The Dream Thieves (12 page)

The soul
, she’d said,
is vulnerable when it’s outside the mind.

The last time Blue had seen this bowl, Neeve had been scrying into someplace hidden on the ley line. Possibly somewhere in Cabeswater. And when Blue had interrupted her, she’d found Neeve
possessed
by whatever dark creature she’d discovered there.

Now, in the attic’s suffocating heat, Blue shivered. It was easy to forget the terror that had accompanied their hunt for Cabeswater. But the shiny circle in the base of the scrying bowl brought it all back in a second.

Who’s using you?
Blue wondered. And of course, that was only the first half of the question.

The other half was:
And what are you looking for now?

Ronan Lynch believed in heaven and hell.

Once, he’d seen the devil. It had been a low, late morning at the Barns when the sun had burned off the mist and then burned off the chill and then burned the edges off the ground until everything shimmered with heat. It never got hot in those protected fields, but that morning, the air sweated with it. Ronan had never seen cattle pant before. All of the cows heaved and stuck their tongues out as they frothed with the heat. His mother sent Ronan to put them in the shade of the cattle barn.

Ronan had gone to the searing metal gate, and as he did, he’d glimpsed his father, already in the barn. Four yards away from him had stood a red man. He was not truly red, but the burned orange of a fire ant. And he was not truly a man, because of the horns and the hooves. Ronan remembered the alienness of the creature, how
real
it had been. Every costume in the world had gotten it wrong; every drawing in every comic book. They’d all forgotten that the devil was an animal. Looking at the red man, Ronan had been struck by the intricacy of the body, how many miraculous pieces moved smoothly in harmony, no different from his own.

Niall Lynch had had a gun in hand — the Lynches had an enormous number of guns of all sizes — and just as Ronan had opened the gate, his father had shot the thing about thirteen times in the head. With a shake of its horns, the unharmed devil had presented its genitalia to Niall Lynch before bounding off. It was an image that had yet to leave Ronan.

And so Ronan became a reverse evangelist. The truth burst and grew inside him, and it was laid upon him to share it with no one. No one was meant to see hell before they got there. No one should have to live with the devil. So many homilies on faith were ruined once you no longer required it for belief.

Now it was Sunday, and as with every Sunday, he was headed to St. Agnes. Gansey wasn’t with him — he belonged to some religion that only required church attendance on Christmas — but Noah came with. Noah had not been Catholic when he was alive, but recently he had decided to find religion. No one in the church ever noticed him and it was possible God didn’t, either, but Ronan, as someone God possibly ignored as well, didn’t mind the company.

Today Ronan grimly stepped through the great old doors and clawed some holy water from the font while the choir members narrowed their eyes at him. He scanned the pews for Declan. It was the devil who drove him to church every Sunday, but it was his brother Matthew who drove him to a pew beside Declan.

His older brother sat in the rearmost pew, the knob of his skull resting on the wood, his eyes closed. As always, he’d dressed for church: collared shirt white as innocence, knot of his tie tight and sanctified, slacks obediently pressed. This week, however, Declan had zombie bruising beneath both of his eyes, a terrifically red, sutured split across a cheekbone, and a decidedly broken nose.

Ronan’s mood improved. He flicked holy water onto Declan’s face from his still-damp fingers. “What the hell happened to you?”

The two women sitting three pews forward whispered to each other. The organ murmured in the background.

Declan didn’t open his eyes. “Burglary.” He muttered it with as little effort as humanly possible, opening his mouth only wide enough for the word to escape.

Ronan and Noah exchanged a look.

“Oh, come on,” Ronan said. For starters, it was Henrietta. And for finishers, it was Henrietta. No one got burgled, and if they did, they didn’t get beaten up. And if anyone
was
going to get beaten up, it wouldn’t be the Lynch brothers. There was very little worse than Ronan in Henrietta, and what worse there was was too busy racing around in a little white Mitsubishi to burgle the remaining Lynches. “What did they steal?”

“My computer. And a little money.”

“And your face.”

Declan just inhaled in response, slow and careful. Ronan slid into the pew, and Noah moved in beside him, sitting at the very end. As he lowered the kneeler, he smelled the sharp, antiseptic smell of hospital on his brother. For a moment, disoriented, he had to hold in his breath. He knelt and put his head down on his arms. The image behind his eyes was the bloody tire iron beside his father’s head.
I didn’t come out soon enough, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Why of all the things I can do can I not change —
While whispered conversations ebbed and flowed around them, he focused on the image of his older brother’s face and tried unsuccessfully to imagine the person that could beat Declan up. The only person who had ever succeeded in beating up a Lynch brother had been another Lynch brother.

After he had exhausted this line of thought, Ronan gave in to the brief privilege of hating himself, as he always did in church. There was something satisfying about acknowledging this hatred, something relieving about this little present he allowed himself each Sunday.

After a minute, the kneeler buckled as Matthew joined them. Even without the buck of the kneeler, Ronan would have known his presence by the heavy dose of cologne Matthew always seemed to think church required.

