‘Except I’m not Youkai,’ Ren replied, bowing to his host. He needed to clear that up at the outset. Being Youkai in this reality was a health hazard. ‘My name is Ren. Ren Kavanaugh.’
Namito nodded sympathetically. ‘Of course, it would be foolish to announce such a thing. The Ikushima will honour your wish to remain anonymous, wagakimi.’ He glanced at his men who nodded agreement. Then he turned to his sister. ‘Do you understand, Kazusa? You are not to tell anybody about Renkavana. No bragging to your friends that you captured a Youkai.’
Kazusa scowled at her brother, but nodded. ‘He’s not much of a Youkai anyway,’ she said. ‘He can’t even heal himself.’
Everybody turned to stare at him. Ren realised Kazusa was talking about the cut on his face. The cut Chishihero inflicted on him when she’d struck him. Not used to having the power to heal his own wounds magically, it had not even occurred to Ren to fix it. As soon as he thought of it, though, he realised the knowledge was there in his mind, among all the other unsorted and confusing information he’d acquired from his twin brother’s mind during the Comhroinn. All he had to do was will the healing to happen.
But if he did heal it — now Kazusa had drawn attention to his injury — there would be no denying he was Youkai. The Undivided, the Druids and the complicated hierarchy of magicians from Darragh’s reality were unknown here. In this reality, as far as Ren could tell, there were the Youkai — who were mostly dead — and the human sorcerers who wielded magic with origami.
There seemed to be no room in the middle for a human who could wield magic because he happened to be branded with a magical tattoo.
Namito didn’t see a problem with Ren’s injury, though. He smiled down at his sister, explaining, ‘Of course he wouldn’t heal it, Kazusa. That would reveal what he is.’ Namito looked to Ren. ‘I apologise for my sister, Renkavana. She has never met one of the Youkai before. Will you be bringing your mate to join us?’
‘My what?’
‘The female Youkai,’ he explained. ‘The Tanabe captured you and your mate together at the rifuto stones, but she escaped in the form of a bird before Chishihero could have her killed.’
Namito had an impressive spy network, Ren realised, if he knew about Trása already. And that they had come through the rift at the stone circle in the forest. Although it did explain what Kazusa had been doing, scouring the Tanabe plantation for escaped Youkai. She must have heard her brother talking about it and decided to help. Ren couldn’t imagine any circumstance where Namito would send this little girl out to search for rogue Youkai on her own.
‘I don’t know where Trása is,’ Ren told him, thinking the truth was the safest course for the time being. ‘What do you know of the rift stones?’
‘Not much,’ Namito said. ‘And here is not the place to discuss it. Will you accept the hospitality of the Ikushima, wagakimi?’
He says that like I have a choice, Ren said to himself, but he smiled and bowed, wondering if the Ikushima were planning to kill him too, but were just being polite about it.
‘I would be honoured,’ he replied. Manners cost nothing, as Kerry Boyle was fond of saying. And if there was any chance he could find his way home, he needed allies. Until he found Trása and figured out how he was going to get back through the rift to the reality where he belonged, Kazusa and her brother would have to do.
CHAPTER 11
It was dark before Patrick knocked on Jack’s back door. By then, Darragh and Sorcha had spent an informative day watching the television, learning about the chaos at the golf club and the unsuccessful attempts of the Gardaí to locate the fugitive, Ren Kavanaugh, and his missing cousin, Hayley Boyle, whom Rónán was now accused of kidnapping. This accusation was in addition to the charges laid against him several weeks ago, when Trása had burned down a warehouse and with the help of the Leipreachán Plunkett O’Bannon, framed him for murder.
Or rather, Darragh had been watching TV. Sorcha had complained the shiny box gave her a headache just after lunch, and had gone to lay down in one of Jack’s many empty guest rooms, which was an extraordinary thing for her to do. Normally, Sorcha behaved like a caged cat, prowling around looking for trouble, always alert to any danger.
