Call Down the Hawk (Dreamer, #1)(61)

There it was:

Happiness.

Then he let out a deep sigh, and his thoughts came rushing back, and along with them, all the reasons why every relationship before now and after this had to remain disposable.

But joy is a small, tenacious crop, especially in soil that hasn’t grown any for a long time, and so it lingered with him as he checked his watch to see when Matthew was due back from soccer and hung up his coat and his keys and toed off his shoes.

Then he did something he hadn’t had the guts to do since he’d gotten it.

He turned on the light in the kitchen, clucking his tongue when he saw that Matthew or Ronan had tracked grit in from the back door—was it so hard to scuff your feet on the mat if you weren’t going to take off your shoes? He pulled open the closet door and there she was, The Dark Lady.

Before, looking at The Dark Lady had triggered all kinds of complex sensations, most of them shitty.

But today it was just a painting.

He drew it out of the closet and brought it to the dining room table. He set it on its face and looked at the brown backing paper that neatly covered the back of the canvas and sealed the edges of the frame. His eyes glanced off the words Mór ó Corra and away. Then he retrieved a small, sharp knife from the kitchen.

He hesitated.

You can’t unsee this, he told himself.

This is not allowed in the life you are living, he told himself.

I want so much more, he told himself.

And he neatly sliced the edge of the brown backing paper. He took his time at first, keeping the cut straight and even and surgical, and then the line grew faster and more ragged and furious as he went, until eventually he was tearing it off with his hands, chanting, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.

Then his fingers were trembling and the paper was removed and he was looking at the back of the canvas.

There was nothing there.

There was nothing there.

There was nothing there.

All of this and there was nothing there.





38

Nothing there. Ronan had been digging through his father’s belongings for hours and he’d found jack shit.

He had been restless all day. His dreams the night before had been antsy, fractured, Bryde-less. His morning after was antsy, fractured, Adam-less. He spent an hour driving the BMW around and around the muddy skid pad. The growl of the engine was unable to vanquish the thoughts of his father’s youthful face and his mother’s troubled one, Bryde’s compelling voice and Declan’s dampening one.

Declan had told him not to chase the rabbit. Bryde had told him to chase the rabbit.

They were tied, and he was not allowed to be the tie-breaker.

Go slow, Adam had said.

Tomorrow Ronan had to drive back to DC for his birthday. He wasn’t sentimental over it, but Matthew was a big believer in birthdays and ritual, so he’d return for some level of revelry. Matthew had suggested a picnic to Great Falls. Declan had suggested a nice dinner out. Ronan found both options unbearably routine.

Why hadn’t Bryde come to him last night?

He knew, though.

Bryde was done with chasing Ronan; it was Ronan’s turn now.

And he wanted to chase.

Go slow.

Ronan drove up into the mountains to kill some time. He thought about going farther, about driving all the way to Lindenmere, but it wasn’t a good idea to visit the forest in a disordered frame of mind, and Ronan would place his relative disorder at a solid seven on a scale of one to ten. Instead, he returned home, made himself a peanut butter sandwich, and began to tear apart the farmhouse as he had many times before, looking for secrets or dreams he’d overlooked.

Which was when he heard—

Something. An intruder.

An engine fading, possibly. Not right next to the house. That would’ve been louder. This was more like an engine fading halfway down the drive in order for the driver to come the rest of the way without detection.

Or maybe it was nothing.

Surely no one could have made it through his security system.

Outside, Chainsaw called out. It wasn’t her alarmed bark, though, was it? It was just a bark.

He had his little knife filled with talons in his pocket and there was a gun in Declan’s old room.

He heard the back door open.

Fuck.

Of course it wasn’t locked. Not while he was awake, not while the driveway was protected.

A floorboard in the mudroom creaked.

Ronan was on his feet. Silently. He swiftly moved through the house, avoiding the boards he knew would creak and give him away. He had his knife out. He stopped for the gun.

Thud, thud.

That was just his heart, frustratingly loud in his ears.

Downstairs, the living room was empty. So was the sitting room. The dining room.

Another noise. From the kitchen.

Ronan lifted the gun.

“Jesus, Ronan, it’s me!” The kitchen overhead light came on and revealed Adam Parrish, removing a motorcycle helmet. He eyed the gun. “You know how to take a surprise well.”

Ronan remained fixed in place, uncertain. It was not that Adam looked wrong at all—he looked marvelously himself, in fact, his hair matted down from being under the helmet, his shoulders lean and fit in a leather jacket Ronan had not seen him in before, his cheeks bright and heightened from the journey. But after the last two days, Ronan could no longer believe someone’s face as proof of identity.