The Dream Thieves (The Raven Cycle, #2)(111)

Ronan had to guiltily admit to himself that this was true. He’d been lying on the hood of an invented Camaro and he hadn’t given a second’s thought to what day it was. Then he realized what Declan was hinting at — that possibly, Matthew was taking revenge on Ronan with an unannounced disappearance of his own. While it was true that tricking Ronan into a solo church visit with Declan would have been an excellent punishment, it didn’t feel like Matthew’s handiwork at all.

“Oh, please,” Ronan whispered. “He’s not that clever.”

Declan looked shocked and poisonous. He was always so alarmed by the truth.

“Have you called him?” Ronan asked.

“Not picking up.” Declan narrowed his eyes as if this failure to answer his phone was an infection his youngest brother had picked up from Ronan.

“You saw him this morning?”

“Yeah.”

Ronan shrugged.

“He doesn’t skip.” The inverse statement was implied: unlike you.

“Until he does.”

“This is all your fault,” Declan said, hushed. His eyes darted to the empty pew beside Ronan and then to the priest. “I told you to keep your mouth shut. I told you to keep your head down. Why can’t you just do what you’re told for once?”

Someone kicked the back of their pew. It struck Ronan as an extremely un-Catholic action. He looked over his shoulder, elegant and dangerous, and raised an eyebrow at the middle-aged man sitting behind him. He waited. The man dropped his eyes.

Declan flicked Ronan’s arm. “Ronan.”

“Stop acting like you know everything.”

“Oh, I know enough. I know exactly what you are.”

There was a time when this statement would’ve trickled through Ronan like venom. Now, he didn’t have time for it. In the relative scheme of things, his older brother’s opinion ranked very low. In fact, Ronan was only here because of Matthew, and without Matthew here, there was no reason to stay. He slid out of the pew.

“Ronan,” whispered Declan ferociously. “Where are you going?”

Ronan put a finger to his lips. A smile snaked out on either side of it.

Declan just shook his head, lifting a hand like he was simply done with Ronan. And that, of course, was another lie, because he was never done with Ronan. But at the moment, eighteen and freedom seemed a lot closer than it had before, and it didn’t matter.

As Ronan pushed through the great, heavy doors of the church — the same doors he’d walked through with the newly dreamt Chainsaw — he pulled out his phone and called Matthew.

It went to voicemail.

Ronan didn’t believe it. He got into the BMW to head back to Monmouth and called again.

Voicemail.

He couldn’t let it go. He didn’t know why. It wasn’t that Matthew never abandoned his phone. And it wasn’t quite that Matthew never abandoned church, especially not an additional holiday Mass.

It was the Gray Man’s face and the beaten-up priest and the world turned on its ear.

He put the car in gear and headed out of the smoldering downtown. He steered with his knee. Called again. Voicemail.

This didn’t feel right.

As he pulled into the lot outside of Monmouth, a text buzzed in from Matthew’s number.

Finally.

Ronan pulled up the parking brake, turned the car off, and looked at the screen.

what’s up mofo

This wasn’t what he generally expected from his younger brother. Before he had time to consider a reply, a text buzzed in from Kavinksy’s number as well.

what’s up mofo

Something ill turned over inside Ronan.

A moment later, Kavinsky texted again.

bring something fun to fourth of july or we’ll see which pill works the best on your brother

Without pause, Ronan snatched up his phone and called Kavinsky.

Kavinsky picked up at once. “Lynch, fancy hearing from you.”

Ronan demanded, “Where is he?”

“You know, I asked nice the first few times. Are you coming to Fourth? Are you coming? Are you coming? Here, have a motherf*cking car. Are you coming? You made it ugly. Bring something impressive tonight.”

“I’m not doing this,” Ronan said.

One thousand nightmares of Matthew dead. Blood in his curls, blood in his teeth, flies in his eyes, flies in his guts.

“Oh,” Kavinsky said, with that slow, despicable laugh in his voice. “I think you are. Or I’ll keep trying different things on him. He can be my finale tonight. Boom! You want to see something explode….”

Ronan turned the key, threw down the parking brake. The door to Monmouth had opened and Gansey stood there, one hand up, asking a question.

“You won’t get away with this.”

“I got away with dear old dad,” Kavinsky observed. “And Prokopenko. And no offense to your brother, but they were a lot more complicated.”

“This was the wrong play. I will destroy you.”

“Don’t let me down, Lynch.”





Gansey blasted into 300 Fox Way well in advance of the thunderstorm. He didn’t knock. He just suddenly burst in as Blue was unlacing her shoes from her part-time dog-walking gig.

“Jane?” he called. Her stomach twisted. “Blue!”