Darragh could never remember Sorcha opting for a lie-down over patrolling the grounds. He wondered if this realm was making her sick. He’d gained a lot of information in the Comhroinn with his brother, including Rónán’s knowledge of biology, germs and the nature of disease. It was possible, he realised with the benefit of his brother’s high school education, that Sorcha had contracted something in this reality for which her immune system was unprepared. Although rift runners jumped safely between realities regularly in Darragh’s world, they were always either part-Faerie, or human magicians with the ability to heal themselves as soon as they reached a magical realm. Maybe the mere act of channelling Faerie magic gave Druids some immunity. Darragh was certainly feeling no ill effects from this realm.
But Sorcha was neither Faerie nor Druid.
Perhaps this realm wasn’t just making her ill. It could be killing her.
Sorcha’s health, however, was the least of his problems. Darragh had to convince Patrick Boyle his daughter was safe first, so Patrick wouldn’t turn him over to the authorities. They had no reason at all to believe he wasn’t his brother, and would be happy to lock him up and throw away the key for murder, arson, and now, kidnapping.
Darragh was waiting in the dining room. In the background, he could hear the television in the other room. Yet another report about the Castle Golf Club and the search for the fugitive, Ren Kavanaugh. The reporter was explaining the same thing reporters had been explaining all day long — nobody knew a damned thing.
‘… says Inspector Duggan, who is leading the investigation. She is refusing to say if there were any injuries following the shoot-out last night, or if indeed this investigation is in any way related to the investigation surrounding the escape from legal custody of the son of the Oscar-winning actress Kiva Kavanaugh, despite her appearance at the scene this morning. This is Logan Doherty. Back to you, Liam …’
Jack led Patrick into the dining room, saying nothing. He disappeared for a moment and the TV went silent before he reappeared and went to the sideboard, took out two glasses and a bottle of Powers Irish whiskey, pouring his visitor a glass without asking if he wanted one. He thrust the half-full glass at Patrick. ‘Have a seat.’
Patrick looked down at the glass in his hand, staring at it as if he didn’t know how it got there, and then took a long swig before he uttered a word.
‘What have you done with my Hayley?’ he asked finally.
‘As far as I know, she’s safe and well,’ Darragh said.
‘Don’t fuck me about, Ren,’ Patrick warned. ‘You tell me where she is, or I swear, the Gardaí’ll be knocking down Jack’s door in the next ten minutes.’
‘I’m happy to tell you everything you want to know, Patrick, but you’re not going to believe me,’ Darragh warned.
‘Aye,’ Jack agreed with a sour laugh. ‘He’s got that much right.’ The old man pulled a chair out from the table and offered it to Patrick. ‘Seriously, Paddy. Take a seat so the lad can explain what’s going on.’
‘Do the IRA have her?’ he asked, glaring at Jack.
‘What the feck would the IRA want with your wee lass?’ Jack asked, offended by the question. ‘Now take a seat and listen to the lad. And keep an open mind. Trust me, fella, you’re going to need it.’
With some reluctance, Patrick Boyle did as Jack asked and took the seat opposite Ren at the polished dining table.
Darragh took a deep breath. He had spent much of the day running through various scenarios in his head about how this conversation would go, and they all ended in Patrick not believing a word of what he told him. For Amergin’s eileféin to even begin to accept what Darragh was about to reveal, he needed to be convinced Darragh wasn’t lying.
There was one very simple and effective way of doing
that.
‘How well do you know Ren Kavanaugh, Patrick?’ Darragh asked.
Patrick scowled at the question. ‘You know the answer to that.’
‘Would it be reasonable to assume that you have been a father to him? That it is unlikely any man in this world knows him better?’
‘That would be a fair call,’ Patrick agreed warily.
‘Is he in the habit of lying to you?’
‘I would have said no, right up until you started dealing drugs, burning down buildings, killing people and kidnapping my daughter,’ Patrick replied. ‘That’s not the Ren I know.’
