The Undivided

by Jennifer Fallon; Jennifer Fallon

‘The other vehicles are getting closer!’ Sorcha warned, as their pursuers’ headlights turned on them. The following cars also seemed to have trouble gaining traction on the wet grass. Sorcha looked forward again and gasped. Even through the rain, she could make out the tree line approaching at an alarming rate, and Rónán seemed to be going faster, rather than slowing down.

  ‘Look out!’ Sorcha was certain they were going to slam into the trees. Rónán wrenched the wheel to the left at the last minute, making a sharp turn at the end of the strip of grass. They knocked down a flag standing in the middle of a neat circle of lawn, carving it up with their wheels as they dug a deep furrow across the green. Their wheels spun futilely for a moment, and then seemed to grab the earth again and the car lurched forward and onto the next long narrow strip of grass.

  The cars behind them were gaining. Rónán glanced in the rear-view mirror. He swore, and jerked the wheel again, heading straight into the trees. Darragh, who was bracing himself against the dash with one hand while he scanned the rainy golf course for any sign of the rift, let out a yelp of fright. Rónán just made the car go faster, aiming it at a gap in the trees Sorcha was sure they would never fit through. She closed her eyes as they raced toward it, wincing at the screech of torn metal as the car’s side mirrors tore off, as the vehicle squeezed through a gap no car was ever meant to go through.

  ‘There!’ Darragh called out. ‘The rift!’

  Sure enough, through the rain and another approaching line of trees, Sorcha could just make out the jagged red lightning of the rift. ‘There are Trása and your friend,’ she said, pointing to the two dark figures running toward the lightning, one leading the other. ‘Don’t run them over.’

  ‘Thanks for the tip,’ Rónán said. ‘You reckon we can outrun the cops?’

  ‘Do we have a choice?’ Darragh asked, looking back, as Rónán was, at the Gardaí bearing down on them.

  Rónán began to slow the vehicle. He unclipped his seatbelt and glanced in the rear-view mirror again. ‘How do you guys feel about jumping out of moving cars?’

  ‘The ground is wet and soft,’ Sorcha said, surveying the rain-drenched terrain with a warrior’s eye. ‘We should be able to disembark without serious injury. Can you make this thing go on without us?’

  Rónán nodded. Now they were slowing down, the Gardaí behind them were much closer. They didn’t have long. ‘Darragh, get in the back with Sorcha,’ he said. ‘When I tell you, jump out and roll. They’ll be watching the car, so you should be able to get clear, once they’ve gone past you. Then I’ll point the car up the fairway and I’ll bail, too. It won’t take them long to catch the car, but by the time they realise we’re not in it, we should be through the rift.’ As he spoke, Darragh was already climbing through the gap between the front seats. Sorcha moved closer to the door to make room for him. As soon as he was in the back, Rónán slowed the car even more. ‘You ready?’

  ‘When you are,’ Darragh assured him.

  Rónán glanced in the mirror at his brother. ‘See you on the other side, Bro.’

  ‘Count on it,’ Darragh replied with a grin. Then he punched Rónán’s shoulder and added, ‘Bro.’

  Sorcha opened the door, and glanced down, alarmed at how fast the ground was moving beneath them. She didn’t hesitate, however. Taking a deep breath, she dived forward, tucking her shoulder under as she hit the ground, rolling over on the cold wet grass, before she slid to a stop on the tree line. Darragh was right behind her, his landing heavier and less elegant than hers, but he appeared to have made it in one piece.

  ‘Are you injured, Leath tiarna?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he said, lying on his belly beside her. As Rónán predicted they would, the Gardaí cars sailed straight past them, intent on pursuing the car ahead. Rónán swerved his car sharply to slam the back door shut, and kept on driving.

  Sorcha glanced to her right. She could see the red lightning of the rift much more clearly from here. They had only a narrow stretch of grass, perhaps fifty paces wide, and then a short distance through the rough to the old stone circle ruin. With the Gardaí focussed on Rónán’s vehicle, they should be able to make it easily. Until the cars turned back toward them at the end of the fairway, the Gardaí were driving away from the rift. ‘Let’s go.’

