TORN: (The Fire Born Novels, Book Two)

by Laney McMann

  “I understand you are upset, and that you wish to help,” my grandmother said. “But your love for MacKenzie is too great to risk you being involved any further than you already are. It makes you vulnerable.”

  “So, that’s it, then? I’m out, and Justice is in. Just like that.” I snapped my fingers in the air.

  “This discussion is over,” my mother said. “Teine … we will be heading home in the morning, upon the signal that the boundaries are sound. Gather your things.”

  “Oh, my god. You’re all—” I clenched my fists. “Don’t talk to me. Any of you.” I shot my grandmother an angry scowl and headed back down the hallway.

  “Kindred.” Her tone was calm.

  “Don’t talk to me.” I slammed the bedroom door, only to have their muffled conversation through it.

  “Justice,” my grandmother said. “Please, ready yourself. You will leave in the morning as well.”

  “Yes, My Lady.” Heavy footfalls passed my bedroom.

  “Now, Lorelei,” my grandmother continued. “I do not believe what you were suggesting earlier is wise. I spoke to Mairsale, as well, this morning, and she agrees. Sending the Guard in this soon would be folly if not outright dangerous. There are too many of them. We do not want to encourage a full scale war. This must be handled with stealth. Justice will take the High Road through the forest. I have sent word to the Fae Queen. If we are lucky, she will assist.”

  “Assist? Asrai will not subject herself to help us—not against the might of Fomore. The Fae care for their own. It has always been so.”

  “The Fae are connected to our world. Perhaps you would like to discuss your true hatred of the race with Berneen and Mairsale? Or our entire Guard?”

  “Berneen and Mairsale allied themselves with our realm millennia ago,” she hissed. “The Guard answers to you, and no one else. The remainder of the Fae keeps to its own.”

  “A simple reminder to Queen Asrai is in order,” my grandmother said calmly. “They cannot survive without the Light, any more than the rest of us. And the High Road travels to the Underworld, which goes through the Fae Realm. There is no other route of which I am aware. Should Justice fail, we will take appropriate action.”

  “Fail? You’re sending him on a … witch hunt, and our people are at stake.” My mother’s voice remained low. “Even if he finds his way, no one simply walks into the Underworld, Mother.”

  “I did not say the journey would be an easy one, only that it is necessary. When Justice finds the doorway into the Shadow Realm, we will consider sending in the Guard.” She hesitated. “But I cannot have them traipsing through the Wood at this juncture. And I had no idea Justice’s welfare was so important to you.” The sarcasm in my grandmother’s tone was plain.

  “Our people are important to me, and they are sick!” The concern in my mother’s voice shocked me. She had always been so stern—almost robotic with her emotions. “This is the reason I hid Teine. We would not be in this situation had MacKenzie not shown himself to her again. And now we are risking our entire realm to save him!”

  “He is one of the last of the Ancient Fire Born, and Tied to Teine, a very important factor that seems to constantly elude you, Daughter.”

  “And what if what you are seeing in Teine is the start of a Tear?” my mother raged.

  My grandmother gave no response.

  “I can remove her,” my mother said. “Go into hiding.”

  “When will you understand? There is nothing you can do—nowhere you can go—to ever change who she is. You must accept her fate.”

  “Even if that fate destroys her? Turns her into something we cannot recognize?” The sound of chair legs raking across a wooden floor hit my ears.

  “That is up to her.”

  “Is it? Mother, do not take me for a fool. I know what the Legend foretells. What do you see in Teine?”

  Silence.

  “I know what red magic is capable of. What if the cycle continues?”

  Silence.

  “Mother, the Accursed Arts are your specialty! What do you see? Is it her? Is it the Morrigan?”

  “I see many things,” my grandmother said slowly. “None of which I can stop. We are but pieces to be played on the board. We are not the game.” She sighed. “I will continue to do my best for Teine. It is all I can do. Reuniting the Twin Souls safely is our best hope. Please stop fighting me on it. As Flidais has relinquished the throne, I will resume my former role as Queen until further notice.”

