The Undivided (10 page)

It took Trása more than a day to find the tools she needed to construct a scrying bowl. This close to finally meeting Rónán, and with an assurance that — sooner or later — Rónán would come to visit his neighbour, Trása felt confident it was time to report home for further instructions.

She was under orders to find Rónán, after all. Exactly what she was supposed to do once she found him wasn’t all that clear.

The first job was to find a bowl suitable for the task. She couldn’t use plastic — scrying with a plastic bowl was about as effective as standing on a street corner and yelling loudly in the hope of being heard in her own reality — so she had to find something else. Something with a trace of lead in it.

After rifling through Jack’s cupboards the day before, she had found a crystal bowl that felt right, and carried it outside to collect rain. Trial and error had taught her the need for rainwater, too. The amazingly clean water that flowed from the pipes in this realm came at a price. Treated, chlorinated and often fluoridated as well, it was about as useful as scrying with soup. She’d learnt
that
inconvenient fact when her first few attempts to call home had failed miserably.

Like everything else in this realm, the magic in the water had been processed away by progress.

Fortunately, it had rained heavily overnight, clearing with the dawn to produce a spectacularly sunny day. After lunch, while Jack was snoozing in his armchair in front of the TV, Trása carried her crystal bowl full of rainwater over to the marble garden seat on the deck outside Jack’s dining room.

She removed all her clothes and dropped them on the deck. Trása had learnt about that the hard way, too. Wearing anything made of artificial fibres interfered with scrying in much the same way that powerlines interfered with TV reception.

And then carefully, so as not to disturb the water, she straddled the bench to make it easier to look into the bowl.

‘What are ye going to tell him?’ Plunkett asked, materialising on the other side of the bowl, bumping the rim and making the rainwater tremble and ripple. Trása would have to wait until it calmed completely before she could begin.

‘That you’re very annoying,’ she said. ‘What are you doing out here?’

‘Same as ye. Getting me orders.’

‘Your orders are to do as I say, Plunkett O’Bannon. That’s all you need to know. Now go check on Jack. I don’t want to be disturbed.’

‘I already checked on him. He’s asleep.’

‘Then make sure he stays asleep.’

The
Leipreachán
glared at her for a moment, muttered something under his breath and vanished into thin air.

‘Stupid
sídhe
,’ she grumbled, turning her attention back to the bowl. The water was almost still again. Trása reached behind her head, pushed her long blonde hair aside and undid the clasp on the only thing she was still wearing — a silver chain and pendant, formed in the shape of a complicated three-pointed Celtic knot. Once she was satisfied the water was completely calm, she dropped the
airgead sídhe
knot into the water and closed her eyes.

Trása cleared her mind and concentrated on the
Tuatha
she wanted to contact. Communicating by scrying was usually a one-way affair across realities, unless both worlds were steeped in magic. That was why she had the talisman. It was infused with enough magic to make the link possible from this barren world. Her uncle, on the other hand — with the benefit of being located in a world saturated in magic — had none of her problems. He’d be able to sense her call and could simply turn to the nearest puddle to answer.

It didn’t take him long. It was summer, after all, and her home was a damp and rainy place.

‘Trása!’

She opened her eyes. Marcroy Tarth’s unnaturally young and beautiful face stared back at her from the bowl, pale and translucent.

Trása sighed with relief, a little surprised by how glad she was to see a familiar face. ‘Well met,
Uncail
.’

‘You’re calling me for good reason, I hope?’ He glanced around, frowning. ‘It had
better
be important. I’m really not in a position to talk right now.’

It was hard to say where her uncle was because the world behind him was dark. That could mean it was night, but, in theory, it should be the same time in both realities. Historical events and the level of magic differed across worlds, but the relentless progress of time remained constant. Perhaps he was indoors. Or underground. Maybe even at
Sí an Bhrú
, which would explain why he couldn’t talk freely.

Dare I ask? Dare I inquire about Darragh?

She decided not to, certain Marcroy would not look favourably on her wasting time asking questions she knew he would refuse to answer. ‘I’ve found him.’

Marcroy’s translucent image regarded her warmly. ‘Then you are to be congratulated,
a thaisce
.’

My treasure
, he’d called her. That was a rare endearment from her fickle uncle, whose trust and affection was hard to gain and even harder to hold. ‘I live to serve the
Tuatha Dé Danann
,
Uncail
.’

‘Do you understand what you must do next?’

Trása hesitated. ‘I think so.’

