The Raven Boys by Maggie Stiefvater Page A

all, and that his corpse woke now only because Gansey had commanded it to. But then Ronan’s brilliant blue eyes opened, and the moment dissipated.
    Gansey let out a sigh. “You bastard.”
    Ronan said plainly, “I couldn’t dream.” Then, taking in Gansey’s stricken expression, he added, “I promised you it wouldn’t happen again.”
    Gansey tried again to keep his voice light, but failed. “But you’re a liar.”
    “I think,” Ronan replied, “that you’re mistaking me for my brother.”
    The church was quiet and full around them; it seemed brighter now that Ronan’s eyes were open, as if the building had been asleep as well.
    “When I told you I didn’t want you getting drunk at Monmouth, I didn’t mean I wanted you drunk somewhere else.”
    Ronan, with only a little slurring, replied, “Pot calling the kettle black.”
    With dignity, Gansey said, “I drink. I do not get drunk.”
    Ronan’s eyes dropped to something he held near his chest.
    “What is that?” Gansey asked.
    Next to his chest, Ronan’s fingers curled around a dark object. When Gansey reached down to uncurl his grip, he felt something warm and living, a rapid pulse against his fingertips. He snatched his hand away.
    “Christ,” said Gansey, trying to make sense of what he’d felt. “Is that a bird?”
    Ronan slowly sat up, still holding his cargo close. Another whuff of alcohol-laced breath drifted toward Gansey.
    “Raven.” There was a long pause as Ronan regarded his hand. “Maybe a crow. But I doubt it. I … yeah, seriously doubt it. Corvus corax .”
    Even drunk, Ronan knew the Latin name for the common raven.
    And it was not just a raven, Gansey saw. It was a tiny foundling, featherless mouth still a baby’s smile, wings still days and nights and days away from flight. He wasn’t sure he would want to touch something that looked so easily destroyable.
    The raven was Glendower’s bird. The Raven King, he was called, from a long line of kings associated with the bird. Legend had it that Glendower could speak to ravens, and vice versa. It was only one of the reasons why Gansey was here in Henrietta, a town known for its ravens. His skin prickled.
    “Where did it come from?”
    Ronan’s fingers were a compassionate cage around the raven’s breast. It didn’t look real in his hands. “I found it.”
    “People find pennies,” Gansey replied. “Or car keys. Or four-leaf clovers.”
    “And ravens,” Ronan said. “You’re just jealous ’cause” — at this point, he had to stop to regroup his beer-sluggish thoughts — “you didn’t find one, too.”
    The bird had just crapped between Ronan’s fingers onto the pew beside him. Holding the fledgling in one hand, Ronan used a church bulletin to scrape the majority of the mess off the wood. He offered the soiled paper to Gansey. The weekly prayer requests were spattered with white.
    Gansey only took the paper because he didn’t trust Ronan to bother finding a place to throw it out. With some distaste, he asked, “What if I implement a no-pets policy at the apartment?”
    “Well, hell, man,” Ronan replied, with a savage smile, “you can’t just throw out Noah like that.”
    It took Gansey a moment to realize that Ronan had made a joke, and by then, it was too late to laugh. In any case, he knew he was going to let the bird return with them to Monmouth Manufacturing, because he saw the possessive way Ronan held it. Already the raven looked up at him, beak cracked hopefully, dependent.
    Gansey relented. “Come on. We’re going back. Get up.”
    As Ronan unsteadily climbed to his feet, the raven hunched down in his hands, becoming all beak and body, no neck. He said, “Get used to some turbulence, you little bastard.”
    “You can’t name it that.”
    “Her name’s Chainsaw,” replied Ronan, without looking up. Then: “Noah. You’re creepy as hell back there.”
    In the deep, shadowed entrance of the church, Noah stood silently. For a second, all that