  “Yes, Mother.” Footsteps clapped beyond my bedroom door., and it creaked open moments later.

  My grandmother came in the room, a sad smile on her face.

  “So, there is a Tear,” I said, looking at my feet.

  “You heard our conversation.” She sat on the bed beside me. “No, I do not believe so. That does not mean a Tear has not begun, however. We need to stop it. We must find MacKenzie, and soon. I understand you are angry, Kindred, but I need you to promise me that you will not go looking for him.”

  “I can’t make that promise.”

  She sighed. “I see many things. Most unclear. I need you to remain safe. Please understand.” She folded her hands together.

  “They could kill him.” It came out the lowest of whispers. “What if they already have?”

  She squeezed my knee. “You would know. And Elethan will be looking to sway his son, not maim him. I do not believe MacKenzie is in danger of losing his life. I believe he is in danger of losing his will. But we shall see. There is much left unknown. MacKenzie, after all, is only a boy. One who has never known his parents until a few days ago when, I am sure, he met his father. How will he react in that kind of situation?” She shrugged. “No one can say.”

  My head sank like a weight into my hands at the memory of how heartbroken Max was when he’d spoken about his mother.

  “I need you to let us to find him. I simply cannot risk your involvement.”

  “But, Grandmother—”

  She raised a hand, silencing me. “There are many things that you do not know. I hope that the Ogham Etchings, beyond healing you and strengthening the Tie between yourself and MacKenzie, will recover what is lost of your memory. And the rest … well, you will learn over time.” She stared deep into my eyes as if trying to see something inside my head.

  “What did my mother mean about the Morrigan? And the cycle?” The words were hard to say, and I wasn’t sure I wanted the answers.

  She patted my hand and a deep crease grew between her white eyes. “The Morrigan was my aunt, your great-great aunt, and an Ancient, as you already know.” She tapped my knee and rose to her feet. “She lived many millennia ago.”

  “And she cast the curse on me and Max.” I met her gaze, having already figured it out and wanting confirmation—understanding.

  She stopped and stood for a long while before she said, “It is said the Morrigan created the curse, yes, but even if that is true, it does no good to dwell on a past we do not understand. We have other things—more important issues—to tend to than dead relatives and Ancient curses. What is done is done.”

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Kindred,” she said, her tone, stern and parental, “you do not remember the Morrigan’s tale? I told it to you so many times as a child, you could recite it back to me word for word.”

  “Will you tell it to me again?”

  Her shoulders slumped. “It is thousands of years old. Passed down through generation after generation. There are only a few who believe it.”

  “Do you believe it?”

  She sat back down as if her weight was more than she could bear. “Yes.” She sighed. “I do.”

  “Then, I want to hear it again.” I folded my hands together in my lap.

  She closed her eyes. “The Ancient race was as old as time. Our ancestors. Legend says they created everything we see—everything we know in our world and in all the Realms. A revolt took place—The Uprising, it was called. The race fell, its rul
ers found poisoned to death.” Her gaze shifted toward the wilted flowers wrapping the canopied bed. “No one truly knows what happened. What I may believe—what others may believe—who is to say who is right or wrong?” She shrugged. “Old texts were left—but they are very difficult to translate. Few—if any—can read early Irish anymore.” Her gaze swept over my Oghams. “It is, of course, believed by many that the Morrigan—being the War Goddess herself—was responsible for the fall of the Fire Born, wishing to claim the throne.”

  I let out a breath, remembering the tales of my great-great aunt’s wicked anger. Rumors of her death were legend. “But Aunt Flidais said the curse was cast out of heartbreak? A love lost to battle, or something? That the curse was about avenging a lost love.”