‘You must be certain, Trása,’ he said, his smile fading. ‘Since your father betrayed us, we have been battling against time. Chances are high the Druids already have people in that reality, searching for Rónán. It is your job to make certain that even if they find him, they can never get close enough to him to bring him home.’

That was the same instruction Marcroy had given her before she left her own reality to step through the rift into this one. He hadn’t missed an opportunity to remind her of Amergin’s betrayal then, either.

There was just one thing she needed clarified. ‘
Uncail
, you don’t want me to … kill him, do you?’

Marcroy shook his head impatiently. ‘Killing Rónán would kill Darragh. Do that and you will have broken the Treaty of
Tír Na nÓg
. If that happens,
a thaisce
, trust me, I’ll see to it you never find your way home.’

‘Then what am I supposed to do?’ she asked.

Marcroy shrugged. ‘Use your imagination. Just don’t fail me. Or the
Daoine sídhe
.’

‘I won’t,’ she promised, with no idea how she was supposed to contain Rónán in this reality so that, even if the Druids somehow managed to find him, they wouldn’t be able to touch him.

At least, after the fiasco on the red carpet
, she thought,
he’ll not be making any more appearances in public, so the chances of a Druid spotting him on TV the way I did is much less likely.

‘Tá mo chroí istigh ionat
, Trása,’ Marcroy said, as his image faded from the water.
My heart is within you, Trása.

‘Hey! Jack! You home?’

Trása froze.

He was here. Just as the old man said he would be, sooner or later. The voice calling out to Jack was so achingly familiar she wanted to weep. And she was sitting on the deck, naked as a newborn.

He hadn’t seen her yet. The door leading from the kitchen into the garden was around the corner.

Trása pulled her jeans on as she debated calling for Plunkett, but decided not to. This might be the only time she got to see Rónán as he really was. Before Plunkett glamoured him into submission — assuming he could. And before she’d worked out a way to keep him out of reach of the Druids.

Before someone told Rónán the truth.

Forcing a happy smile, Trása pulled on her T-shirt and hurried barefoot through the dining room, past the table laden with books and boxes, to the kitchen.

Rónán was standing there, looking around for Jack. He looked exactly like Darragh, except that his hair was shorter. Rónán was as tall as his brother, but not as broad across the shoulders. That was likely a sign of the easy life Rónán led compared to that of his twin, who had been trained to wield a sword since he was old enough to lift a wooden practice blade. It was Rónán’s eyes, however, that almost brought Trása undone. They were sapphire blue and piercing, so like Darragh’s eyes that, for a moment, she could barely breathe …

And then she managed to get a hold of herself.

‘Hi, you must be Rónán from next door.’

He stared at her, momentarily stuck for words. ‘My name is Ren … Who are you?’

‘I meant Ren,’ she said, mentally kicking herself for the slip. Then she added by way of explanation with the friendliest smile she could manage, ‘My name’s Trása. Jack’s my grandfather.’

‘Oh,’ Rónán said, staring at her oddly. ‘I didn’t think he had any family.’

His gaze gave her goose bumps. It was curiosity mixed with desire and mistrust. That, in itself, didn’t really surprise Trása. She was half-
Beansídhe
, after all. Even though the last of her kind had died out in this world half a millennia ago, there was still some residual influence here, albeit not the magical powers she enjoyed in her own realm. And her race was not forgotten. She’d found a book, not long after she arrived, that described the
Beansídhe
as ‘
extremely beautiful Faeries, with long, flowing hair, red eyes (due to continuous weeping) and light complexions
’. It also claimed, ‘
their wailing is a warning of a death in the vicinity, although the
Beansídhe
never actually causes the death
’. That was nonsense, of course, along with the red eyes from weeping all the time, and having nothing better to do all day than foreshadow death. Still, the description wasn’t entirely inaccurate. No human male in this reality or any other could resist her if she set her mind to enticing him. Or, at least, not if she had been full-grown and a pure
Beansídhe
planning a life among the
Daoine sídhe.
Even so … Rónán’s gaze was like nothing she was used to. He may not have had any magical powers in this realm, either, but she could sense the latent power in him and it frightened her a little. That surprised her. She’d never considered herself afraid of Darragh.

‘Did Jack tell you he had no kin?’ she asked, hoping to appear nonchalant.

‘Actually, it’s on the dustcover of his book.’

Trása stared at him blankly. ‘What book?’

‘
Excuse
me?’ Rónán’s expression was starting to change from curious to suspicious, and unless she did something about that soon, there was going to be trouble.

