Mister Impossible (Dreamer Trilogy #2)(30)

It had already occurred to Declan that he was headed to the same place Ronan’s boyfriend was going to school, but he hadn’t planned on a tête-à-tête. Paranoid Declan wasn’t intending to spend that long in the area. “I thought you had the MEGAPHONE. Call him yourself.”

Ronan said, “Yeah.”

“What’s that mean? Did you guys fight?”

“No,” Ronan said, sounding offended. “I really do have to go. Keep an eye over your shoulder for, like, uh, the bogeyman, I guess. Matthew, eat whatever vegetable the Big D tells you to.”

“Turds,” Matthew said.

“Turds aren’t vegetables,” Ronan replied. “They’re mammals.”

“You never told me what Bryde was like,” Declan said.

“Ha!” Ronan replied.

The phone went dead. The Connecticut traffic charged around them in the middle lane.

Declan tried to figure out if the feeling inside him was the usual unsettled sensation that came from every interaction with Ronan, or if it was above and beyond that. It was time to let Ronan grow up and make his own decisions, surely. Declan didn’t need to parent his relationship with Adam—and in any case, who was Declan to talk about relationships? Ronan didn’t need a father figure. He needed to keep on growing up.

He thought.

Probably.

It was harder than before to tell if this was actually right or if this was just what Declan wanted to tell himself so he could continue on this adventure to Boston.

“He sounds happy,” Matthew observed.

“Yeah,” Declan lied.

“Maybe he can make it to Mass with us next week. Are we going to church while we’re in Boston? Do I still take Communion now that I know I’m not real?”

With a sigh, Declan leaned over and buckled Matthew’s seat belt.

“I heard the thump again,” Matthew said, but without force. “From the trunk.”

“This car might have a bearing going out; these old Jags do that,” Declan said. It was an excuse he’d learned from his father, before he’d gotten old enough to learn that bearings didn’t go out as often as they did for Lynches. This wasn’t even a Jaguar; Matthew wouldn’t notice. Declan didn’t even know why he lied about it; the fib was like bubble wrap, the truth carefully kept pristine and untouched for his collection.

“Oh, sure,” Matthew said. “Bearings.”

Depending on how one thought about it, Declan’s relationship with the criminal underworld was the longest and most stable one he’d had in his life.

Declan had a very complicated relationship with his family.





Everyone likes the sweetmetals,” Jo Fisher said.

“I didn’t say I liked them.”

“Everyone likes them,” Fisher told Jordan. “Everyone always likes them. Always.”

The two of them were in a wine cellar deep beneath a Chestnut Hill mansion just a few miles outside Boston. It had only taken Jordan a few sleepless hours after learning of the existence of sweetmetals to decide she had to know everything there was to know about them.

Because she had to have one.

This was the way to a real future.

Jordan hadn’t wanted to call Barbara’s goon and prove she was interested, but it was the most efficient next step. It seemed obvious Boudicca couldn’t have the only sweetmetals in the world, but she needed to know more about them before she even knew where to look for others. She wasn’t crazy about the power dynamics of the rendezvous—she was meeting them on their turf, and in an underground bunker, no less. But her attempts to negotiate to a more equitable location had been useless.

It’s not you, Boudicca had explained, it’s us. Well, it’s them.

Apparently, if the sweetmetals were kept any closer to the surface, they started affecting “dependents” in the city.

Jordan was beginning to wonder just how much of the world had been dreamt.

“How many of these are there?” she asked. The entire place smelled old, but in a classy way. Not like mold, but like fermentation. In addition to the hundreds of wine bottles sleeping nose-out on either wall, there were also a few oak barrels nested at the end of the hall. “On the planet, I mean?”

The sweetmetals had been set up in a stylish display down the aisle. Paintings perched on fabric-draped easels, antique jewelry preened on velvet, sculpture assessed the room from atop carved pillars. Tasteful lighting had been installed to better highlight them. If one didn’t know any better, one might mistake this for an eccentric art sale for discerning buyers.

But the pieces themselves soon corrected that impression. Jordan could feel their collective power radiating toward her. Her body felt awake, alert, ready for action. It was like caffeine. Speed.

No, it was like being real.

“In the whole world?” Fisher asked. She sounded as if she thought the question was stupid. Like Jordan was looking at a puppy for sale and asking how many puppies existed elsewhere in general. Jordan had already pegged Fisher as one of those ambitious young women who had to try harder than others to look as if they cared about people’s feelings; it was obvious that Fisher understood what polite looked like but also obvious she couldn’t always be arsed to step up.

“I don’t have that information with me. It’s not a typical question.” Fisher managed to imply that, by asking, Jordan was indicating she might not be a worthy buyer.