Richard Campbell Gansey III

"This is a night for truth."

For hours, the libations had flowed. That was thanks to Gansey's imaginary money and his relative fascination with what he couldn't help but think of as Supermarket Culture. There, he purchased a couple new pool cues (why would this place also have pool cues would be a question too logical for his new life; sometimes he thought seeking sleeping kings was the more gentle fate). Alcohol, pool, music, and -- thanks to Noah -- decoration. A great banner, capable of shedding more glitter than the local warlock -- screamed in cheerful swirling letters HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ASSHOLE!. Gansey loved it. It was just the right tone for a Ronan birthday. The array of spider-themed decor and the paper spiderweb banner that bordered the pool table reminded them not only that Halloween had just passed, but also that the leftover decorations were dirt cheap. Anything ghost shaped was carefully, politically polite to any ghosts that may have purchased them.

There was also cake. Noah made sure there was cake. It was a carrot cake that read Happy Birthday We All Love You. It was like Noah knew what was ahead.

So, with his free-flowing drinks and new pool cues and nothing but the five of them, they drank and they played and they tolerated Ronan's terrible electronica, and they laughed. They shot the shit. They got to be regular teenagers for a few hours.

So, when the most energetic part of the night was wending toward lethargy, Gansey took action.

"Nobody knows if we were plucked out of our old life or if we made some kind of unconscious choice to be here. We may never know." That didn't sit well with Gansey, so he perched himself on the coffee table, facing these people -- his people. "We can agree that time is messed up. I think we can all agree that's done something to spread us out." There was no one he looked at in particular. Life did that sometimes. Not to them.

So, he said again, "this is a night for truth. I'll go first."

Gansey was dreaming.

He was in Monmouth -- no, he was in a hotel room. Monmouth stood empty in Henrietta, with Adam and Ronan tucked away at the Barns and Noah at rest. Gansey was only dreaming he was in Monmouth, but when he dreamed, he was never asleep enough to confuse it for reality. Much like in his waking hours, he kept one foot on the ground, checked in with himself to make sure he knew where he was. Tulsa, not Henrietta. Some hotel, not Monmouth. Home, but not those safe walls. After years of traveling and seeking, Gansey was relieved that he'd found a sort of peace that made him feel that home was wherever he, Henry, and Blue laid their heads for the night. Home was his Camaro, buzzing down interstate highways noisily despite the fact that there was no machinery to whir, no head gasket to blow every 45 minutes. Another thing he and his precious Pig had in common: a separation from time and the laws of the universe proper. Neither of them made any sense. No one Gansey loved did.

Gansey was awake. Calling what he was doing "dreaming" was a bit of a leap anyway. It was more like he was looking at Monmouth and noticing how empty it was. There wasn't even a ghost to haunt its empty halls.

Blue was gone. Henry was gone. A few moments ago, Gansey swore he felt Blue exhale a sleepy sigh against his neck, close enough to notice and far enough away to wonder if it had happened at all.

There was a vast expanse of a window spilling bright light into the room. Tulsa's forecast showed rain for days, heavy enough that Gansey had been able to convince Blue to let him get a hotel for a few days rather than risk flying off the road trying to flee the downpour. Gansey liked the rain. The sound of it on the roof had been one of his only companions in times of sleeplessness on his travels.

The sun was out and Gansey was alone. It sat wrong in his chest. Then, he looked around.

Books. Books he might read. A desk. A desk with knots in it the size of fists, all knuckle and no regard for bone. It made him think of Ronan, much the way gasoline smelled like Adam and the cold reminded him of Noah. This room was stark. The books were stacked in a way that felt familiar to him.

Then, he heard voices. The walls of this room didn't reach the ceiling and Gansey could hear the sounds of someone banging around in the kitchen, could smell their cooking. Occasionally someone would speak, and Gansey's heart was pounding too hard in his ears to find the voices familiar. What if he'd been kidnapped? What if Henry and Blue weren't safe? Some uninformed idiot might have traced some of Gansey's research and thought there was something to find, as Gansey once had. Though never, ever would he have tried to find it like this.

Still, the smell of breakfast was not very menacing. Gansey took the space of a few breaths to calm himself, work through some rational thought, and push himself to his feet. Distressingly, he was only dressed from the waist down, glasses still on his face. He looked around fruitlessly for a shirt. Unless he fashioned one out of a nearby book titled Questioning Darrow's History, that wouldn't change. He decided not to harm the book in any way and headed for the door. He pushed it open. He had no idea what he might find on the other side.

Ceilings, high as the ones in Monmouth. Maybe higher. There were several bedrooms, laid about a very open floorplan. There was some shuffling below that suggested activity beneath, a table set, some more ruckus in the kitchen. No one seemed to be guarding the door. This wasn't a kidnapping. What the hell was it then? His brows knitted deeply over the tips of his wire frames and he skidded a thumb over his lip as he rounded the corner to the kitchen.