A little panicked, Trása suddenly remembered the boxes of books piled on the table in the dining room. She laughed. ‘I’m joking, Ren.’

‘Why has he never mentioned you?’

‘Because until yesterday, he didn’t know I existed,’ she said, deciding on a modified version of the truth. ‘I sort of arrived unannounced.’

‘How long are you staying?’

‘We haven’t really decided yet.’

Rónán was still suspicious. He looked past her. ‘Where is Jack? Is he okay?’

She stepped in front of Rónán to distract him. ‘Of course he’s okay. I have a toy
Leipreachán
. Would you like to see him?’

‘I’d like to see Jack,’ Rónán insisted, trying to step past her.

Trása forced a laugh, wondering how she was going to ease his suspicions, when she spotted Plunkett materialising on the counter behind Rónán. Now was as good a time as any, she supposed, to find out if the
Leipreachán
could glamour a Druid in this reality. She pointed to the counter. ‘Look, Ren, say hello to Plunkett.’

Rónán glanced at the stuffed toy that now sat on the counter, leaning against the toaster. A moment later, Trása felt the
Leipreachán
projecting the glamour. She watched Rónán carefully, looking for some sign it was working. The young man stared at Plunkett for a moment and then turned back to Trása.

‘Cute,’ he said, apparently unaffected by the
Leipreachán
’s spell. ‘He looks real. Where’s Jack?’

Trása sighed, and stood back to let Rónán pass. ‘I think he fell asleep watching
Oprah
. Did you want a cup of tea?’

The request seemed to puzzle him. ‘
Tea?
’

‘Well, you’re obviously going to go in there and wake up poor old Grandad to ascertain I’m not some crazy squatter who’s taken over his house. I figure he’ll want a cup of tea when he wakes. I might as well make two.’

Rónán stared at her for an uncomfortably long time before asking, ‘What did you say your name was?’

‘Trása.’

‘Milk,’ he said, still staring at her intently. ‘And two sugars.’

‘Jack takes four,’ she said, in a further attempt to establish her credentials as a member of the family.

‘I know.’ He glanced around the kitchen. ‘Has Carmel been?’

‘Who?’

‘Jack’s housekeeper?’

‘No. We cleaned up.’

‘We?’

‘
I
cleaned up,’ she corrected. ‘Jack tried to help, but you know how he is …’

Rónán said nothing.

On the edge of panic, Trása tried to think of something to say that would allay his suspicions, but could think of nothing that wouldn’t make things worse.

The awkward tension lasted a few moments longer, until Rónán broke eye contact and she stepped aside to let him pass. He headed toward the living room where the unsuspecting Jack O’Righin was snoozing peacefully, unaware his home had become the epicentre of the battle between humans and the
Tuatha
from a different reality, and that the first salvo in that war was about to be fired …

If only Trása had some idea what she was supposed to use for a weapon.

Ren hurried through the dining room, down the long polished hall, past a row of oil paintings of people Jack couldn’t even name — they’d come with the house — and into the main reception room where the old man liked to watch TV.

He was certain Jack’s granddaughter — if that’s who she really was — had been able to read every conflicted emotion on his face. Truth was, he couldn’t get away from her fast enough. Not because he didn’t want to be in her company, but because he didn’t know how much longer he could remain focussed on those amazing, cat-like, almond eyes, and not let his gaze wander to the rest of that spectacular body — the body that only a few moments before had been sitting outside on the deck, stark naked, straddled across a marble garden bench, apparently having a conversation with a salad bowl.

Ren had escaped his own house only a few minutes earlier while Kiva was meeting, yet again, with Murray Symes. He’d tiptoed down the stairs, cut through the kitchen and across the lawn to the back gate before anybody noticed — except for Neil, but he’d shushed him with a finger to his lips as he sneaked out, confident his young cousin would not betray him.

He slipped unobserved through the gate in the garden wall. Not finding Jack in his glasshouse, Ren figured the reluctant
celebrity was probably stuck in the dining room, signing books.

Ren’s plans didn’t extend much beyond escaping his own house. He had a vague plan in the back of his mind to call a cab from Jack’s house, although he didn’t have a destination in mind. Still pondering the problem, he’d rounded the corner of the house and stopped dead when he spied the strange naked girl on the terrace.

Ren had no idea what to do. He had no inkling who this odd vision of loveliness with her Lady Godiva-esque hair might be, or why she was engaged in such a strange pastime. After a moment of stunned surprise, he backed away quietly, took a few deep breaths and headed for the kitchen door, announcing his presence as loudly as he could manage.