  She shrugged again. “Her betrothed was said to have been killed in battle. But here is the problem. There are so many tales and prophecies spilt from the mouths of fools—both skeptics and believers alike—over many millennia, that no one truly knows. Some say that the Morrigan used the Accursed Arts—red magic—at times, wielding it through the Raven, and that she poisoned the ruling King and Queen. Others say that the War Goddess was outwitted by the King’s son while she tried to bewitch his betrothed, and in a fit of rage, she placed the curse. Either way, most believe that her spells rebounded upon her, trapping her precious Raven within her body. Some say it drove her mad, turning her into a twisted, demented being.” She let out a breath. “The Legend, along with the Curse, is told in bits and pieces. A past we do not know. Many fought and died in The Uprising. Some fled. Others went into hiding. And over the years, as the turmoil quieted, the Lesser Gods emerged.” She gave a weak smile. “That is the tale.”

  “Lesser Gods?”

  “Kindred …” She groaned. “What was left of the Ancients divided into two races. The Tuatha Dé Danaan and the Fomorians. Good and evil. Descendants. We have been at war ever since.” She tapped my knee again.

  “But …” I looked into her eyes.

  “No buts. I must tend to other things.”

  But … the Raven couldn’t have been trapped within the Morrigan. Not if it’s … trapped in me.

  “Please do as I say, Kindred, and do not go looking for MacKenzie. We will find him. You must leave in the morning.” She leaned over and kissed my cheek. “Pack your things.” She pushed to her feet.

  “Grandmother?”

  “Yes?” She sounded irritated as she made her way to the door.

  “The cycle?”

  “That, child, you do already know. It is the rhyme:

  From the ashes of old—

  They shall rise—

  The last of the Ancients—

  Foe and Ally—

  The Legend lies in wait—

  And bides its time—

  Until at last the day comes—

  For the children born of fire.”

  “Right.” Except that the rhyme still didn’t mean much, other than the foe and ally part. The part that, I realized with a sick start, meant me and Max. “What happens if there’s a Tear?”

  Her hand wrapped around the doorknob. “The Battle could be at hand.”

  No. “I won’t fight him. I won’t.”

  “It would not be your decision. It is within Elethan’s rights to force a battle, should he choose.”

  My stomach dropped. “Max would never—ever.”

  “Kindred, you do not understand. If a tear is created, the MacKenzie you know and love … he will no longer exist.”

  9

  In his gargoyle form, Justice readied himself to leave, as I rounded the corner of my grandmother’s cavernous kitchen from the great room the following morning. Weapons of all varieties lay across the wooden butcher-block table. The scent of oatmeal and lavender perfumed the air, setting a bizarre contrast to the sight of gun barrels being loaded.

  “What are you planning to do with all that?” I asked, as Justice strapped an arsenal onto his back.

  With a smirk, he latched a leather band across his broad chest before loading grenades into various harnesses on his hips. “We’re not all Born of Fire, Layla.” He lifted a long sword decorated with ancient Irish symbols off the table and slung it into another holster across his shoulder blades. “Better safe than dead. Nice tatts.” He grinned.

  My hands went to my shoulders. “They’re not tattoos.”

  “I know. Max has the same ones. They’re Oghams. Still cool.” He shifted his weight. “Glad to see them back.” He winked and grabbed a short knife off the table.

  Huh?

  My grandmother shuffled into the kitchen, her arms laden with a bundle of old worn leather, which she let fall onto the butcher block table. Rusted daggers and swords of all lengths and conditions clanked across the surface. “There are more if you need them.” She brushed her hands together with a twinkle in her eyes, and turned and dolloped oatmeal into a bowl from the stove top.

  She held the bowl out to Justice, who couldn’t have fit one more piece of tin on his body if he tried. “You remember the way, I trust?”

  “I remember,” he said, taking the food.

  “You won’t get lost again?”

  He rolled his eyes and swallowed the oatmeal in one gulp. “No.”

  “You will stay on the High Road, to the thickets and brambles, so as not to be seen?”

  “I will.” The boyish tone in his voice, along with the scene in the kitchen, made me want to laugh. One of The Fallen in a gargoyle guise, taking orders from my tiny, hundred-and-something year old stooped Irish grandmother.

