I went to with Dad was in Tokyo. First one was LA, I think. Maybe Berlin. Memories are liars.”

Ronan had to fit this into his recollection of his own childhood. When had Declan nipped off to Tokyo? Was it passed off as a school sports trip? How many times had he been rawly jealous of Declan for being permitted a sleepover when really Declan was yawning and stepping off a plane in Berlin? Ronan knew Declan was made of secrets, but he still managed to be shocked by the reveal of a new one.

A doorman waited at the entrance. It was a good doorway, intricately carved, a solid portal to adventure, and he was a proper doorman, dressed like a drawing of a doorman, in a suit with gold piping. Younger guy, with a sort of messy, too-red mouth.

He looked at Ronan expectantly.

It took Ronan a moment to realize the doorman had assessed the two brothers—Declan in his bland gray suit and clean shoes, Ronan with his tats and boots and murder-crab-scratched face—and thought Ronan was the one leading this show.

That was a weird feeling.

Declan silently recaptured the doorman’s attention, offering him a linen handkerchief from his pocket. It had unusual marks printed on it above Declan’s name. The doorman studied the marks for just a moment before returning it to Declan, along with a slender printed card, like a menu, from within his jacket.

He handed Ronan an unmarked keycard.

“Ink on your skin means you’re hiding things,” he told Ronan.

“That’s what breathing means,” Ronan replied.

The doorman’s face hemorrhaged into a smile, and he opened the door.

The Carter’s massive lobby was lined with blood-red carpets and lit by dated brass fixtures with long, uneven curls, like rib bones. Ronan could feel the plush of the rug even under his boot soles. It smelled like a burned-out matchstick and lemon. It all had a classy, run-down look, like a place to be aesthetically killed by a really famous poltergeist. It also seemed to be empty. There was no one behind the polished reception desk, and the leather armchairs were unoccupied.

“Sure this is the right place?”

“Everyone’s in the rooms,” Declan said. He tilted the printed card so that Ronan could read it with him. Floor and room numbers filled one column. In another were short alphanumeric combinations. “Each of those codes stands for something. Art, animals, weapons, drugs. Services.”

“Cleaning,” Ronan said. “Accounting. Childcare.”

“Probably yes, actually,” Declan said, “but not in the way you’re thinking.” He traced a finger down the card. “I don’t know all the codes as well as I should. But I think it’ll be in an eighty-four room, or a twelve. Maybe a Z-twelve.”

“What are we looking for?” Ronan asked.

Declan put the card in his jacket. “You aren’t looking for anything. You’re just looking. And sticking with me. Do you understand? Some of these codes—you go in that room, and you’re not coming out.”

Everything about this felt false, heightened, unpredictable. Everything about this felt like a dream.

“Say you copy,” Declan said.

“I copy, asshole.”

“Dad would’ve hated this,” Declan breathed again, more to himself than to Ronan.

“Declan? Declan Lynch?”

Smoothly, Declan turned on his heel. The lobby was no longer empty. A woman stood behind the reception desk. She was dark-haired and voluptuous, wearing a dress or blouse with a collar that looked like the top of a drawstring tote bag. She made an uncomfortable amount of eye contact with both brothers. Her eyebrows had been drawn into very surprised shapes.