The Undivided

by Jennifer Fallon; Jennifer Fallon

  And then there was that poor kid of hers.

  Jack liked young Ren, but knew he had problems. He didn’t believe for a moment Ren was slicing himself up for attention, or that he had anything else wrong with him other than being a perfectly normal seventeen-year-old boy. That made him a pain in the arse, at times, to be sure, but hardly warranted the attention of that fancy shrink Kiva insisted on sending him to. Jack had spent enough time in The Maze with lads who really had lost their marbles to know Ren wasn’t one of them. Someone else was inflicting those strange wounds on the young man.

  At first, Jack thought it might be Kiva, but he dismissed that notion the time Ren stumbled through the gate, bleeding from a deep cut on his arm while his mother was on location in Italy.

  It wasn’t a schoolteacher inflicting the injuries. The kids were on vacation until September.

  That left the housekeeper and her husband. But that didn’t make any sense, either. The Boyles were the only solid things in Ren’s life, and their own kids seemed normal and perfectly well adjusted.

  That left Jack with nothing to believe but the inexplicable truth.

  Something unseen and unknown had the ability to wound Ren — sometimes seriously enough to threaten his life — and the lad genuinely had no idea what or who it was.

  The doorbell interrupted Jack’s musings. He glanced at his watch, surprised to see it was not yet seven.

  Curious as to who could be calling on him at this hour, Jack left his tea on the counter and shuffled through his echoing mansion to the front door. When he opened it, he was confronted with an unexpected sight.

  Standing on his doorstep was a creature out of legend. That was his instinctive reaction, but he knew the girl couldn’t possibly be that. Even so, the girl standing at his door was just too ethereally perfect to be real. As tall as he was, she appeared to be only sixteen or seventeen years old, with luscious, wavy blonde hair that flowed down past her waist. She was slender and pale with cat-like almond eyes, wearing jeans and a rainbow-coloured T-shirt, and clutching a toy Leipreachán in her arms.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What’s your name, old man?’ the girl asked, smiling brightly.

  ‘Jack O’Righin,’ he said, never for an instant thinking he should refuse the information.

  ‘Do you live alone?’

  ‘Yes … well … the housekeeper comes once a fortnight, but …’

  ‘Excellent,’ she said, holding up her toy Leipreachán. ‘Say hello to Plunkett.’

  She held the doll up in front of him. The toy was so well made he almost seemed alive.

  ‘This is yer granddaughter, Trása,’ the Leipreachán told him — which was an impossibility, Jack knew. It was just a toy. ‘She’s come to visit ye from the north. Ye’ve asked her to stay as long as she likes and ye’re not going to ask any questions about why she’s here.’

  Jack nodded. ‘Very well.’

  ‘Oh, and we like bacon for breakfast. Lots of it. Now, say hello to Trása.’

  ‘Hello, Trása.’

  ‘Good work, Plunkett,’ Jack’s granddaughter said.

  Jack stepped back to let her in. He didn’t remember having a granddaughter, or even a son or daughter to provide him with one.

  But the Leipreachán had told him the girl was his, so it must be true.

  Jack’s granddaughter followed him around for the rest of the day — then all evening, eventually staying the night — asking him questions about himself, his life and how he came to be living in this particular house, especially as it seemed far too large for one person. Jack found himself telling her everything she wanted to know, even things he normally didn’t share with other people.

  He was enchanted by Trása, but any time he started to wonder about her, the thought seemed to hit a wall in his mind, vaporising like a mist and vanishing into a forgotten memory.

  She seemed disgusted by the state the house was in, so she ordered her toy Leipreachán to clean up, which Jack considered a bit of wishful thinking, until he came downstairs the next morning to discover a sparkling kitchen with no dirty dishes, old pizza boxes or frozen TV dinner containers lying about.

  A part of Jack knew there was something odd about his granddaughter. In fact, deep inside he knew he didn’t have a granddaughter, but that hardly seemed to matter. He couldn’t articulate the words, and when he did try to say something about it, suddenly that damned Leipreachán was there, staring at him, and he couldn’t remember for the life of him what he had been about to say.