  She patted his stone arm in a loving way and held out another bowl of oatmeal to me, which I took. “And you.” Her gaze found mine. “You are packed? Ready to go to the dance workshop?”

  I nodded, avoiding her stare, and took a bite of oatmeal. It tasted exactly like it had when I was five years old, and brought an immediate sting to my eyes.

  “Good luck, Justice,” I said, and a horrible sense of overwhelming dread washed through me.

  He glanced over for no more than a second, and I could’ve sworn I saw the same emotion in his eyes, but he only said, “I’ll find Max,” before he exited the kitchen toward the tunneled passageway that lead out of the Underground, his weapons clanking across his back.

  My grandmother turned toward the stovetop with a deep sigh and began cleaning the mess. I set my bowl down on the table as silently as I could, and backed out of the kitchen.

  “Kindred.” She barely raised her voice. I stopped in my tracks. “Gather all your belongings. You will be leaving soon.”

  “Okay.” Jogging the rest of the way to the bedroom, I shut the door behind me and ripped off my pajamas.Yanking on some jeans my mother had brought for me from home, along with my old red Converse, I grabbed my backpack from under the bed and filled it with the only snacks I’d managed to sneak out of the kitchen in the dead of night—a banana, a few pieces of bread, a couple handfuls of walnuts, and a thermos full of water. I hastily shoved it over my shoulders onto my back and paced for a second, staring at the open window.

  It had been forever since I’d shimmied down a cliff face, and I wasn’t sure I could still pull it off. I’d been a lot younger then, and fearless. Without the ability to traverse or shift, though, there were no other options. Bracing myself against the crisp sea air rushing into the bedroom, I leaned over the window ledge and looked down. Easily a sheer fifty foot drop to the beach below. No wonder no one could find this place. They’d be mad to even try.

  Gathering my courage, a memory rushed through my thoughts.

  “Jump.” Max had stood on the ground, smiling up at me only a few days ago when he’d come to my house in Historia. “Afraid?”

  “No.”

  “So, jump.” He’d grinned, and the wind blew his hair over his grey eyes. He’d kissed me on the beach that night.

  With a deep aching pain in my chest, I inhaled a breath, and adjusted my weight, turning around, and began the slow backward crawl out of the window and down t
he cliff face.

  One foot slotted into the groove that rested a few feet down the vertical wet rock, my fingers clutched at a handhold just below the window, and careful not to slip, and I continued on and on with each methodical step, the same way I’d done so many times as a little girl until my feet hit the sandy beach.

  Tightening the straps on my backpack, I took off toward high ground, kicking up wet sand behind me as I ran.

  10

  Max

  A strike of lightning lit up my jail cell through the tiny barred window. The slits of my swollen eyelids let in just enough light for me to see the tracks I’d made in the dirt-covered floor. I took a few steps back and anchored my right foot against the rough stone wall behind me. The dull ache in my skull throbbed and threw my weight off balance, reminding me of the likely concussion I’d suffered. My wrists remained bound by ropes behind my back; I was positive the right one was broken.

  Another bolt of lightning struck, illuminating my tracks through the filth again, and I pushed off the wall, ran full speed, and jumped, throwing my feet against the steel bars in the window. One of the rods gave way with a crack.

  My left knee crunched and buckled, and my body slammed against the stone floor from midair. A stab of pain bloomed at the base of my skull, and blinded me with spots of light.

  Pounding my feet against the cell door, kicking out again, and again, I screamed. My left ankle rolled sideways. A grinding noise followed and a rip of heat shot through my foot and up my leg to my injured knee, causing the bright white spots to grow across my vision, widening, encompassing until they bled together and morphed into one unseeing flash.

  11

  “How long I’d been trapped, I didn’t know. Weeks, maybe. So pissed off and overcome with rage, pain had become my only means of gauging whether or not I was still alive. Whatever the Fomore had done to, or with, Layla, they would pay for it.

  All of them.