When she’d emerged to greet him a few moments later, Trása — who seemed disturbingly familiar, although he couldn’t pinpoint why — was decently dressed, to Ren’s intense relief. That didn’t lessen the effect she had on him, but it did make it a little easier to concentrate on forming whole words and remotely coherent sentences.

Jack, somewhat to Ren’s surprise, was doing exactly what Trása had said he was doing — snoring in his armchair, the credits rolling on the
Oprah
show. Ren bent over him and shook him awake gently. Jack was an old man, after all. He didn’t want to startle him into a heart attack. ‘Hey, Jack … you okay?’

The old man blinked and glanced around vaguely for a moment. ‘I must have fallen asleep,’ he yawned.

‘You did,’ Ren said, squatting beside the big leather recliner. ‘Your granddaughter let me in.’

‘Who?’ Jack asked blankly.

‘Your granddaughter,’ Ren said. ‘Trása.’

‘Oh, Trása,’ Jack said, shaking his head as if to clear it. ‘Of course. Trása is my granddaughter.’

Something made Ren glance over his shoulder; a feeling of being watched. On the credenza under the window was Trása’s toy
Leipreachán
. The one she’d tried to show him in the kitchen. It looked freakishly alive. And he couldn’t imagine how it had arrived here before him. Trása hadn’t moved it. She was still in the kitchen making tea.

‘You never said you had a granddaughter.’

‘Trása is my granddaughter,’ Jack repeated. ‘She’s from the north.’

‘You mean from Belfast?’

‘She’s from the north,’ Jack said again. It seemed an odd response and although Jack sounded a little vague, he was quite adamant.

Unable to shake the feeling of being watched, Ren glanced at the toy
Leipreachán
again. ‘Don’t you find that thing creepy? I mean, it’s like its eyes are following you.’

‘That’s Plunkett,’ Jack said, still sounding a little distant. Maybe it was because he’d just woken up. ‘Trása’s
Leipreachán
.’

‘Ren!’

He looked up to find Trása standing at the door, looking a little alarmed. ‘What?’

‘There’s a very angry-looking woman coming across the back lawn from the direction of your house.’

Shit
, Ren thought.
Kiva’s found me.
Maybe Neil had given him away after all.

‘Sorry, Jack. Gotta bolt.’

‘Why don’t you and Trása take off?’ Jack suggested. ‘I’ll cover for you.’

Ren looked at him doubtfully and then glanced over at Trása.

‘You’ve got about thirty seconds,’ she warned.

‘Are you sure, Jack?’

The old man nodded, smiling as if he was looking forward to the confrontation. ‘Aye, son. Off you go with Trása. I’ve tangled
with the British SAS. I can take care of the Kiva Kavanaughs of this world.’

Ren stood up, just as the pounding on the back door started. It was all the encouragement he needed. With a final glance at Jack, he ran for the front door with Trása, closing it behind them as they heard his mother’s decidedly angry footsteps on the polished boards of Jack’s hallway, as she stormed through the house angrily calling Ren’s name.

They didn’t stop running until they were several houses down the road, in the opposite direction to the photographers camped outside Ren’s front gate. Trása was laughing as they ran, as if this was a grand adventure. Ren eventually had to grab her arm to pull her up. The wound on his side was objecting to the exercise and he was afraid of opening it up again.

He collapsed against the tall, ivy-covered wall surrounding the O’Day residence, just out of sight of the paparazzi, breathing hard. Trása turned to look at him, as if she was surprised he’d stopped.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘I … need a minute,’ he gasped in pain, holding his side.

‘You don’t have the stamina of your —’ she began, and then stopped herself.

‘Of my what?’ Ren asked, wincing.

‘Nothing.’ She moved a little closer, examining him with a worried expression. ‘Is something wrong, Ren? You’re looking very pale.’

Ren lifted his shirt and showed her the bloodstained dressing underneath. ‘Not pale. In pain.’

Trása pulled a face. ‘Ouch! What happened?’

‘I wish I knew,’ Ren said, lowering his shirt. ‘I get these weird injuries sometimes. Cuts, bruises … and a couple of times they’ve had to pump my stomach. I woke up this morning with this beauty.’

Trása stared at him for a long moment. She didn’t scoff at his words or seem to doubt him. ‘Do you feel anything else?’ she asked. ‘Or just the wounds?’

‘I get the wound, I feel the pain. What else is there?’

