No. He wasn’t usually this bad unless …

Declan said, “Matthew. Matthew. Matthew.”

Matthew.

The wizard’s tower and the wizard’s tarot cards and the wizard himself were melting away. All of Matthew’s thoughts were melting away.

Wherever Ronan was, he was in deep trouble.

Chapter 15

Hennessy always dreamt of the Lace.

Left to her own devices, it was always the Lace.

Nightwash and blood and a barn full of dead turkeys behind them, nightwash and blood and a night full of desperation before them, because Hennessy couldn’t dream of anything but the Lace.

The nearly invisible car burst through the night as Bryde tersely directed her down one road and then another and then another. Ronan was silent in the backseat. Every once in a while, she glanced over her shoulder to see if he’d died. Hard to tell. He was sprawled exactly as he had been thrown before. Dying people and dead people looked very similar.

“Maybe it’s too late,” she said.

Bryde’s voice was thin as wire. “I would know if it’s too late. Turn here.”

She wondered if she would feel sad if Ronan died. Angry. Something. Because right now she didn’t feel anything at all. She didn’t care where they were going. She didn’t care if he was dead when they got there. She didn’t care if Bryde lost patience with her and left her standing by the roadside. She didn’t care if Jordan was angry that she hadn’t called to let her know how things were. Nothing felt like it would be particularly good or bad, except for sleeping an empty sleep, free of the Lace, free of everything. Empty sleep forever, never waking up. Not death, because that would ruin Jordan’s life. Just endless empty pause. That would be good.

“Left, left,” Bryde said. “Hurry up. Stop over there. This will have to do.”

Hennessy didn’t feel much in the way of any ley energy, but she followed his directions. Burrito lumped down a dark, unpaved road that dead-ended at a small ridge overgrown with stringy, limp grass. The headlights glinted off water beyond it.

“Help me drag him,” Bryde said.

Ronan looked dreadful, awash with black, slumped in the backseat of the invisible car. It wasn’t the oozing nightwash that made him look bad, though. It was the slackness of his face. The stiffness. He already looked dead.

“What about his chicken?” Hennessy asked. His raven was a small pile of unmoving feathers.

“Leave her,” Bryde said. “Bring your mask.”

Her mask. She never wanted to see it again. “So it’s a Lace dream you’re after having?”