‘Ren has a tattoo on the palm of his hand, doesn’t he?’ Darragh asked, ignoring Patrick’s snide remark. It made little difference in the scheme of things. Either Patrick was going to believe the evidence of his own eyes or he wasn’t. Whether he got snippy about it or not was irrelevant. ‘It’s been there since you dragged him out of that lake up in County Donegal where you were employed as Kiva Kavanaugh’s stunt double?’
‘Of course,’ Patrick said impatiently. ‘But if you think that’s going to excuse —’
‘On which hand is the tattoo?’ he cut in, placing both palms on the table in front of Patrick.
‘What?’
‘Which hand?’ Darragh asked. ‘You know Ren better than any man alive. You just said it. So which hand is the tattoo on, Patrick?’
‘The left,’ Patrick snapped.
‘Are you certain of that?’
‘Of course I’m fucking certain of it!’ he said, rising to his feet as Darragh turned his palms over for Patrick to see them. ‘What’s the point of this, Ren? Just tell me what you’ve done with Hay —’
‘Absolutely certain?’ Darragh asked softly.
Patrick froze, staring at Darragh’s right hand with a look of utter disbelief. He slowly resumed his seat, staring at Darragh with dawning comprehension. ‘Oh, my God. You’re not Ren.’
Amergin would have come to the same conclusion just as quickly. Darragh nodded. ‘Rónán is my brother.’
Patrick studied him closely for a few moments, and then shook his head in wonder. ‘Jesus, you’re exactly like him.’
‘We’re identical twins,’ Darragh agreed, stating the blindingly obvious, mostly because he considered it necessary to drive that point home before he tackled the rest of his story. If Patrick didn’t accept that inescapable fact, Darragh would lose him completely the moment he uttered the unfortunate words ‘alternate reality’.
‘So was it you who took Hayley? Or Ren?’
‘I’ll get to that,’ Darragh promised. ‘First I have to know you believe me, Patrick. I need to know you understand I am not the young man you know as Ren. I know much of what he knows, for reasons you would not comprehend, but I am not him, and I do not have your daughter.’
Patrick took a large gulp of whiskey and turned to look at Jack seated at the far end of the table, watching them. ‘Do you believe him, Jack?’
The old man nodded. ‘Aye. But then I’ve seen them standing side by side, so it’s a little easier for me to grasp.’
‘Okay,’ Patrick conceded, turning back to Darragh. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking. It couldn’t be utter disbelief because he wasn’t reaching for his cell phone to call the police, so that was something to be grateful for. ‘Let’s assume for a moment I accept you are Ren’s twin brother. Where is he then? Was it you who burned down that warehouse? And where is my daughter?’
‘Before I can explain anything, I need to tell you how Rónán came to be in that lake up in County Donegal when you rescued him. Once you understand that, the location of my brother and your daughter will be easier to comprehend.’
Patrick leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. ‘Okay, then. Lay it on me.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘He’s willing to listen to you,’ Jack explained.
Darragh nodded and took another deep breath. ‘Rónán — that’s his real name — tells me you’re familiar with the concept of alternate realities in this —’
‘Alternate realities?’ Patrick spat, jumping to his feet. ‘Alternate fucking realities? Are you kidding me? That’s your explanation?’
‘Do you have a better one for this?’ Darragh asked, holding up his tattooed palm.
‘I could think of a dozen better explanations off the top of my head!’ Patrick shot back. ‘You could be Ren and that tattoo you’re sporting on the wrong hand could be make-up, and don’t tell me it’s not possible. Ren grew up on movie sets. He probably has the cell phone numbers of half the make-up artists in the country, if not the world, stored in his phone. Kiva would certainly know them, although the idea Ren comes from an alternate reality is a step up from her first suggestion that he was left behind by aliens.’
Darragh offered Patrick his right hand. ‘Do you want to check it’s real? I am not Ren, Patrick. I am his brother, and my name is Darragh.’
‘I know,’ Patrick said, in a less belligerent tone. ‘And do you know how I know you’re not Ren?’
Darragh didn’t respond, certain it was a rhetorical question.
