Reunion

by Jennifer Fallon

  "Where is who?" she asked, a little confused. He couldn't mean Abbán. Maybe he wanted to know what had happened to the original Tuatha Dé Danann who'd once occupied this place.

  "RónánDarragh," he said. "Where are RónánDarragh?"

  Trása's heart skipped a beat. How does he even know they are alive?

  Abbán, of course. But that had only been a few hours ago, surely? Has Rónán been seen crossing Marcroy's realm?

  It didn't make a scrap of sense, and she had no time dwell on it. Hesitation would make her look deceitful.

  "I have no idea where they are, uncle," she said. "I honestly haven't a clue." Fortunately, she wasn't lying. She didn't have a clue where Rónán was and she hadn't laid eyes on Darragh in a decade.

  Marcroy studied her closely for a time, his cat-slit eyes boring into her, looking into the very depths of her soul to ascertain the veracity of her words.

  Finally, after a protracted, terrifying silence, Marcroy nodded, and then he removed his finger from her chin. "Very well, then," he said, placing his hands on her shoulders in a gesture that seemed more threat than affection. "Then let us discuss, little bird, what they have been doing in this realm and when you expect to see them next."

  Chapter 29

  "Did you ever see Men in Black?"

  Ren looked up from his newspaper to stare at Pete, wondering at the seemingly random question. "Are you kidding me? My foster mother was Kiva Kavanaugh. She took me to the premiere in LA. Why?"

  "Don't you remember? That's how they figured what the aliens were up to on Earth. Checking the tabloids. It just struck me that we're doing the same thing. I don't know if I should laugh or seek professional help. Any luck?"

  Ren shook his head. They had every English tabloid they could lay their hands on scattered about the table of the small café they'd found to eat breakfast, but there was no mention of Kiva in any of them. Their hearty breakfast came courtesy of one Quentin P Smith who had not only lost his wallet to a Leipreachán but had been kind enough to write his PIN on the back of his card so he wouldn't forget it. They'd paid for breakfast and then Pete made Ren go outside and toss the card into a garbage bin awaiting collection. Once Mr Quentin P Smith got around to realizing his wallet was missing and he reported it, either to the police or the credit card company, Pete warned, the credit card company could track their movements. One transaction was unfortunate, two was a pattern, three a criminal trend. Better to let Quentin P Smith and American Express think he'd just got his facts wrong about when he'd last used his card before he lost it, than give the police a reason to start investigating a theft.

  "Nothing so far," Ren told him, turning another page.

  "What are the chances she's retired?"

  "About the same as the chance that you're going to denounce all your worldly goods and run off to join a nunnery."

  Pete smiled and turned to the next page of the paper he was checking. "That would be a ... hang on ... here's something. It's not about Kiva, though," he said, folding the paper in half so he could read it more easily.

  "What is it?"

  "The headline is 'Hearing Cancelled for Star's Missing Teen'." He smoothed out the page in the News of the World, folded it over and began to read aloud. "The Dublin hearing to declare Hayley Boyle, stepdaughter of actress Kiva Kavanaugh's cousin and housekeeper, Kerry Boyle, legally dead was unexpectedly withdrawn by her family yesterday." Pete looked up and glanced around to see if they could be overheard but the nearest tables were empty and the café owner was busy somewhere out back. He turned back to the paper and continued reading in a low voice. "Lawyer Eunice Ravenel, acting on behalf of the family, offered no reason for the withdrawal of the application."

  "What else does it say?" Ren asked, reached for the paper.

  Pete slapped his hand away. "Stop interrupting me, and I'll tell you," he said, and then continued to read. "Hayley disappeared nearly ten years ago in an incident involving Kiva Kavanaugh's adopted son, Ren, who disappeared at the same time. Ren's previously unknown identical twin, Darragh Aquitania, is currently serving a life sentence for his involvement in the kidnapping. It was expected that following the issue of a legal death certificate, Aquitania would be formally charged with Hayley's murder. Neither the Boyle family nor Kiva Kavanaugh could be reached for comment. Kavanaugh's manager, Jon Van Heusen, issued a brief statement asking that the family's privacy be respected at this difficult time. He also confirmed that Kiva Kavanaugh would be attending as a presenter at the BAFTA's in London on Sunday night." He looked up at Ren. "That's tomorrow. That means she's probably here. In London."