‘You don’t sense anyone else’s thoughts, do you? Or anyone else’s feelings?’

‘What are you?’ he said, looking at her oddly. ‘My shrink now?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Trása said quickly, as if she was afraid she had offended him. ‘It’s just … I don’t know … I figured that maybe if you’re manifesting someone else’s wounds, it would make sense you might be getting their thoughts, too, or maybe their dreams …’

He stopped and stared at her. There was not a hint of condescension or disbelief in her tone. He was stunned. For only the second time in his entire life, someone didn’t immediately jump to the conclusion he was disturbed, suicidal or just plain crazy.

This girl he’d known for all of ten minutes believed him.

Even Hayley didn’t always do that. The relief Ren felt was indescribable.

‘Why do you think they’re someone else’s wounds?’

Ren had never contemplated the possibility. Could that be the reason for his mysterious injuries? Perhaps even his nightmares? For as long as Ren could remember, he had considered his nightmares simply an expression of his own twisted psyche. It had never occurred to him his recurring dreams, which often woke him in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, wondering what sort of sick monster lurked inside him, might belong to someone else. He wasn’t sure he believed it now.

‘I … don’t know
why
I think they might be somebody else’s wounds,’ Trása said, so uncertainly that Ren was positive she was lying. ‘It just seems … likely. I mean, if they’re not your
injuries, they have to be coming from somewhere, don’t they?’ Then she added with concern, ‘Do you need help?’

He shook his head. ‘I’ll be okay once I catch my breath. Provided we don’t do any more running.’

‘We can walk,’ she said, offering him her hand. ‘Which brings up an interesting question. Where are we walking to?’

The pain was more manageable now, and he felt able to continue. ‘Nowhere in particular. I just wanted to get out of the house for a while.’ He took a cautious breath before he pushed himself off the wall, his mind still swirling with the possibilities Trása had opened up for him. Was it possible he was simply dreaming someone else’s dreams; that there wasn’t a monster who dreamed of murdering babies lurking inside of him? Was he suffering somebody else’s wounds?

‘I can understand you wanting to get out,’ Trása said as they resumed walking. ‘You people spend far too much time cooped up indoors.’

‘You people?’

‘You celebrity types,’ she said.

He looked at her askance. ‘Excuse me? Have you
seen
what’s camped outside my house? Anyway, I’m not a celebrity. My mother’s the celebrity.’ It suddenly occurred to him this strange girl didn’t believe his story about his mysterious injuries, she was just playing along because she believed he was famous. Or worse, because his mother was famous.

They headed away from Jack’s house, Trása holding his hand as they walked. Ren tried to be cool, but he liked the idea of walking down the street with a pretty girl who didn’t think he was crazy.

‘I saw you on TV the other night,’ Trása said, looking at him sideways.

Of course you did.
‘Yeah … you and the rest of the world.’

‘I thought you were funny.’

‘You should tell my mother that,’ he said. ‘She thinks my “funny” warrants sending me into the wilds of Utah until I learn the error of my ways.’

‘What’s Utah?’

Ren stared at her for a moment, wondering if she was trying to be funny or if she was simply a dumb blonde. ‘It’s a state in the US where everything even remotely fun is illegal. My mother has been threatening to send me to a camp there for wayward teenagers. Sort of like a cross between Alcatraz and the next season of
Survivor
.’

‘Is she evil?’

‘Who? My mother?’ Ren shook his head. ‘No. Of course not. A bit loopy at times, maybe. Her heart’s in the right place. She’s just not coping well with being a parent, I think. There’s no script she can follow.’

‘So she’s sending you away,’ Trása said, frowning. ‘I know how that feels. What will happen to you in the wilds of Utah?’

‘I’ll be eating nothing but mung beans and dog shite, according to your grandfather,’ Ren said as they walked. ‘Completely cut off from the outside world or any semblance of civilisation, you know … like phones, the internet, internal plumbing … that sort of thing.’

Trása seemed utterly intrigued. ‘
Completely
cut off from the outside world?’

‘There’s no need to sound so thrilled about it.’

‘I’m not …’ she said hastily. ‘It’s just … I mean … you poor thing. That’s terrible.’

‘It’s like a prison sentence,’ he agreed.

‘Are people in prisons completely cut off, too?’

‘I suppose,’ he said. ‘Why not ask your grandfather? He’s the expert on doing hard time.’

‘You know,’ Trása said, sounding unduly pleased for no reason Ren could fathom, ‘I think I will.’