The Dream Thieves (The Raven Cycle, #2)(112)

This was how Blue knew something was really wrong.

Ronan exploded in behind him, and if she hadn’t been able to tell from Gansey, she would’ve known it from Ronan. He was wild-eyed as a trapped animal. When he stopped, he rested his hand on the doorjamb and his fingers crawled up it.

“What’s happened?” she asked.

They told her.

Immediately, she accompanied them to the Fourth of July parade, where they searched unsuccessfully for Maura or Calla. They drove by Kavinsky’s house and found it empty. Then, as the afternoon wore on, Blue directed them to the Henrietta drag strip — the annual location of Kavinsky’s Fourth of July party. It seemed impossible that neither Gansey nor Ronan had ever been to it. Impossible that Blue, a student at ordinary old Mountain View High School, should have special knowledge about Kavinsky that they didn’t. But maybe this part of Joseph Kavinsky wasn’t very Aglionby at all.

Kavinsky’s Fourth of July party was infamous.

Two years before, he had supposedly had an actual tank for his fireworks finale. As in a full-size, olive drab tank with Russian characters painted on the side. It was rumor, of course, and stayed rumor, because the end of the story was that he blew up the tank itself. Blue knew a senior who claimed to have a metal strip off it.

Three years before, a junior from a school three counties over had overdosed on something the hospital hadn’t seen before. It wasn’t the overdose that impressed people, though. It was that fifteen-year-old Kavinsky was already capable of pulling in kids from forty-five minutes away. Statistically, you probably weren’t going to die at Kavinsky’s party.

Every year, there were dozens of cars waiting to be flogged on the drag strip. No one knew who provided them or where they went afterward. It didn’t matter if you had a license. All you needed was to know how to hit a gas pedal.

Last year, Kavinsky had supposedly sent a firework so far into the air that the CIA had come to his house to question him. Blue found this story rather suspect. Surely it would’ve been the Department of Homeland Security instead.

This year, two ambulances and four cops parked half a mile from the drag strip. Close enough to be there in time. Not close enough to watch.

Kavinsky was untouchable.

The drag strip — a long, dusty field cut into the hills around it — was already packed when they got there. Music blared from somewhere, benevolent and upbeat. Barbecue grills scented the air with charcoal and neglected hot dogs. There was no sign of alcohol. Nor of the infamous cars that supposedly populated the drag strip later. There was an old Mustang and a Pontiac facing off down the strip, throwing up rubber and dust while onlookers cheered them on, but the matches seemed awfully playful and easygoing. There were adults here, and young kids. Ronan stared at a girl holding a balloon as if she were a bewildering creature.

This wasn’t really what any of them had expected.

Gansey stood in the dirt and glanced around, dubious. “Are you sure this is Kavinksy’s?”

“It’s early,” Blue said. She glanced around herself. She was torn between wanting to be recognized by someone from school and wanting to not be seen running with Aglionby boys.

“He can’t be here,” Ronan said. “You have to be wrong.”

“I don’t know if he’s here yet,” Blue snapped, “but this is the place. This is always the place.”

Ronan glared at one of the speakers. It was playing something Blue thought was called “yacht rock.” He was more wound up by the moment. People were dragging their younger kids out of his way.

“Jane says this is the place,” Gansey insisted. “So it’s the place. Let’s do a study.”

They did a study. As the afternoon shadows grew longer, they pushed through the crowd and asked after Kavinsky and looked behind the buildings at the edge of the strip. They didn’t find him, but as the evening graded into night, the character of the party subtly changed. The young kids were the first to disappear. Then the adults started to go, replaced by either seniors or college kids. Red plastic cups started to appear. The yacht rock got darker, deeper, filthier.

The Mustang and the Pontiac were gone. A girl offered Blue a pill.

“I’ve got extras,” she told Blue.

Nerves, sudden and searing, burned along Blue’s skin. She shook her head. “No thanks.”

When the girl asked Gansey, he just gazed at her for a minute too long, not realizing he was being rude until too late. This was so far from Richard Gansey’s scene that he had no words at all.

And then Ronan flicked the pill out of the girl’s hand onto the ground. She spit in his face and stalked off.

Ronan turned in a slow circle. “Where are you, you bastard?”

The floodlights came on.

The crowd whooped.

Overhead, the speakers spat in Spanish. The bass thundered through Blue’s boots. Real thunder groaned overhead.

Engines revved high, and the crowd pressed back to admit the cars. Every hand was up in the air, jumping, dancing, celebrating. Someone shouted: “God bless AMERICA!”

Ten white Mitsubishis drove onto the drag strip. They were identical: black yawning mouths, shredded knife graphic carved down the sides, giant spoilers. But one tore down the strip in front of the others, and then jerked sideways to skid before a massive boom of dust. It was hidden in the cloud, nothing visible but the headlights cutting through the dirt.