  Muddy and drenched to the skin, Sorcha rose to a crouch and checked they were still clear. Then she sprinted across the grass toward the rift, where she could see Trása and Hayley waiting, their figures dark silhouettes against the red lightning. Trása was holding Hayley by the hand, a grip from which the blind girl seemed to be trying to break free.

  ‘Agh!’

  Sorcha stopped when she realised it was Darragh crying out in pain behind her. He wasn’t following her, but was still on the ground, clutching his ankle. She ran back and squatted down beside him. He was drenched, shivering, and grimacing with pain.

  ‘You’re injured.’ It was a statement, not a question. Had Darragh been whole they would have been through the rift by now.

  ‘My ankle,’ he said, wincing.

  ‘Is it broken?’

  ‘I don’t think so. But I can’t put any weight on it.’

  Sorcha glanced toward the rift. They were caught in the rough separating the two fairways. The stone circle sat in the rough of another dividing strip of carefully cultivated wilderness. Sorcha could have screamed with frustration. A mere fifty paces away was the doorway to safety and a magical cure for Darragh’s relatively minor, but crippling, injury. She needed Rónán. Darragh was far too big for her to carry, and with him hobbling beside her, they would never make it over the open ground of the fairway before the Gardaí found them.

  Over at the rift, Trása had spied them and was beckoning them, urging them to hurry. If she was calling out to them, Sorcha couldn’t hear her over the rain and the sirens.

  As she summed up their predicament, her thoughts were interrupted by a noise so loud it seemed the very ground shuddered with it. She looked up. At the far end of the fairway, the car Rónán was driving crashed into a tree followed by another crash as the closest Gardaí car behind it, unable to find purchase on the slick ground, collided with the Audi’s rear end. Figuring Rónán must be out of the car and on his way back to the rift by now, Sorcha scanned the rainy darkness, but she couldn’t see him. He was either still in the car and trapped, or he was better at concealment than she imagined. Perhaps some of Darragh’s warrior training had passed to his brother during the Comhroinn.

  ‘Wait here,’ she said urgently, figuring she had no other choice. ‘Stay low. I’ll get help.’

  If Trása and Rónán helped her carry him, she might be able to get Darragh to the rift before they were discovered. With Ciarán waiting with his sword for them on the other side, it would be a foolish man who would follow the fugitives through the lightning. It would certainly be a one-way trip.

  ‘There’s Rónán,’ Darragh said, pointing past Sorcha.

  Rónán’s crouched and running profile was now also silhouetted by the red lightning of the open rift. When he reached the stone circle, he took Hayley by the hand, trying to coax her into the rift. Sorcha wasn’t surprised. She was more surprised Rónán had managed to convince the girl to leave the safety of the rehabilitation facility to embark on this perilous journey in the first place.

  Sorcha couldn’t see into the rift, but she assumed Ciarán was waiting for them on the other side. How much longer can the rift stay open? she wondered. Although there was no theoretical limit to how long a rift between worlds could be maintained, it took a lot of effort. Even though it had been only a few minutes since it opened, Ciarán would begin to tire before long. The Tuatha who channelled the magic directly might be able to sustain a rift for long periods, but a mere Druid — the Undivided excepted — couldn’t maintain one for very long at all.

  ‘I’ll be back in a moment, Leath tiarna,’ she promised, and ran across the open ground toward the rift.

  As she sprinted across the w
et grass, she glanced up the fairway at the scene of the crash. With the rain, the lights, and the confusion, the Gardaí still hadn’t noticed the rift in the rough on the next fairway. Ahead of her, outlined by the red lightning, Hayley was stepping through — albeit reluctantly — to the other realm. Trása turned and spotted Sorcha running toward the rift and shouted at her to hurry. Having seen Hayley safely through the rift, Rónán turned too, and realised Darragh wasn’t with Sorcha. He started toward her at a run but had only taken a couple of steps when a sharp crack rang out across the golf course.

  Rónán dived to the ground.

  For an instant, Sorcha froze. She had no idea what the sound was, but given Rónán’s reaction to it, she figured it wasn’t a good omen. Glancing up the fairway, she realised the Gardaí had finally noticed them. Or at least they’d spotted Rónán and the rift.

