‘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.
CHAPTER 14
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.’
&n
bsp; 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.’
CHAPTER 15
They ended up simply walking around the block, but it was quite a long way and took the better part of an hour and it was almost dusk by the time they got back. Trása was surprised how quickly the time went. She had so many questions for Rónán, and thought he’d be suspicious of them, but he seemed happy to talk and willing to answer pretty much everything she asked him, although he did get a little testy when she asked him about his dreams. In that respect, he was just like his brother. Darragh was just as guarded about his dreams, partly by nature and partly a result of the world he’d grown up in.
It was moot, in any case. Darragh would never have been permitted to spend an afternoon alone
with a Beansídhe — even a half-human one — casually going for a walk. It was unthinkable. Even her own father would not have allowed it when he was alive and still Vate of All Eire. The Druids might turn a blind eye when other men bedded one of the Daoine sídhe. They’d not held it against her father, and he’d gone so far as to marry one. The Undivided, however, must never be compromised. The risk of a Druid heir being born with the powers of a Tuatha was too horrifying to contemplate.
That was much of the reason Trása had been sent away from Sí an Bhrú as soon as she turned fifteen. It was why she wasn’t allowed to be there when her father died. By then, she’d reached an age where her innocent childhood friendship with Darragh was no longer indulgently smiled upon as a step toward breaching the gulf between the Tuatha and humanity. By that time it was regarded as dangerous.
She caught a movement in the leaves of one of the oak trees lining the street and realised Plunkett was sitting in the branches, watching them. The Druids would find out soon enough, Trása thought, as she pretended to ignore the Leipreachán, that sending her to Marcroy might prove far more dangerous than leaving her in close proximity to Darragh.
‘Will you be in trouble when you get home, Ren?’ she asked, as they neared his house and the photographers’ cars parked outside the Kavanaugh residence.
‘Probably,’ Rónán replied with a shrug. ‘But what more can Kiva do? She’s probably already booked my ticket to hell.’
‘Where I come from, you would be considered a man, and nobody would be able to send you anywhere you didn’t want to go.’ Trása figured if she dropped a few hints now, it might make it easier later on, if she had to tell Rónán the truth about who she was.
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