Call Down the Hawk (Dreamer, #1)(48)

His hands were cupped over something, but the shape under his fingers didn’t make sense to him. He didn’t feel anything moving, but who knew. It could be a murder crab waiting for light to activate it. It could be a disembodied scream. It could be anything. What he recalled of his dream offered no clues. He just remembered a wasteland of many convulsing darknesses, and Bryde’s voice breaking gently through.

Ronan could move again.

He gingerly opened his hands. Collected in his palms was a broken sword hilt, its finish complexly black, just like the Soulages painting from the Fairy Market, the one that made Declan Lynch want to goddamn cry. The matte-black blade was broken off just beneath the guard. On the grip, three words were printed in very small letters, also black, only visible when the hilt was tilted in the light: VEXED TO NIGHTMARE.

He had no recollection of dreaming about it.

It was possible that Bryde had just saved his life.

It was a strange feeling, too big to be labeled with good or bad just yet. It had been overwhelming enough to know that the world was vastly huger and more mysterious than he had given it credit for. It was above and beyond to think that world had his back.

He sat up to get his bearings.

The not-day-not-night quality of light in the car was because it was parked in something like a lean-to or an old shed. The siding was battered and rustic, only as constructed as it needed to be. The slat of light that had burned Ronan’s eyes was from a missing board.

The floorboards of the backseat were covered with wadded-up tissues, each of them soaked in black. He hadn’t had tissues in the car, had he? No, he’d had receipts to sop up his face. The driver’s seat was moved far forward, revealing a cache of trash formerly hidden by the seat, and on the floor mat were two black shoe prints, too small to be his. Someone had laid his car keys on the center console where he would see them.

It was backward to sleep and wake somewhere different rather than falling asleep so that his mind could fly elsewhere. Everything was impossible today.

He let himself out of the car, stumbling a little as he did. The dried ground was stubbled with hoofprints—this was an animal lean-to. Stepping out of the shed, he shielded his eyes from the long afternoon light, taking stock. Distant horses cropped grass, taking no interest in him as he peered around the sloping long field. He could hear the rush of cars fairly close by. The interstate. A flattened path through the grass led from the lean-to to a distant gate and then, beyond that, to a crumbling two-lane road.

There was no sign of the little white sedan, or any other cars, for that matter.

Taking out his phone, he opened the map. He was forty minutes outside the city. Northwest, not remotely on the way to the Barns.

The truth of the situation was slowly unfolding. One of them—the woman, probably, because the seat was moved so far forward—must have driven him far out of the city to dream, to make sure his two conflicting geasa didn’t get him into trouble this time. Then hidden his car. Cleaned his face. Left his keys where he could find them. Driven away with the man with a Lynch’s face, leaving Ronan with more questions than answers.

They’d saved his body and Bryde had saved his mind, and he was no closer to knowing who any of them were.

Ronan kicked the ground.

One step forward, two steps back.

Hold on, kid.





30

Hennessy.”

It was Hennessy’s fault.

That was the beginning and end of most of the girls’ problems, really. They couldn’t go to college or do anything that required a distinct social security number: Hennessy’s fault. Were banned from the Nine O’Clock Club: Hennessy’s fault. Had painful wisdom teeth in bad weather: Hennessy’s fault. Had to resort to an elaborate plan to forge and nick a painting instead of just liquidating some shit and buying it with a wad of cash: Hennessy’s fault.

Everything about The Dark Lady situation was Hennessy’s fault.

“Hennessy.”

Last year, Hennessy had sold a John Everett Millais forgery to Rex Busque, muscle-bound dealer of portraits and Pre-Raphaelite pieces, longtime Fairy Market attendee. It featured a young titian-haired woman holding a single card, its face pressed to her bosom, leaving it up to the viewer to decide if it was a playing card, a tarot card, or something else entirely. Her eyes suggested it was whatever was the most mysterious option. The forgery was a bit more gutsy than Hennessy would have ordinarily done—it would’ve been safer to “find” some Millais sketches or unfinished works—but Busque had asked for something splashy, as he’d gotten himself into a bit of money trouble and wanted to turn something over for a lot of money in a little time. She’d warned Busque it was too good a find to go without scrutiny and that he should only try to turn it overseas to a private collector.

“Hennessyyyy.”

Of course it got busted by the first prestigious gallery Busque had tried to pass it to. Millais worked his compositions directly on the canvas, graphite underdrawing and all, and Hennessy had just winged it, and once the question had been asked, the dominoes fell: the strokes were too big, the varnish was wrong, where did you say you found this?

Hennessy was viciously uncontrite. She’d warned him, she told him; his fault he was a lazy needledick who couldn’t be bothered to look up an international country code.

Of course he would be the one who ended up with The Dark Lady months later.