  Another sharp crack rang out. The Gardaí were running toward them shouting something about stopping and threatening to shoot again. Suddenly a dazzling light coming from the roof of one of the Gardaí cars pierced the darkness. It lit the rift like daylight, but threw the open ground where Sorcha was trapped into comparative darkness.

  We’re not going to make it. Sorcha made the decision in a heartbeat.

  ‘Come back for us!’ she yelled, and then she turned and ran back toward Darragh. The Gardaí had found Rónán, but he could still escape through the rift. Darragh’s only hope for eluding capture now was Sorcha.

  She reached him a few seconds later and glanced up. The overhanging branches looked sturdy enough to carry their weight, the vegetation thick enough to conceal them and they were low enough for Darragh to lift himself up without having to put pressure on his ankle. Darragh saw the direction of her gaze. He pushed himself onto his one good leg, and stared at the rift. ‘He’ll come back for us, won’t he?’ he asked.

  ‘You came for him,’ Sorcha pointed out.

  Darragh nodded and reached up, grabbed the branch and pulled himself over it. He then reached down and offered Sorcha his hand. She took it and he all but lifted her slight frame into the tree beside him.

  ‘Higher,’ Sorcha ordered.

  Darragh repeated the move, pulling himself higher into the thick wet foliage, using his upper-body strength, rather than his legs. Once safely concealed in the branches, Sorcha opened a small gap in the leaves. Another shot rang out. Rónán seemed to be hesitating on the edge of the rift, but Trása grabbed his hand and dragged him toward the opening.

  Trása pulled Rónán into the rift almost at exactly the same time as another sharp crack rent the rainy night. With a blinding burst of magical energy Sorcha had never witnessed previously, the rift flared and then disappeared, leaving the Gardaí running toward nothing but a smoking circle of stones where their quarry had been only a moment before.

  ‘What was that light?’ Darragh asked in a whisper, blinking painfully as his eyes reacted to the explosion.

  ‘I have no idea,’ Sorcha told him in a low voice, white spots dancing in front of her own eyes. ‘I’ve never seen a rift close like that before.’

  ‘Do you suppose they got through safely?’

  ‘We’ll find out soon enough,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to arrange another time for Ciarán to open the rift, perhaps even another place. Do you think you can make the connection to our realm without the residual magic of Rónán’s tattoo to aid you?’

  Darragh smiled briefly. ‘Using the puddle-phone?’

  ‘That’s a stupid name for it,’ she said, annoyed he had adopted Rónán’s infantile term for the magical link between realms.

  ‘Accurate, though.’

  ‘Can you do it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Darragh said, settling back against the trunk of the tree. ‘And we’re not going to find out tonight, I suspect.’ He rubbed his upper arms against the chill and moved his leg so it was stretched out along the branch. Even in the dark Sorcha could see how swollen his ankle was. Darragh was bedraggled, in pain, and in danger but he seemed in good spirits. ‘How long do you think the cops will be down there poking about?’

  ‘All night, I would imagine,’ Sorcha said, glancing down at the milling Gardaí. ‘Do you think you can stay up here that long?’

  Darragh smiled. ‘Ciarán taught me to hunt, Sorcha.’

  She nodded in approval. If Ciarán had taught Darragh, he had been well instructed on how to remain in a blind, quiet and still, for days if necessary.

  ‘Then we wait,’ she said, squirming around to get as comfortable as she could on her perch. There really wasn’t anything else they could do.

  CHAPTER 64

  Pushed through a crackling curtain of light so bright even Hayley could sense it, she landed hard on her hands and knees, surprised to find the ground bone dry. Grunting with the pain of the impact, she turned in confusion, calling out to Ren, not sure what was happening. Until the explosion of light that blew her to the ground, Trása was yelling, Ren was urging her to go through … whatever it was she was supposed to go through, and there had been gunshots. Several of them.

  Hayley had a bad feeling they were shooting at her. Or at least shooting at Ren — who had been right beside her — which was, essentially, the same thing.

  Angry rather than frightened, the abrupt silence worried Hayley almost as much as the vanished rain. She pushed herself up, wincing at her skinned knees, wondering where she was. She was still in the open — the cool gentle breeze on her face warned her of that much — but there were no sirens, no shouting, no voices other than someone softly groaning in pain nearby.

  ‘Ren? Ren, where are you?’ She turned in a circle, her arms outstretched, but there was nothing within reach. ‘Where am I?’

