The Dream Thieves (The Raven Cycle, #2)(113)



The crowd went wild.

“That’s him,” Ronan said, already shoving his way through the teens.

“Lynch,” Gansey said. “Ronan! Hold up!”

But Ronan was already several feet away, heading straight for the lone car. The dust had cleared and Kavinsky was visible, standing on its roof.

“Let’s burn something!” Kavinsky howled. He snapped his fingers, pointing. There was a hiss and a whine, and suddenly the first firework of the night spiraled up into the chaotic blue, high above the floodlights. He laughed, loud and wild. “Fuck you all!” He said something else, but it was lost in the ascending music. The bass buffeted them.

“I don’t like this,” Gansey shouted in Blue’s ear.

But there was no other way.

They caught up to Ronan just as he reached Kavinsky, who now stood next to the open door of the car. Whatever the opening volley had been, it had been unpleasant.

“Oh, hey,” Kavinsky sneered. His eyes had found Blue and Gansey. “It’s Daddy. Dick, that’s a strangely hetero partner you have there tonight. Lynch having performance issues?”

Ronan grabbed Kavinsky’s throat, and for once, Blue wasn’t displeased. Another firework screamed into the black overhead. Lightning arced past it.

“Where is he?” Ronan snarled. It was barely words.

Kavinsky seemed fairly unconcerned. He gestured toward the car behind him, and then toward one of the others, and then another. In a slightly strangled tone, he said, “In that car. Or that one. Or that one. Or that one. You know these things. They all look alike.”

He kneed Ronan in the stomach. With a gasp, Ronan dropped him.

“Here’s the thing, Lynch,” Kavinsky said. “When I said with me or against me, I didn’t really think you’d pick against me.”

Blue leapt forward as one of the Mitsubishis tore by behind her, the engine wailing high, smoke swirling. Already she was thinking about what they’d have to do to search them all. To keep track of the ones they’d already stopped and checked. All of the cars were identical, with the same Virginia license plate: THIEF.

“But in a way,” Kavinsky added, “it’s better this way. You know how I like things to explode.”

Ronan said, “I want my brother.”

“First,” Kavinsky said, opening his palm, revealing a green pill, “save your life. I’ll be right back, sweetie.”

He dropped it on his tongue.

He was down in a second, on his knees, then slumped against the car. Blue and Gansey just stared at Kavinsky’s prone form, uncomprehending. His veins were raised roads up his arms, the pulse in his jaw pounding out the bass.

“Shit,” said Ronan, diving into the car, throwing open the center console and digging in the contents. He found what he was looking for — another one of the green pills. “Shit, shit.”

“What’s happening?” Blue demanded.

“He’s dreaming,” Ronan said. “Who knows what he’s gone to get. Nothing good. Shit, Kavinsky!”

“Can we stop him?” Gansey asked.

“Only if you kill him,” Ronan replied. He stuffed the pill in his mouth. “Get Matthew. And get the hell out of here.”





Ronan hurtled into the dream. When he landed, elbows scuffing blood on the dirt, Kavinsky was already there, sunk down in the briars, covering his face. The trees Ronan knew so well were attacking him, claws of branches. Something about Kavinsky was the wrong color, or something, in comparison to the woods around him. It was as if the dream painted him a usurper.

“Guess our secret place is the same,” Kavinsky said. He grinned. His face was striated with fine scratches from the thorns.

Ronan replied, “Not such a thief tonight.”

“Some nights,” Kavinsky said, all teeth, “you just take it. Consent is overrated.”

The branches shook over them both. Thunder grumbled and smashed, close and real, real, real.

“You don’t have to do this,” Ronan said.

“There isn’t anything else, man.”

“There’s reality.”

Kavinsky laughed the word. “Reality! Reality’s what other people dream for you.”

“Reality’s where other people are,” Ronan replied. He stretched out his arms. “What’s here, K? Nothing! No one!”

“Just us.”

There was a heavy understanding in that statement, amplified by the dream. I know what you are, Kavinsky had said.

“That’s not enough,” Ronan replied.

“Don’t say Dick Gansey, man. Do not say it. He is never going to be with you. And don’t tell me you don’t swing that way, man. I’m in your head.”

“That’s not what Gansey is to me,” Ronan said.

“You didn’t say you don’t swing that way.”

Ronan was silent. Thunder growled under his feet. “No, I didn’t.”

“That makes it worse, man. You really are just his lapdog.”

There wasn’t even a tiny part of Ronan that was stung by this statement. When Ronan thought of Gansey, he thought of moving into Monmouth Manufacturing, of nights spent in companionable insomnia, of a summer searching for a king, of Gansey asking the Gray Man for his life. Brothers.

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