The Dream Thieves (The Raven Cycle, #2)(91)

As the boys were headed out the door, Gansey holding his tiny mint plant and Adam struggling beneath a five-gallon pot of rubber tree, Helen came down dragging a tiny black wheeled suitcase.

“Dick,” she said, “those guys from the tow place said they couldn’t come this morning. Could you please take care of it before you go? I’m going to miss my flight.”

Gansey, who’d already looked terse, increased the irritation on his face to officially harassed. “Does it run? Can we just drop it off?”

“It runs. I guess. But it’s in Herndon, the drop-off.”

“Herndon!”

“I know. That’s why I was having it towed. It’s costing me more to get it there than I’m getting to donate it. Hey, do you have any need for it? Adam, you want a piece-of-shit car? Save me the tow.”

The offer felt imaginary. Consciousness was being played on a movie screen.

Three Ganseys, three gifts, and three hours back to Henrietta.

Don’t let me lose control on the way home, Adam thought. Just get me back, that’s all I ask.

His new car was of uncertain make and model year. It was a two-door something and smelled of automotive body fluids. The hood, passenger-side door, and right rear fender were clearly from three entirely different cars. It was a stick shift. Adam was in the peculiar position of knowing how to rebuild a clutch better than how to operate one. But he’d get better, with practice.

It was nothing, but it was Adam Parrish’s nothing.

This day — this place — this life —

It felt like he’d always been here in D.C., born in the simmering asphalt petri dish of the city. He’d dreamt Henrietta and Aglionby. It was taking everything in him to remember that there was a future beyond this immediate moment.

Just get back, he thought. Get back so you can find out …

“Look, just flash your lights if something goes wrong,” Gansey said, standing before the open door of his black Suburban. He ordinarily kept it here, but no one really trusted Adam’s new vehicle to make the drive across the state. Gansey rocked the driver’s side door a little. Adam could tell that he wanted nothing more than to ask, Are you all right? or What do you need, Adam? The mint plant, placed on the dash, peered anxiously around Gansey’s shoulder.

“Don’t,” Adam warned.

A frown, angrier than the night before last. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“It’s possible I did.”

Gansey swung the door another time. The Suburban was huge behind him. Adam’s new car and the Pig would fit inside it, with room for a bicycle or two. Adam remembered how breathtaking its existence had been when he first learned of it. Rich enough for two cars?

“What was I going to say, then?”

The power lines shivered above Adam. Something was singing and shaking inside him. He needed to get back. Soon. That was all he knew.

Adam said, “I don’t think we should do this now.”

“Are we doing something now? I thought what was happening was that you were being —” With visible effort, Gansey checked himself. “Are you coming back to Monmouth or …”

No time. No time for that. He needed to stop waiting and start acting. He was no better than Gansey hoping for someone else to wake the ley line. He needed to move.

“I’m going to Fox Way to ask for advice,” Adam replied.

Gansey opened his mouth. There were a hundred things he could say, and ninety-nine of them would only make Adam angry. Gansey seemed to intuit this, because he took his time before he said, “I’ll check up on Ronan, then.”

Adam sank into the worn and dusty seat of his new old car. Whispers escaped from the air vents. Fine, I’m coming, I’m coming.

Gansey was still staring at Adam, but what did he want him to say? It was taking everything in him to remember who he was.

“Just flash your lights,” Gansey said finally, “if something goes wrong.”





When Maura opened the door of 300 Fox Way, she found the Gray Man standing pensively on the other side. He had brought her two things: a daisy-chain crown, which he somberly placed on her head, and a pink switchblade, which he handed to her. Both had taken some effort to procure. The first because the Gray Man had forgotten how to efficiently link daisies and the second because switchblades were illegal in Virginia, even if they were pink.

“I’ve been looking for something,” the Gray Man said.

“I know.”

“I thought it was a box.”

“I know.”

“It’s not, is it?”

Maura shook her head. She stepped back to let him in. “Drink?”

The Gray Man didn’t immediately step inside. “Is it a person?”

She held his gaze. She repeated, “Drink?”

With a sigh, he followed her in. She led him down the main hallway to the kitchen, where she (badly) made him a drink and then let him onto the back patio. Calla and Persephone were already positioned in chairs arranged where the shaggy lawn gave way to new puddles and old bricks. They looked ethereal and pleased in the long golden afternoon sunshine that had emerged after the storm. Persephone’s hair was a white cloud. Calla’s was three different colors of purple.

“Mr. Gray,” Calla said, expansive and scathing. She assassinated a mosquito on her calf and then eyed the glass in Maura’s hand. “I can tell already that drink’s shit.”