  ‘Trása?’

  She turned in the direction of the voice. It was a male voice, and it wasn’t the one who was groaning. Nor was it Ren. Or his brother whom she’d met briefly before they shoved her in the car with that maniac, Trása, because Darragh had sounded exactly like Ren. ‘My name is Hayley Boyle,’ she said. ‘I’m not Trása. Why would you think I was Trása?’

  The man who spoke was silent for a time, and then he brushed past her and said something she didn’t understand, although if she had to guess, it sounded something like the Gaelige she learned at school.

  ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘You only speak English?’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘I said come here. We have to help Marcroy.’

  Hayley turned, following the voice. ‘Marcroy? Who the hell is Marcroy? What happened to Ren? And Trása? And his brother? And the cops? And the rain, come to think of it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ the man said. ‘Please come over here.’

  ‘Come where?’ she asked. ‘I can’t see you. I’m blind.’

  ‘Oh.’ A moment later, she felt a cool hand on her forehead and a sharp spear of pain behind her eyes. Hayley jerked back from the sting, blinking furiously.

  ‘There. Now come and help me. Please. Something is seriously wrong with Marcroy. He seems to be dying and I’m not sure if I have the power to heal one of the Tuatha Dé Danann.’

  Hayley opened her eyes. Before her lay a moonlit vista of gently rolling hills dotted with hedgerows under a clear, starry sky. She was standing on a rise inside a stone circle that looked as if it had been constructed a few days ago, not thousands of years in the past. There was no sign of Ren, his brother, the cops, or anybody else … nor the city of Dublin.

  But more importantly, Hayley could see. ‘What the hell …?’

  ‘Please, I need your help.’

  Still trying to come to grips with the sudden return of her sight, Hayley turned to find a young man dressed in a brown robe kneeling over another young man wearing a cloak so fine it looked spun from spider webs. He was the one moaning. His skin was deathly pale, his chest covered in blood.

  ‘Oh my God!’ she said, hurrying over to them. ‘Have you called an ambulance?’

  ‘I’ve tried to stem the blood flow,’ sa
id the young man who had so casually cured her blindness. ‘But I think his heart is wounded. Although I’m not even sure if sídhe have hearts, and that’s certainly a valid question in Marcroy’s case. But still, he shouldn’t be like this. He should be able to heal himself. I don’t understand why …’

  ‘He’s been shot, that’s why … what’s your name?’

  ‘Brógán.’

  ‘Then, Brógán, you need a phone,’ she told the distraught young man. ‘This boy needs paramedics and an ambulance and major surgery, right now. Do you have a phone? I’ll call them if you want, but you need to stop that bleeding. Put some pressure on it.’ Even with nothing more than her rudimentary Girl Guide first-aid training, she could see this was beyond the scope of anything she could do. And probably beyond the scope of anything this young man could do, either.

  He looked up at her in confusion. ‘What do you mean “shot”?’

  ‘I mean shot,’ she said, looking at him oddly. ‘You know … bang, bang, you’re dead.’ When Brógán continued to stare at her blankly, she formed her hand into a gun with her thumb and forefinger and repeated the words.

  ‘Oh, you mean he has a bullet in him?’

  ‘Well … duh … ’

  Brógán slapped his forehead as if he’d just had an epiphany. ‘Of course! The bullet comes from the other realm. It’ll be sucking the magic out of him! That’s why he’s dying.’

  ‘Yeah,’ she agreed. ‘That’s the reason.’

  ‘We need to get it out!’

  ‘Hence the aforementioned paramedics, ambulance and major surgery,’ Hayley said, squatting down beside him. ‘Are you sure you don’t have a phone?’ She was beginning to wonder if she’d fallen back into her coma. This bizarre scene had all the hallmarks of an insane dream world brought about by a blow to the head.

  ‘How deep would it be?’ Brógán asked, tearing open the wounded young man’s shirt to expose the bloody hole in his chest. He was so pale it seemed all his blood had been drained from his body already. Hayley had no idea who he was but his pointed features were inhumanly pretty, even when contorted in pain. He had impossibly long, straight blond hair and oddly pointed ears. He reminded her, inexplicably, of Trása, and looked to be not much older.