  But Jack didn’t mind. He found himself enjoying the company, in no small part because Trása was hugely impressed by his beloved glasshouse.

  Carrying a cup of tea — complete with four sugars like his — she followed him the next morning through the misty summer rain, anxious to see his collection of exotic flora. He showed her around the benches, telling her the Latin names of each specimen, its origin and where he’d acquired it. She admired the plants he’d so carefully nurtured, ooh-ing and ah-ing with genuine awe over each new species, particularly the bromeliads. Jack was thrilled because the bromeliads were his favourites.

  ‘They’re native to the southern states of the US, like Florida,’ he explained, delighted to have an attentive audience. Ren visited him in the glasshouse often, but had no interest in anything Jack was growing. ‘You’ll find them all through central America and South America, all the way down to Chile. There’s even a very primitive species in Africa, but I don’t have one of them to show you. It’s survived there since before the two continents separated.’

  Trása sipped her tea, looking at him oddly. ‘When did that happen?’

  Jack shrugged. ‘Millions of years ago, I suppose. Don’t they teach you that sort of thing in school?’

  She shook her head, and took another sip of the overly sweet tea. ‘Not the schools I’ve been to. We learnt a lot about plants, though.’ She pointed to a spiny, pale green plant with a large, rusty yellow seedpod. ‘What’s this one?’

  It was Jack’s turn to look at Trása oddly. He put down his tea and picked up the pot with a grunt. It was very heavy. ‘Are you serious? You don’t know what that is?’

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘It’s ananus comosus. My God, girl … it’s the most well-known bromeliad of all.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Of course.’

  Jack laughed, and replaced the bromeliad on the bench. ‘It’s a pineapple, silly! Surely you’ve seen a pineapple before?’

  ‘No. Should I?’

  He shook his head, still laughing, ‘Jayzus, it’s like you’re from another planet.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ she agreed, without missing a beat. ‘Who lives over there?’

  He looked up and followed the direction of her gaze. From the glasshouse, Jack could just make out the lights coming on in the upper storey of the Kavanaugh house through the trees.

  Jack sighed. He was about to lose his audience. No teenage girl was going to stay interested in bromeliads when there was a celebrity living next door. ‘Kiva Kavanaugh,’ he said, with a certain air of resignation. ‘You know … the actress. I suppose you want to meet her. Get her autograph …’

  ‘No,’ Trása said. ‘But I’d like to meet her son. Do you know him?’

  Jack smiled. The request made perfect sense to him. Why had he thought a girl Trása’s age might want to meet the revered Kiva Kavanaugh? Of course, she’d rather meet Ren. He was much closer to her age, a good-looking lad, and after the other night, a minor celebrity in his own right. ‘I know him.’

  ‘Does he have a triskalion?’ she asked, holding out her right hand. ‘Here. On the palm of his hand?’

  ‘Can’t say I’ve ever paid that much attention to what sort of tattoo he has on his hand.’

  ‘How could you miss it?,’ she asked, impatient with his poor observation skills. ‘It’s a three-pointed symbol in a red circle bordered with orange. It’s green with a yellow centre and a spiral at the end of each of the three legs.’

&nb
sp; Jack shrugged. ‘I really don’t recall it, lass.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, with a heavy sigh. ‘I suppose I could check for myself.’

  That was one request Jack could grant his newly acquired granddaughter. ‘He comes here to visit me,’ he told her. ‘I’m sure you’ll run into him, sooner or later.’

  ‘Excellent,’ she said. ‘In that case, why don’t we have breakfast?’

  ‘We’ve already had toast,’ he reminded her.

  ‘I know,’ she said, ‘but Plunkett wants his bacon and if you know what’s good for you, old man, you’ll know it’s not wise to get between a Leipreachán and his breakfast.’

  CHAPTER 13

  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 smil
e, 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.