  Ren wasn't really listening. All he'd heard was, "Darragh Aquitania, is currently serving a life sentence ..." Everything after that was a blur.

  "Where will they be holding Darragh?"

  "I don't know."

  "You used to be a cop, Pete. Of course you know."

  Pete shrugged. He seemed reluctant to answer. "Okay. If he was convicted of kidnapping, then there's a good chance he's in Portlaoise."

  "Fuck."

  "You couldn't have known, Ren."

  The guilt pressing down on Ren at that moment was so crushing he could barely breathe. He stood up and ran outside, needing air in his lungs more than anything. His ears were ringing. His whole head was buzzing.

  Darragh hadn't been living it up with Kiva. He hadn't taken over Ren's room and spent his formative years being feted as a celebrity in the best ski resorts in Europe. He hadn't been to a single premiere. He hadn't slipped into his brother's life like some twisted, romanticised version of The Parent Trap. He'd been in prison. Not just any prison. Portlaoise. One of the hardest prisons in Europe.

  Ren headed blindly down the street. He had no idea where he was going. He couldn't really see, anyway, because his eyes were blurred with angry tears. The worst of it was that he was mostly angry with himself. All those hollow reassurances to himself ... his justifications to Trása ... the excuses he'd made to Pete and Logan.

  All meaningless. Every one of them was a pathetic delusion.

  Darragh had been doing hard time and the one person who might have been able to do something to spare him from it, had spent the last ten years trying to kid himself that he was doing the right thing because his nightmares had stopped.

  "Ren! Look out!"

  Pete's cry forced Ren to pay attention to his surroundings. He stepped back from the kerb just in time. The car he had almost collided with flew past in a blur, the driver leaning angrily on his horn.

  Pete grabbed Ren by the arm and pulled him back. "Not getting yourself killed would be rather useful right now, don't you think?"

  Ren shook his head, unable to care about his own life right at that moment. Why did he deserve to be free while Darragh was in prison for his brother's crimes? "Trása's right, Pete. I should have come back for him before now."

  "In light of this development, she probably was right, but stepping in front of a speeding car is not the way to apologize for doubting her word. Let's get back to the Shard. We can talk about it there."

  "We have to get Darragh out of there."

  Pete was staring at him with concern. "Also another good reason to look before you cross the road."

  Ren took a deep breath. Pete was right. He needed to be thinking straight if he was going to make this right. "Okay. Let's go back. We need to work out what we're going to do next."

  "Are you okay?"

  "Not by a long shot," Ren told him. "And I won't be okay until we get Darragh out of there."

  * * *

  "How long are you planning to beat yourself up over this?" Pete asked sometime later as they emerged into the cavernous empty floor of the Shard where the stone circle was concealed.

  "The truth?" Ren asked, walking across to the window. He didn't see the view. He didn't care about it. "The rest of my life, probably."

  "Fine, then you don't need to do it now."

  Although he was loathe to admit it, Pete was right. Wallowing in a
crimonious self-pity wasn't going to get Darragh out of anything. But it wasn't easy to let it go. "Why didn't he tell me what had happened to him?"

  "Probably hurt less to do the time," Pete suggested, "given an explanation involved carving himself up with a shiv."

  Ren didn't think that was even remotely amusing. "I should have come back sooner."

  "You needed Marcroy's jewel."

  Ren paced the empty floor as they talked, wishing he knew what to do to make this right. Everything else he'd been aiming to do, even confronting the Matrarchaí, seemed so meaningless, so trivial. "Trása managed to get her hands on Marcroy's jewel about ten minutes after she decided she wanted it." He shook his head, overwhelmed by the enormity of his mistake. "Christ, Pete, what have I done?"

  "Nothing yet, but -"

  "How do we bust him out?"

  "Whoa there!" Pete cautioned. "Nobody busts anybody out of Portlaoise. That place houses some of Europe's worst criminals. It's guarded by a full army detachment. And they're not there for decoration. Those guys have assault rifles and they're not afraid to use them."

