“He can’t be here,” Ronan said. “You have to be wrong.”
“I don’t know if he’s here yet,” Blue snapped, “but this is the place. This is always the place.”
Ronan glared at one of the speakers. It was playing something Blue thought was called “yacht rock.” He was more wound up by the moment. People were dragging their younger kids out of his way.
“Jane says this is the place,” Gansey insisted. “So it’s the place. Let’s do a study.”
They did a study. As the afternoon shadows grew longer, they pushed through the crowd and asked after Kavinsky and looked behind the buildings at the edge of the strip. They didn’t find him, but as the evening graded into night, the character of the party subtly changed. The young kids were the first to disappear. Then the adults started to go, replaced with either seniors or college kids. Red plastic cups started to appear. The yacht rock got darker, deeper, filthier.
The Mustang and the Pontiac were gone. A girl offered Blue a pill.
“I’ve got extras,” she told Blue.
Nerves, sudden and searing, burned along Blue’s skin. She shook her head. “No thanks.”
When the girl asked Gansey, he just gazed at her for a minute too long, not realizing he was being rude until too late. This was so far from Richard Gansey’s scene that he had no words at all.
And then Ronan flicked the pill out of the girl’s hand onto the ground. She spit in his face and stalked off.
Ronan turned in a slow circle. “Where are you, you bastard.”
The floodlights came on.
The crowd whooped.
Overhead, the speakers spat in Spanish. The bass thundered through Blue’s boots. Real thunder groaned overhead.
Engines revved high, and the crowd pressed back to admit the cars. Every hand was up in the air, jumping, dancing, celebrating. Someone shouted:
“God bless AMERICA!”
Ten white Mitsubishis drove onto the drag strip. They were identical: black yawning mouths, shredded knife graphic carved down the sides, giant spoilers. But one tore down the strip in front of the others, and then jerked sideways to skid before a massive boom of dust. It was hidden in the cloud, nothing visible but the headlights cutting through the dirt.
The crowd went wild.
“That’s him,” Ronan said, already shoving his way through the teens.
“Lynch,” Gansey said. “Ronan! Hold up!”
But Ronan was already several feet away, heading straight for the lone car. The dust had cleared and Kavinsky was visible, standing on its roof.
“Let’s burn something!” Kavinsky howled. He snapped his fingers, pointing. There was a hiss and a whine, and suddenly the first firework of the night spiraled up into the chaotic blue, high above the floodlights. He laughed, loud and wild. “Fuck you all!” He said something else, but it was lost in the ascending music. The bass buffeted them.
“I don’t like this,” Gansey shouted in Blue’s ear.
But there was no other way.
They caught up to Ronan just as he reached Kavinsky, who now stood next to the open door of the car. Whatever the opening volley had been, it had been unpleasant.
“Oh, hey,” Kavinsky sneered. His eyes had found Blue and Gansey. “It’s Daddy. Dick, that’s a strangely hetero partner you have there tonight. Lynch having performance issues?”
Ronan grabbed Kavinsky’s throat, and for once, Blue wasn’t displeased. Another firework screamed into the black overhead. Lightning arced past it.
“Where is he,” Ronan snarled. It was barely words.
Kavinsky seemed fairly unconcerned. He gestured toward the car behind him, and then toward one of the others, and then another. In a slightly strangled tone, he said, “In that car. Or that one. Or that one. Or that one. You know these things. They all look alike.”
He kneed Ronan in the stomach. With a gasp, Ronan dropped him.
“Here’s the thing, Lynch,” Kavinsky said. “When I said with me or against me, I didn’t really think you’d pick against me.”
Blue leapt forward as one of the Mitsubishis tore by behind her, the engine wailing high, smoke swirling. Already she was thinking about what they’d have to do to search them all. To keep track of the ones they’d already stopped and checked. All of the cars were identical, with the same Virginia license plate: THIEF.
“But in a way,” Kavinsky added, “it’s better this way. You know how I like things to explode.”
Ronan said, “I want my brother.”
“First,” Kavinsky said, opening his palm, revealing a green pill, “save your life. I’ll be right back, sweetie.”
He dropped it on his tongue.
He was down in a second, on his knees, then slumped against the car. Blue and Gansey just stared at Kavinsky’s prone form, uncomprehending. His veins were raised roads up his arms, the pulse in his jaw pounding out the bass.
“Shit,” said Ronan, diving into the car, throwing open the center console and digging in the contents. He found what he was looking for — another one of the green pills. “Shit, shit.”
“What’s happening?” Blue demanded.
“He’s dreaming,” Ronan said. “Who knows what he’s gone to get. Nothing good. Shit, Kavinsky!”
“Can we stop him?” Gansey asked.
“Only if you kill him,” Ronan replied. He stuffed the pill in his mouth. “Get Matthew. And get the hell out of here.”
61
Ronan hurtled into the dream. When he landed, elbows scuffing blood on the dirt, Kavinsky was already there, sunk down in the briars, covering his face. The trees