The Dream Thieves (The Raven Cycle, #2)(116)

My brother. My brother. My brother.

It had been paralyzing, at first, knowing that his brother was so close. At first, the only way the Gray Man could focus on driving was by thinking of everything he had become as the Gray Man instead of everything he had been as Dean Allen. Because Dean Allen kept telling him to just pull over and get it over with. It will only be worse, whispered Dean Allen in a small voice, if you make him come looking for you.

The Gray Man, on the other hand, said: He is a thirty-nine-year-old investment manager, and for efficiency, he should probably just be shot twice in the head and returned to his office with an ambiguous note.

And there was a third part of him, now, that was neither the Gray Man nor Dean Allen, that wasn’t thinking about his brother at all. This part — perhaps it was Mr. Gray — couldn’t stop thinking about everything he was leaving behind. The faded and beautiful crevices of the little town, the unapologetic spread of Maura’s smile, the new thunder of his suddenly operating heart. This part of him even missed the Champagne Killjoy.

The Gray Man’s eyes drifted down to the note still stuck to the steering wheel: This one’s for you. Just the way you like it: fast and anonymous.

It was such a brilliant little plan, slick and simple. All he’d had to do was give up everything. And it was working so very well.

But then something happened.

There was nothing around them but trees and highway and blackness, but suddenly the lights on the dormant machines in the passenger seat exploded.

Not a flicker. Not a hint.

A blasted shout into the night. The headlights behind him dipped as the cars slammed on their brakes, their meters undoubtedly howling the same as his.

No, the Gray Man thought. One of those stupid boys had dreamt back in Henrietta and ruined everything.

But that wasn’t it.

Because the readings were solid and screaming. Ordinarily, the energy spiked at the moment of the dream object’s creation, and then fell off abruptly. But the meters were still pegged. And remained so, despite the fact that the Gray Man was headed away from Henrietta at seventy miles an hour.

Behind the Gray Man, the first car had faltered. They doubted the Gray Man’s story, perhaps. Assuming, like the Gray Man, that someone elsewhere was using the Greywaren.

But the longer the flashing lights and wailing alerts went on, the more obvious it was that this was not the Greywaren’s doing. Not only were the readings constant, but they were coming from everywhere. It had to be the line Maura had talked about. Something had happened to it, and now it was alive, blasting these energy readings through the roof.

The car behind him was still following, but slowly. They had access to the same readings as the Gray Man — and they were confused.

A realization gradually occurred to the Gray Man. As long as the ley line was creating such dramatic readings, the Greywaren was invisible. An energy spike wouldn’t be noticed in this already existing riot.

Which meant Henrietta didn’t have to worry about any new hunters coming after the Greywaren. No one could use these readings to pinpoint anything but the location of the line. It meant that if the Gray Man could somehow get rid of this carload of treasure seekers, there was only one reason for the Gray Man to run from Henrietta.

His brother.



Ronan had created this night horror to fight Kavinksy’s dragon, and fight they did.

Up through the black the creatures climbed, snarled around each other. Fireworks burst past them, illuminating their scales. The crowd, drunk and high and gullible and desirous of wonders, screamed their support.

Down on the ground, Ronan and Kavinsky leaned their heads back, too, watching what they had made.

The creatures were beautiful and terrible. Sparks cascaded from them as claws and fire met. A wheeling scream like a firework escaped from the night horror.

Up, up, up, into the black. Ronan’s eyes darted through the crowd. Gansey and Blue had gone separate ways and he saw them now tearing open the doors on Mitsubishis, looking for Matthew. The cars were all stopped as everyone watched the dragons. There weren’t that many cars. Gansey and Blue would find him. It would be all right.

But then Kavinsky’s fire dragon broke off from the night horror. It tucked its gaseous forearms and dove. With a hissing blast of noise, it collided with one of the flood lamps. The impact had no effect on the dragon, but the lamp capsized. Shocked screams punctuated the air; the lamp tumbled like a tree.

Kavinsky’s face was alight. He’d leapt to his feet as the fire dragon hurled itself at another one of the lamps. Flames burst and dissipated. The bulb exploded.

Ronan’s night horror plummeted from the sky, snatching at the fire dragon. For a moment, the two hit the ground, rolling across the dirt, and then they were aloft again.

No one was really afraid. Why weren’t they afraid?

It was magic, but nobody believed it was.

The music was still blaring. The cars were still wheeling. There were dragons fighting above them, and it was just another party.

The fire dragon screamed, the same horrible scream as before. It sped toward where Kavinsky and Ronan stood by the car.

“Stop it,” Ronan said.

Kavinsky’s eyes were still on it. “No stopping it now, Lynch.”

His furious dragon spun, wings outstretched. Tearing along the drag strip, it pulled a stretch of flames along the dirt behind it. It sprang off the roof of one of the Mitsubishis at the end. As its claws shrieked on the metal, the car burst into flame. The dragon charged into the air. The movement flipped the car behind it, easy as a toy.