  "What if we go over the walls?" he asked, thinking of the escape movies he'd seen as a kid where that worked a treat. "Couldn't we hire a helicopter?"

  "Sure, we could hire a helicopter. But it won't help." He smiled, as if he knew where Ren got the idea. "They've seen the same shitty movies you have, Ren. There's an air exclusion zone over the prison and they have anti-aircraft machine guns to prevent an aerial escape by helicopter. And that's before you get to the razor wire, the ludicrously high walls, the cameras, the movement sensors and the few acres of tank traps surrounding the place just to make it interesting."

  "The newspaper says he's serving life, Pete."

  "Life. Something he still has. Trying to bust your brother out of Portlaoise would change that, quick smart." Pete walked to the window to stand beside him and stare over the London skyline, adding, "And let's not forget what will happen if you or I - who have both been missing for a decade - suddenly show up on a CCTV monitor at Portlaoise. You think that will go unnoticed?"

  "How do we get him out, then?"

  "Magic might help," Pete said. "Trust me, nothing else I can think of right now will do it."

  Magic. The one thing he couldn't access in this world, except for the Enchanted Sphere. "That's not very helpful."

  "Don't shoot the messenger. I'm just telling you how it is." He looked at Ren thoughtfully. "Do you think they withdrew the case to declare Hayley dead because she's back?"

  "I suppose."

  "Pity."

  "Pity? You want Darragh charged with another crime he didn't commit?"

  Pete shook his head. "I was just thinking. If he'd been charged with another crime, they'd move him to the cells at the court in Dublin for the hearing. He'd be much easier to snatch from there."

  "Well, that's not going to happen now, is it?" Ren said, finding it hard to form a coherent thought, so devastating was the news about his brother. "Is there another way to get him moved somewhere else? Somewhere higher?"

  "Higher?" Pete asked. "Why higher?"

  "If he was in the Enchanted Sphere, I could just wane into his cell, grab him and wane out again."

  Pete smiled at the thought. "That'd be an escape report I'd like to read."

  "Ye could wane him out of there if ye could hold the magic," Plunkett suggested, materializing out of thin air with an armful of wallets and a large pink tote bag. He'd been busy.

  "Hold the magic how?" Pete asked, trying to imagine anybody being able to hold something as insubstantial as magic.

  "I dinna say I knew how ye could hold the magic," Plunkett said, dropping his loot on the floor. "Just that it be useful if ye could. Are ye planning to get a television in here?"

  "What?"

  "I'd be interested in seein' if they still be having The Simpsons on."

  Pete stared at the Leipreachán for a moment and then turned to Ren, shaking his head. "You know, I can deal with the magic, the alternate realities, even learning I'm a frigging Faerie, but I will never, ever, get used to the idea of a Leipreachán who's a fan of The Simpsons."

  "Marcroy's jewel holds magic," Ren said, paying little attention to what Pete was saying.

  "Marcroy's jewel is in the ninja realm with Logan," Pete reminded him.

  "That's not what I meant," Ren said, stopping his pacing as the idea formed almost as he spoke of it. "Delphine had a crystal wand. Marcroy uses a ruby. Plenty of realities use crystals to open rifts because they hold magic."

  "Rubies be best," Plunkett informed them, as he sat down on the floor and began to rifle through his haul for shiny things.

  "Fine," Pete said to the Leipreachán, more than a little sarcastically. "Why don't you hold up a jewellery store for us, knock off a handful of rubies, soak them in magic somewhere and then Ren can swallow them. That should charge him up enough for a trip in and out of Portlaoise."

  Ren nodded, wondering how Pete had known what he was thinking. Maybe it was because in another reality, Pete might have been him. "That might work."

  "I was joking, Ren."

  "Still might work," he said, thoughtfully. "You'd have to saturate the jewels in magic, but the Pool of Tranquillity probably has the juice to do that. And they'd have to be small enough to swallow. How long do you think I'd have before they worked their way out the other end?"

  "Christ, I don't even want to think about it. Are you serious?"

