Call Down the Hawk (Dreamer, #1)(31)

She felt a little more grounded—or at least the real world felt truer than the hazy ghost world of the episode. As she finally climbed out, her phone rang.

“Where are you, bitch?” Hennessy’s amiable voice was distorted on the other end of the line.

“Just parked.”

As Jordan opened the Supra’s tailgate, Hennessy launched into a profane pep talk. Jordan gathered her supplies. Three canvases, her sealed palette, her brushes, her turp. Two of the canvases meant nothing to her—they were just another day at the office. The third, which she would be handing off to one of the girls as soon as she got inside, was everything. It was everything.

How good are we? she asked herself.

She slid it all out.

The best.

She shut the tailgate on her doubts.

Stepped away.

“… shell game where every shell is turned over at the same time,” Hennessy concluded.

“I was just thinking shell game,” Jordan said.

“Great minds.”

“Okay, mate. I’m headed in.”

“Balls out.” Hennessy hung up.

The doorman, smoking, watched her cross the lot to him. Not rudely, not salaciously. Just with interest. Even with large parcels tucked under one arm, she had a walk that seemed like there should be a slow-motion explosion occurring behind her. She would watch herself, too, if she wasn’t herself.

But it probably had less to do with that and more to do with the fact that he would have seen several other versions of her already that night, all dressed exactly the same, down to the last hair on their heads. One to keep watch. One to distract. One to steal. One to replace. One to be an alibi. Only June waited somewhere in the lot. She had to be the getaway driver—she’d straightened her hair to get that bank job and couldn’t look convincingly like Hennessy anymore without a hat. Jordan appreciated the sentiment, the small gesture of individuality, but it sure was a pain in the ass.

Jordan stepped up to the doorman. She hoped none of the other girls had chatted him up or made small talk that she would need to remember. They were good at this, she reminded herself, being each other, being forgeries of Hennessy. They would have texted her if she needed to know something to be convincing. Be casual. Be Hennessy. “What’s cooking, friend?”

He offered her his cigarette in response. She accepted it, took an inhale as he watched her, and breathed it out into the cold night. She wanted another mouthful, but she had quit six months ago, so she handed it back to him. Hennessy had informed Jordan that she had an addictive personality, and maybe she did.

“Thanks, mate,” she said.

“Forgot something?” he asked.

“Needed a top up on the ol’ victuals. Supplies ran low. The troops were hungry.”

“You know I have to ask.”

“You know I’ve got an answer.” She reached into her jacket—casual, be casual—and handed him the linen handkerchief. She’d forged four copies of Breck’s invite with JORDAN HENNESSY. It had taken ages. Her hand was aching by the end, so Hennessy had stepped in and done the last one. It was impossible to know which of the girls had Hennessy’s forgery and which had Jordan’s. Even Jordan couldn’t tell.

He studied it.

She held her breath.

He was looking at the edge of the handkerchief, which she had carefully frayed to match all the others he had seen the girls use.

Now he eyed her. The septum ring; the scrubby ponytail; the floral tattoo ringing her throat; the crocheted corset beneath the leather jacket; the fingers covered with rings and more floral tattoos; the wide and perfect smile that almost certainly was amused at your expense. Hennessy’s style. Which made it Jordan’s, too.

Both the invite and Jordan were flawless copies.

The doorman handed the handkerchief back to her.

He said, “Welcome back.”

She was in.





17

When Ronan was young and didn’t know any better, he thought everyone was like him. He made rules for humanity based upon observation, his idea of the truth only as broad as his world was. Everyone must sleep and eat. Everyone has hands, feet. Everyone’s skin is sensitive; no one’s hair is. Everyone whispers to hide and shouts to be heard. Everyone has pale skin and blue eyes, every man has long dark hair, every woman has long golden hair. Every child knows the stories of Irish heroes, every mother knows songs about weaver women and lonely boatmen. Every house is surrounded by secret fields and ancient barns, every pasture is watched by blue mountains, every narrow drive leads to a hidden world. Everyone sometimes wakes with their dreams still gripped in their hands.

Then he crept out of childhood, and suddenly the uniqueness of experience unveiled itself. Not all fathers are wild, charming schemers, wiry, far-eyed gods; and not all mothers are dulcet, soft-spoken friends, patient as buds in spring. There are people who don’t care about cars and there are people who like to live in cities. Some families do not have older and younger brothers; some families don’t have brothers at all. Most men do not go to Mass every Sunday and most men do not fall in love with other men. And no one brings dreams to life. No one brings dreams to life. No one brings dreams to life.

These were the things that made Ronan Lynch himself, but he didn’t realize it until he met the rest of the world.

The Fairy Market didn’t truly begin for Ronan until the brothers stepped out of the elevator and into another red hallway. They passed a very tall black man who looked as if he was talking into a phone but whose mouth was making no sound. A very old white woman, buckled around a rolling suitcase that dripped liquid as she went. A pair of deeply bronzed women who seemed like they ought to be selling makeup strolling with arms linked, laughing. None of them bothered to hide their stares.