Call Down the Hawk (Dreamer, #1)(78)

“You’re getting out?”

“I’m walking back to the hotel,” Parsifal said. He pulled the phone charger out of the bottom of his phone. “Yes. This is better. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye?”

“For now. Bis sp?ter.” He let himself out of the car. He used all ten fingers to close the car door with extreme quietude, which felt like another passive-aggressive comment on her noisiness.

Farooq-Lane felt her anger boil.

She hadn’t been angry at her family’s death. She hadn’t been angry about any of Ramsay’s stupid comments. She hadn’t been angry when Nikolenko treated her like a soft child. She hadn’t been angry when she realized they were going to kill that old Zed for nothing. She hadn’t been angry over flight delays, ruined shoes, bad food, aggressive drivers, anything.

But she was out of her mind with rage now. She let out a furious sob and laid on the horn. It blared for several long seconds, bringing a staff member momentarily to the large window at the florist’s, and then she released it.

The staff member shook their head and vanished.

So did Parsifal.





50

This was how the story began: There would be thirteen Hennessys, and then it would be over. Limited edition, signed by the artist, discontinued.

The thirteenth was the one that would kill her, they told Ronan, and they agreed that seemed fitting. Thirteen was a devilish number for a life lived devilishly. They showed him their throats, their matching tattoos. Count the flowers, they said. Room for thirteen total, they said, thirteen lovely blossoms to create a deadly choker. Room for two more before they died of excess beauty.

Twelve: name to come. Hennessy used to name them, they told Ronan. After Alba, though, she said they could just pick their own names off baby name sites because she wasn’t their mother.

Eleven: nameless. Forever nameless. In a way, they said, it was good that Ronan already knew their secret when he arrived, because it spared them having to make up a lie about why there was a dead girl in the bathroom. She’d never had a chance to name herself, or to get frustrated with living the same life as a half-dozen other girls, or to breathe air.

Ten: Trinity. Sweet Trinity, so down on herself you just wanted to hug her or punch the shit out of her. Hennessy had dreamt her in the driveway. She had been so wasted and had waited so long to dream that she’d left a trail of black from the car she fell out of to the patch of driveway she finally passed out in. Trinity had come into being just a few feet away, already smeared in black.

Nine: Octavia. Bitter Octo. She’d hated every single one of the other girls. Hennessy had been alone when she dreamt her, nowhere near any of the other girls, in a stolen souped-up Challenger. Ordinarily, the girls told Ronan, Hennessy let them know when she was going to dream, or it was obvious, because of the what-did-you-call-it? Nightwash. But not this night. Without warning she’d gone off the radar, stolen a car, dreamt a copy—actually, it was hard to tell the order of events, it could have been the other way around—and had only been found after several hours by Jordan and June. If Octo had been friendlier with the other girls, they would’ve told her which pills you could mix with alcohol.

Eight: Jay. Hennessy had hated Jay. When she’d picked the name Jay, Hennessy had demanded she change it. Because it was Hennessy’s mother’s name, sort of, the girls explained to Ronan. We don’t remember her well. Hennessy doesn’t talk much about her. I remember her, one of the girls said. I think. Don’t you have Hennessy’s memories? Ronan asked. Most of them, the girls said. After a massive fight with Hennessy, Jay passed out in the swimming pool and never woke up. Brooklyn thought Hennessy killed her. Jordan said that if Hennessy was capable of killing any of them, she’d be living in a one-bedroom condo with a sugar daddy by now.

Seven: Brooklyn. It sometimes seemed like the girls were colored by whatever Hennessy was feeling when she dreamt them, though they might’ve been reading too much into it. When Brooklyn came to be, Hennessy was going through a season of joylessly burning her way through partners of every gender, making up for quality with quantity. A trail of exterminated hearts rubbled behind her. Nurture or nature? Brooklyn loved a good make-out session.

Six: Alba. The girls told Ronan they didn’t know what the dream was that produced the copies. Hennessy had to be in it, obviously, since that was what she always brought back with her. She always has the same dream? he asked. Yes. And she can’t have it without bringing herself back? Yes. That’s why she sleeps in twenty-minute bursts. I thought, he said, that eventually you die if you don’t sleep a full night’s sleep. I think, they said, that is true. But it hadn’t been sleep deprivation that had killed Alba; she’d totaled one of Bill Dower’s cars before they moved out. Official story was that Hennessy had miraculously walked away without a scratch, and in a way, that was true.

Five: Farrah. Stupid Farrah, the girls told Ronan. Stupid Farrah fell in love and he … well. Didn’t love her back? Ronan suggested, and they’d laughed. Stupid Farrah, the girls said. He was, like, forty-five, and married, and Farrah wasn’t even Farrah to him, she was Hennessy. Nothing about Hennessy attracted real, uncorrupted affection. It was never going to be white horses and satin, even if Farrah was capable of love, which none of them were; had she looked in the mirror?

Four: Madox. Hennessy had nearly been caught dreaming Madox. They’d still been living at home then. Bob Dower had just gotten his new girlfriend/soon-to-be-new wife and all the girls were pissed about it. They’d been pissed about everything, actually: moving from London to Pennsylvania, going through puberty, being three girls living as one, living as one who was constantly in a bad mood trying to grow boobs on twenty minutes of sleep at a time. Hennessy had gotten the flu, fallen asleep on the couch, bled through her favorite pair of jeans, and manifested Madox in one fell swoop. June had had to smash the urn containing Bob Dower’s father’s ashes in the kitchen to create a diversion. Madox had been born angry; wouldn’t anyone have been?