Adam leaned to bump his knuckles against Gansey’s.
No more playing around. There was only time for truth.
Depending on where you began the story, it was about Declan Lynch.
Although it was hard to believe, he hadn’t been born paranoid.
And really, was it paranoia when you weren’t necessarily wrong?
Caution. That was what it was called when people really were out to kill you. He’d learned caution, not paranoia.
He’d been born pliant and trusting, but he’d learned. He’d learned to be suspicious of people who asked you where you lived. He’d learned to talk to his father only on disposable mobile phones bought at gas stations. He’d learned not to trust anyone who told you that it wasn’t honourable to long for a historical town house in a corrupt city, a master suite with a tiger-skin rug, a case full of beautifully winking bourbons, and a German car that knew more about the world than you did. He’d learned that lies were only dangerous if you sometimes told the truth.
The eldest and most natural son of Niall Lynch stood in his Alexandria, Virginia, town house and leaned his forehead against the glass, staring out at the quiet morning street below. D.C. traffic was only beginning to growl to life, and this neighbourhood had yet to shake itself to waking.
He was holding a phone. It was ringing.
It was clunkier than the work phone that he used for his internship with Mark Randall, political denizen and golf ball killer. He’d intentionally chosen a model with a decidedly different shape for his father’s work. Didn’t want to scrape his hand through his messenger bag and grab the wrong one. Didn’t want to feel the nightstand in the middle of the night and speak easily to the wrong person. Didn’t want to give the wrong phone to Ashley to hold for him. Anything he could do to remind himself to be paranoid – cautious – while running the Niall Lynch business was a help.
This phone hadn’t rung in weeks. He thought he’d finally got out of it.
It rang.
He debated for a long time if it was more dangerous to pick it up or to ignore it.
He readjusted. He was no longer Declan Lynch, ingratiating political whippersnapper. He was Declan Lynch, Niall Lynch’s steel-jawed son.
It rang.
He picked it up.
“Lynch.”
“Consider this a courtesy call,” said the person on the other end of the phone. Music was playing in the background; some wailing string instrument.
A thin, viscous string of nerves stretched and dribbled down Declan’s neck.
He said, “You can’t possibly expect me to believe that’s all this is.”
“I would not expect any such thing,” replied the voice on the other line. It was clipped, amused, accented, invariably accompanied by music of some kind. Declan knew her only as Seondeok. She didn’t buy many artefacts, but when she did, there was no drama. The understanding was clear: Declan presented a magical object, Seondeok made an offer, Declan handed it over to her, and they parted ways until next time. At no point did Declan feel he might be capriciously stuffed in the trunk of his father’s car while listening to his father being roughed up, or handcuffed and forced to watch his parents’ barn get tossed in front of him, or beaten senseless and left half dead in his Aglionby dorm room.
Declan appreciated the little things.
But none of them could be trusted.
Caution, not paranoia.
“The situation is very volatile back in Henrietta,” Seondeok said. “I have heard it is no longer Greenmantle’s store.”
Volatile, yes. That was a word. Once upon a time, Niall Lynch had sold his “artefacts” to dealers all over the world. Somehow that had got narrowed down to Colin Greenmantle, Laumonier and Seondeok. Declan assumed it was for security, but maybe he was giving his father too much credit. Maybe he’d just alienated everyone else.
“What else have you heard?” Declan asked, neither confirming nor denying.
“I am glad to hear you do not trust me,” Seondeok replied. “Your father talked too much.”
“I don’t appreciate the tone,” Declan said. His father had talked too much. But that was for a Lynch to say, not some Korean dealer of illegal magical antiquities.
The music in the background wailed in apology. “Yes, that was rude of me. The word is that someone may be selling something special in Henrietta,” Seondeok said.
The nerves drooled down Declan’s collar. “Not me.”
“I did not think so. Like I said: courtesy call. I thought you might want to know if wolves were coming to your door.”
“How many wolves?”
The music tripped; restarted. “There may possibly be packs and packs.”
Maybe they had found out about Ronan. Declan’s fingers tightened on the phone. “Do you know what they are howling for, seonsaengnim?”
“Mm,” Seondeok said. It was an evocative noise that conveyed both that she knew he was sucking up and that she accepted it nonetheless. “This secret is still very young. I called in hope that I could give you enough time to act.”
“And how do you think that I should act?”
“It is hardly my place to tell you. I am not your parent.”
Declan said, “You know I have no parents.”
The music whispered and sighed behind her. Finally, she repeated, “I am not your parent. I am just another wolf. Don’t forget that.”
He pushed off the window. “I’m sorry. Now I was being rude. I appreciate the call. ”
His mind was already digging through worst-case scenarios. He needed to get Ronan and Matthew out of Henrietta – that was all that mattered.