Call Down the Hawk (Dreamer, #1)(74)

He’d pulled so many strings for that Tyrian purple. Dangerous, complicated strings, a game of criminal telephone until he found someone overnight willing to trade him the pigment for the dreamt clock of Niall’s that he’d had hidden in his bedroom closet for ages.

What an idiot. What was he thinking? He hadn’t been thinking. He’d just been galloping after his id. That was Ronan’s thing, not Declan’s.

Last night he’d dreamt of the ocean, but not The Dark Lady’s ocean. It seemed like he’d broken The Dark Lady’s spell by tearing the backing paper from the canvas. The ocean he’d dreamt of hadn’t been the tattered Irish seashore, not the pure, sandy Kerry beach that he was sure Aurora Lynch had never been to and Niall Lynch had.

No, Declan had dreamt of a tropical beach, his feet buried in the sand. In this paradise, he’d been forever putting sunscreen on his arms, never done putting sunscreen on his arms, an endless loop of squeezing coconut-scented cream onto his fingertips and swiping it onto his skin and squeezing coconut-scented cream onto his fingertips and swiping it onto his skin and squeezing coconut-scented cream onto his fingertips and swiping it onto his skin and …

A boring dream.

Better than the dream he’d had before. Better than the dream of him standing on The Dark Lady’s sandy Kerry shore and feeling seen, truly seen, truly exposed, watched from the high rocks and from the sky. Better than the dream of him stepping into that aqua water one foot and then another and then another, and then beginning to swim, and then diving, and then swimming so deep that the sunlight stopped piercing the water and he became invisible in the depths.

If he had Ronan’s ability, would he have woken up erased?

“David,” snapped one of the aides.

Declan looked up. He knew this meant him. “Declan.”

“Whichever. Is that your phone? Shut it up—he’s on a conference for the next two minutes. Are those things done? We’re leaving in three.”

Declan’s phone was ringing, fussing chaotically on top of a pile of paper clips. Caller ID: Matthew’s school.

With an apologetic look at the aide, he picked it up. “Lynch.”

“This is Barbara Cody from Thomas Aquinas,” said the voice at the other end of the phone. “Your brother seems to have left the school grounds without notifying any of the staff again.”

Again.

A half-dozen stories contained in that single word, every single one of them ending at Great Falls. Declan clenched and unclenched his jaw. In a low voice, he said, “Thank you for letting me know.”

“We don’t want to start marking him up for it, but …”

They should’ve already; who was allowed to leave school grounds a half-dozen times without consequence? Sunny Matthew, of course, and his benevolently wandering feet.

“I understand. You and I are on the same team here.”

“Please tell him that the school counselor would love to talk to him. We want to help.”

“Of course.” After Declan hung up, he stood there for a moment, feeling as if he was a suit that had been hung up.

“Lynch,” barked Fairlady. “It’s been nine minutes. The van is double-parked.”

Ronan had to already be nearly to DC for his birthday; Declan called him. It rang and rang and rang and rang, then went to voicemail. He called it again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again.

Calling Ronan was like throwing darts into the ocean. Once in a hundred years a lucky bastard hit a fish and the rest of the time he went hungry.

He texted: Call me, it’s about Matthew.

“Lynch,” Fairlady said.

Declan texted: I can’t leave work

“Van,” Fairlady said.

Declan texted: Please get him from Great Falls

“Now,” Fairlady said. “Bring the name tags.”

Fuck this fuck this fuck this fuck this fuck this fuck

For a brief moment Declan imagined hurling the phone and these collated copies and the pile of paper clips at the wall, trashing this whole place, marching out of his life, diving into the ocean, disappearing.

Then he slid his phone into his suit pocket and balanced a stack of printouts beneath his chin and said, “My youngest brother’s having a health issue. I’m seeing about getting my other brother to handle it.”

“Why have I never heard of this other brother?” Fairlady said.

Because she hadn’t asked, and Declan never gave away a truth unless it was taken from his cold, balled hands. Because the safest shape was being both unknown and unchanging.

Fairlady called over her shoulder, “Odds that you’ll have to handle it yourself?”

Declan said, “One hundred percent.”

Everything exactly as it was before.





47

Ronan found himself standing on The Dark Lady’s seashore once more.

Behind him, tumbled black rocks rose, and under his feet, pale sand stretched in both directions. Before him was the familiar turquoise sea, the one that he’d just let out of the bathroom of the McLean mansion. He shivered. The cold was thorough and damp.

Bryde’s voice came from somewhere above, among the rocks. “It used to rain more. The surface of this bare and drying planet used to be billowing with trees. Complicated with trees. These increasingly cloudless skies used to be tangled and alive with rain. Silver and black and purple above. Green and black and blue below. You should have seen it.”