‘He would never try to spin me such a ridiculous fucking yarn to get himself out of trouble.’ He drained the last of his whiskey and then raised his empty glass to Jack in mocking salute. ‘Explains the generous proportions of the drink, though. Suppose you thought I’d swallow this blarney easier if I was pissed?’
‘The alcohol helps,’ Jack conceded.
Patrick let out a derisive snort as he slammed the glass onto the table. ‘I’m not going to sit here and listen to this nonsense. You may be Ren’s brother, lad, but you’ve taken my Hayley. There’s going to be an accounting for that, let me tell you.’
‘She is being held as a hostage until Ren has been exonerated,’ Sorcha announced from the door.
Darragh looked up in surprise. He didn’t even know she’d come downstairs.
Patrick swung around to stare at the newcomer. Sorcha was still dressed in the jeans and t-shirt they’d borrowed from the accountant’s house. Her long dark hair was dishevelled and she looked pale, but still commanded attention when she spoke, even without her weapons.
‘Who the hell are you?’
‘I am the one negotiating Ren’s surrender,’ Sorcha announced, looking at neither Darragh nor Jack. ‘Something I will not permit until the crimes committed by the half-breed mongrel, Trása Ni’Amergin, are attributed to the right perpetrator.’
‘What the fuck is she talking about?’ Patrick asked in confusion.
Darragh was wondering the same thing.
‘I am talking about clearing Ren Kavanaugh’s name,’ Sorcha said, stepping into the room. She was a head shorter than any man present, but acted as if she towered over them. ‘Once we know it is safe for him to return, your daughter will be returned to you unharmed.’
‘That’s extortion.’
‘It is also the only way you are ever going to see your daughter alive again,’ Sorcha informed him with chilling certainty. ‘So you may go, and you may contact whomever you see fit, to ensure the threat to him is removed. Once that is done, Hayley will be returned to you.’
Sorcha was making this up on the spot, Darragh realised with despair. They couldn’t do anything of the kind.
‘And if I don’t? If I walk out of here, call the cops and have the whole frigging lot of you arrested, what then?’
‘I can get a message to the people holding your daughter much faster than you can get the police here,’ Sorcha told him. ‘One hint that you have betrayed us, Patrick Boyle, and you will never see your daughter again.’
CHAPTER 12
The reception Ren got from Kazusa’s brother was in stark contrast to his treatment at the Tanabe compound.
Chishihero of the Tanabe had tried to kill him.
Namito and his sisters put on a banquet for him.
After being offered an opportunity to bathe and change into clean clothes — albeit a yukata much the same as thos
e on offer in Japanese hotels in his own reality — Ren was led to the main house across a raked courtyard, where dinner and the rest of the clan were waiting for him. Despite feeling he was wearing a borrowed dressing gown, the informal, unlined kimono tied with a narrow obi around the waist was a welcome change from the damp filthy jeans and borrowed t-shirt that he’d been wearing when he jumped into this reality.
The house was a little smaller than the main residence of the Tanabe, but it was much older and seemed to belong in the landscape. The people of the Ikushima — especially the servants — looked mostly Caucasian. Kazusa’s claim to her family’s lengthy residence was reasonable. They’d been here so long it was hard to tell where the colonial Japanese ended and the indigenous Celts took over. Namito’s striking blue eyes and distinctly Japanese features were not uncommon in the Ikushima compound. He guessed Chishihero and her Tanabe clan were more recent immigrants.
Dinner was already laid out when he arrived. It was a traditional Japanese table setting with a steaming bowl of rice on the left of each place, a bowl of miso soup on the right and several other delicious-smelling dishes served in delicate porcelain bowls. Finely carved ivory chopsticks lay in front of the rice bowls.
Ren bowed as he entered. He remembered that much about his lessons in Japanese etiquette. The studio had sent Kiva’s entire entourage to protocol lessons after his mother almost had them run out of Japan for inadvertently insulting someone. Ren had found the classes the most interesting part of the trip — not counting their visits to Space World and Tokyo Disneyland. He was so intrigued by the customs that when his school had added Japanese to the curriculum last year, he’d signed up for it right away.
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