Mister Impossible (Dreamer Trilogy #2)(11)

Bryde gave her a withering look, but it had worked—all her words had drained him of his. He just shook his head and tossed Ronan’s jacket at him. “Get your things. It’s three hours to the next nearest ley line. We’ve got to get going before this one turns the lack of ley into an emergency again.”

“I’m not that damn fragile,” Ronan protested.

Bryde just said, “Don’t forget your bird.”

After Bryde stalked off through the doors, Hennessy held out an arm to help Ronan up from the hay. “Must’ve been a helluva dream.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Ronan said.

“Fuck off yourself. You’re welcome.”

Ronan shouldered on his jacket. “What was it going to be? Your dream. Don’t say Ploplop.”

“Loplop, you Neanderthal,” Hennessy said. She didn’t want to talk about the dream. She didn’t want to talk about Jordan. She just wanted to keep moving so she didn’t have to think about any of it too hard while she was awake, because when she thought about it, she got sad, and when she got sad, she got angry, and when she got angry, she wanted to kill Moderators, and when she wanted to kill Moderators, Bryde told her to bide her time. She didn’t want to bide her time. “That’s the crankiest I’ve ever seen him. Maybe he’ll get tired of us and piss off to whatever he was doing before.”

This was a topic she and Ronan had already discussed, briefly in whispers, when they had moments here and there without Bryde. Who was this person they were following? Where had he been before? They knew he’d been infamous when they first met him, that his name was already whispered around black markets … but for what? And how eager was he to get back to it?

Ronan rubbed a thumb over the wheel closest to him, pressing his fingers into the etched word tamquam. This was a thing Hennessy was learning about Ronan Lynch: He always thought he was keeping his secrets by keeping his mouth shut, but he ended up telling them in other ways.

He said, “But what were you dreaming about really?”

“A lady never tells,” Hennessy said, “and it’s impolite to ask.”

“Whatever.”

“Jordan.”

“I said whatever.”

“And I said Jordan.”

If he had pressed her harder, she would have talked about it, and part of her wanted him to, but instead he just kicked one of the wheels. It occurred to her, in a distant way, that maybe he wanted her to press him about his dream, too. Something must have bothered him enough that he couldn’t prevent all these wheels from driving out of his head, after all. But the idea of holding the weight of his drama on top of her own felt like too much.

So they just silently assembled themselves. Hennessy got her sword. Ronan got his bird. At the door, he turned to survey what he had done. All those wheels. He was an unusual silhouette with the raven crouched on his shoulder, the sword strapped to his back. Hennessy thought he would have made a fairly good portrait subject, if everything about him wasn’t supposed to be secret, which made her think about how, in her dream, she’d thought about how Jordan would’ve thought Bryde an appropriate portrait subject.

“I wonder what she’s up to,” Hennessy said. “What she and your brother are up to.”

Ronan’s voice was dry and disappointed as he turned away. “Bet they’re having a blast.”





Jordan felt a little bad about stealing Declan Lynch’s car.

Not overwhelmingly bad. Not enough to keep her up nights (or rather, mornings, since she was a night owl). Not enough that she wished she could go back and do it differently. Just enough that sometimes she saw a Volvo of the same make and model and had a vague, niggling sensation of wrongness. The opposite of the Volvo brand. The opposite of the Jordan brand.

Really it was this: A few weeks before, she’d left the oldest and youngest Lynch brothers at a rural Virginian rest stop in the middle of the night, their faces lit up by the taillights as she drove their car away. Matthew—surprised, everything perfectly round, round face, round eyes, round mouth—looking, as ever, much younger than his seventeen years. And Declan—unsurprised. Arms crossed. Mouth a straight line. Eyes closing to form an Of course, it’s always something, isn’t it? expression just as he got too small to see in her rearview mirror. But it was a minor betrayal. Jordan had known Declan was resourceful enough to find another transportation method for the rest of the journey to the Barns. And she’d also known the bad guys who’d tried to kill the brothers earlier weren’t in close enough pursuit to put them in any danger in the interim.

Probably.

That probably was what she felt a little bad about. Gambling with other people’s lives was usually more what the Hennessy half of Jordan Hennessy would do. Jordan was the more thoughtful half, usually.

Declan Lynch was on her mind now, even though there was no Volvo in sight, because of the party invite in her hands. Heavy card stock, matte black with a bold white cross painted on it, rounded edges that felt good to press your fingers against. JORDAN HENNESSY AND GUEST, you are invited.

She knew it was a Boudicca party. That was their logo, their colors—that painted blunt cross, that black and white. Boudicca was a ladies-only crime syndicate that offered protection and marketing in exchange for what looked a lot like luxurious servitude. They’d tried previously to recruit both Jordan and Hennessy, thinking they were talking to a single entity, a pretty, high-class art forger. Neither were interested. Jordan already had enough limits on her movement. Hennessy didn’t play well with others.