“Hey, pal,” Matthew whispered. He was the only person who could get away with calling Ronan
pal
. Matthew Lynch was a bear of a boy, square and solid and earnest. His head was covered with soft, golden curls completely unlike any of his other family members. And in his case, the perfect Lynch teeth were framed by an easy, dimpled smile. He had two brands of smile: the one that was preceded by a shy dip of his chin, a dimple, and then BAM, smile. And the one that teased for a moment before BAM, an infectious laugh. Females of all ages called him
adorable
. Males of all ages called him
buddy
. Matthew failed at many more things than either of his older brothers, but unlike Declan or Ronan, he always tried his hardest.

Ronan had dreamt one thousand nightmares about something happening to him.

Matthew had unconsciously left enough room for Noah, but didn’t offer a greeting. Ronan had once asked Noah if he chose to be invisible, and Noah, hurt, had replied enigmatically, “Rub it in, why don’t you!”

“Did you see Declan’s
face
?” Matthew whispered to Ronan. The organ played dolorously.

Declan kept his voice just low enough to be church-level. “I’m right
here
.”

“Burglar,” Ronan said. Really, it was like the truth was a disease Declan thought might kill him.

“Sometimes, when I call you,” Declan muttered, still in the strange, low voice that came from him trying not to move his mouth while he spoke, “I actually need for you to pick up.”

“Are we having a conversation?” Ronan asked. “Is that what’s happening right now?”

Noah smirked. He didn’t look very pious.

“By the way, Joseph Kavinsky isn’t someone I want you being around,” Declan added. “Don’t snort. I’m serious.”

Ronan merely invested a look with as much contempt as he could muster. A lady reached over the top of Noah to pat Matthew’s head fondly before continuing down the aisle. She didn’t seem to care that he was fifteen, which was all right, because he didn’t, either. Both Ronan and Declan observed this interaction with the pleased expressions of parents watching their prodigy at work.

Declan repeated, “Like, actually dangerous.”

Sometimes, Declan seemed to think that being a year older gave him special knowledge of the seedier side of Henrietta. What he meant was, did Ronan know that Kavinsky was a cokehead?

In his ear, Noah whispered, “Is crack the same thing as speed?”

Ronan didn’t answer. He didn’t think it was a very church-appropriate conversation.

“I
know
you think you’re a punk,” Declan said, “but you aren’t nearly as badass as you think you are.”

“Oh, go to hell,” Ronan snapped, just as the altar boys broached the rear doors.

“Guys,” Matthew pleaded. “Be
holy
.”

Both Declan and Ronan fell silent. They were silent all through the opening hymn, which Matthew sang cheerily along to, and the readings, which Matthew smiled pleasantly through, and the homily, which Matthew slept gently through. They were silent through communion, as Noah remained in the pew and Declan limped up the aisle and accepted the host and Ronan closed his eyes to be blessed —
please God what am I tell me what I am
—
and Matthew shook his head at the wine. And finally silent through the last hymn as the priest and the altar boys trailed back out of the church.

They found Declan’s girlfriend, Ashley, waiting on the sidewalk just outside the main doors. She was dressed in whatever had just been on the front page of
People
or
Cosmopolitan
and her hair was dyed whatever shade of blond matched it. She had three tiny gold earrings in each earlobe. She seemed oblivious to Declan’s cheating, and Ronan hated her. To be fair, she also hated Ronan.

Ronan snarled a smile at her. “Afraid you’ll catch fire if you come in?”

“I refuse to participate in a ceremony that doesn’t, like, allow equal spiritual privileges to women,” she said. She didn’t meet Ronan’s eyes when she said it, though, and she didn’t look at Noah at all, though he’d snickered vaguely.

“Do you two buy your politics out of the same catalog?” Ronan asked.

“Ronan —” Declan started.

Ronan flipped out his car keys. “I was just leaving.” He allowed Matthew to perform a brotherly handshake that they had invented four years previously, and then he advised Declan, “Stay away from burglars.”

It was not as easy as one might expect for Ronan Lynch to street race. Most people obeyed the speed limit. For all the press road rage received, the majority of drivers were either too safety conscious, too shy, too principled, or too oblivious to provoke. Even those who might have considered a few minutes of traffic-light dragracing were generally aware that their vehicles were not suited to the task. Races were not to be found just lying on the street. They had to be cultivated.

So this was how Ronan Lynch found trouble.

A brightly colored car, for a start. Ronan had spent hours of his life as the only black car in a short, straightforward game of candy-coated vehicles. He looked for hatchbacks, coupes. Almost never a convertible. No one wanted to mess up their hair. This was a street racer’s wish list: aftermarket parts on any sort of car, yawning exhaust pipes, asphalt-scraping ground-effects, cavernous hood scoops, smoked headlights, mismatched flames painted on fenders. Any car that came with a wing. The more it looked like a handle to lift the car, the better. The silhouette of a shaved head or a hat jerked sideways was a promising sign, as was an arm hanging over the door. A deeply tanned hand braced on the mirror was better. Thumping bass was a call to battle. So were vanity plates, so long as they didn’t say things like HOTGURL or LVBUNY. Bumper stickers were a turnoff, unless they were college radio. Oh, and horsepower didn’t count for anything. Half the time, the best sports cars were piloted by middle-aged bankers fearful of what might lie beneath their hood. Ronan used to avoid cars with multiple passengers, too, figuring that a solo driver was more likely to burn rubber at a light. But now he knew that the right sort of passengers would egg on an ordinarily tame driver. There was nothing Ronan liked better than a skinny tanned kid half-hanging out of a noisy, mostly dead red Honda full of his friends.