  "Deadly," Ren said, almost overwhelmed with relief at the notion that he might be able to do something to redress the wrong he'd done his brother. "How long before Logan opens the rift again?"

  "Sunset," Pete told him. "We have about eight hours."

  "That should be enough time."

  "Enough time for what?"

  "To get a handful of rubies," Ren said, certain he knew exactly where to find what he needed, even if the cost was almost more than he was willing to pay.

  Chapter 30

  It was no mean feat to sneak into a hotel where a celebrity was staying, particularly when an event as star-studded as the BAFTA's were in town, and the Savoy, as usual, had plenty of guests to protect. It was almost impossible to get a room, but Ren managed it by ringing reservations on one of Plunkett's stolen cell phones and claiming to be the personal assistant of the Sultan of Brunei, who would be very put out if he couldn't get a room for one of his wives who had decided, at the last minute, to go shopping in London.

  Ren had no intention of staying in the hotel. But one couldn't get past the lobby in most hotels, without a guest key.

  If he was going to pay Kiva a visit, he needed to see her in her room. In private.

  There was a great deal Ren wanted to ask Kiva. Some of Delphine's memories involved his foster mother. Not many of them. In the grand scheme of things, Ren gathered Kiva hadn't been important enough to Delphine to be anything more that a dim and distant memory. She'd not been with the agency long, and there wasn't enough in her memories that Ren could dredge up to find out if it was coincidence or design that landed him in Kiva's trailer after Patrick Boyle dragged him from the water as a three-year old.

  He intended to ask Kiva about that when he saw her, although he said nothing to Pete about it, certain the former cop would try to prevent him from going anywhere near the hotel if he thought Kiva was there. Ren had assured him that on the day before any major awards show, Kiva would be at rehearsals, dress fittings and appointments with her stylist. Truth was, Kiva usually went into a minor meltdown the day before any live appearance, locked herself in her room, and binged on ice cream and alcohol in almost equal measure while she tried to control her stage fright, and her fear that her stylist was going to pour her into something hideous and she would be the laughing stock of the fashionista. It would be worse if she was appearing as a presenter; Kiva hated performing live. Even a walk down a moderately long red carpet was enough to bring on a panic attack. She preferred movie sets where there were no crowds and one could al
ways do another take.

  Ren took Plunkett with him, borrowing the idea from Trása who had shamelessly lied her way onto planes, into hotels, and gods alone knew what else, when she was here searching for him a decade ago, by making the most of the fact that a Leipreachán could channel what little magic there was in this world, outside of the Enchanted Sphere, to glamour unsuspecting humans. Thanks to Plunkett, Trása had flown into Dublin on a fat, middle-aged Italian man's passport.

  Ren figured Plunkett should be able to take care of a hotel receptionist without too much trouble if he could handle an Irish Customs official.

  He'd found a long box in the dumpster outside the Shard and covered it with wrapping paper he'd purchased with another stolen card. After coaxing the Leipreachán inside - although given he'd been forced to invoke Plunkett's true name to get him in the box, "coaxing" wasn't really an accurate description - Ren walked into the hotel lobby carrying his present, with a stolen baseball cap pulled down to shade his face.

  The young woman behind the counter didn't waste a smile on him. He looked like a deliveryman, not a guest in a hotel as expensive and exclusive as the Savoy.

  "Who is that for?" she asked, indicating the box as Ren approached.

  "Her Royal Highness Pengiran Anak Puteri," Ren said. He'd looked for the name on Google at an Internet café on the way here, just to be certain. In a place like the Savoy, they probably knew the name of every one of the Sultan of Brunei's wives, past and present. "It's a present from the sultan for his wife. I have to collect her key and check her room is ready. She'll be here in about an hour."

  "She hasn't checked in yet. I can't give you her key."

  "Are you sure?" Ren asked, putting the box on the counter. "It's an awesome present. Have a look."

  He opened the lid of the box. Despite her feigned disinterest, the receptionist glanced inside. Plunkett had made himself seem a stuffed toy, his eyes glassy beads shining straight up into the unwitting young woman's eyes.