He didn’t answer, turning back to stare down at the twin girls he had come to murder. It wasn’t who they were, but what, that made their deaths so necessary.
Why am I the only one who sees that clearly?
His brother took another step closer. ‘I won’t let you do it.’
‘How will you stop me?’ he asked as he raised the blade, bracing himself for the fatal blow. One of the girls was stirring. She opened her eyes to smile up at him, her face framed by soft dark curls. Her sister remained asleep, still peacefully sucking her thumb.
‘I’ll kill you if I have to, to stop this.’
The assassin smiled down at the twins, dismissing the empty threat. ‘Even if you could get across this room before the deed is done, turns out, you can’t kill me without killing yourself, which would achieve precisely what I am here to prevent.’
He moved the blade a little, repositioning his grip. The candlelight danced across its engraved surface, mesmerising the baby. He was happy to entertain her with the pretty lights for a few moments. His mission was to kill her and her sister, after all, not to make her suffer.
There was a drawn-out silence, as he played the light across the blade. Behind him, the presence that was both his conscience and his other half remained motionless. There was no point in his brother trying to attack him. They were two sides of the same coin. Since coming to this strange and terrible place, neither could so much as form the intent to attack without the other knowing about it.
The girls would be dead before his brother could reach the cradle to stop him.
‘There must be another way to stop this.’ There was a note of defeat in the statement, a glimmer of acceptance. And he wasn’t talking about killing the girls. He was talking about mass murder. Genocide on a scale neither of them could have comprehended before stepping through the rift.
‘I wouldn’t be here if there was,’ the assassin replied, still staring down at the baby he had come to kill. ‘You know that,’ he added, glancing over his shoulder. ‘You’ve seen what I’ve seen.’
His brother held out his hand, as if he expected the blade to be handed over, and for this night to be somehow forgotten. Put behind them like a foolish disagreement they’d been wise enough to settle like men. ‘They’re just babies …’
‘They are our death and the death of much more besides.’
‘But they’re innocents …’
The assassin shook his head. ‘Only because they lack the capacity yet to act on what they were bred to manifest. It’s nature over nurture, brother. Once they become adults …’
‘Dammit … they’re your own flesh and blood!’
He gripped the blade tighter and turned back to the cradle, steeling his resolve with a conscious act of will. It didn’t matter who they were. It’s what they were. That was the important thing.
It was the reason they had to die.
‘They are abominations, bred to cause chaos and strife.’
‘What the Faerie showed us in other realities may not happen in this one.’
‘Of course it will,’ he said, growing impatient with an argument he considered long resolved. He reached into the cradle with his left hand to pull back the blankets covering the children. The twin who was awake grabbed his finger. Her blue eyes smiling, she squeezed it gently. Behind him, his other half watched, too appalled to allow this, too afraid to stop it.
‘Help me, or leave,’ he said, feeling his brother’s accusing eyes boring into his back. ‘Just don’t stand there feigning disgust. It was your carelessness that brought us here.’
His brother wasn’t ready to give up just yet. ‘Perhaps what the djinni showed us won’t happen in this reality …’
‘I’m not prepared to take that risk.’
‘But you’re prepared to have the blood of two innocent children on your hands?’
‘Better the blood of two children than the blood of the thousands who don’t deserve to die.’
He was still a little amazed he felt so calm. It was as if all the anguish, all the guilt, all the fear and remorse, all the normal human emotions a man should be battling at a time like this were a burden carried by someone else, leaving him free to act, unhindered by doubt.
If that wasn’t a sign of the rightness of this deed, he couldn’t think of anything else that might be.
He extracted his finger from the soft, determined grip of the baby girl, her skin so supple and warm, her gaze so trusting and serene, it was heart-breaking.
But not heart-breaking enough to stay his hand. He raised the blade, transfixed by the guileless blue eyes staring up at him. And then he brought it down sharply, slicing through the swaddling and her fragile ribs into her tiny heart without remorse or regret.
He was quick and, he hoped, merciful, but the link between the sisters was quicker.
Before he could extract the blade from one tiny heart and plunge it into another, her twin sister jerked with pain and began to scream …
Pete sat bolt upright in bed, bathed in a cold sweat, jerked awake by the horror of his nightmare. He was panting, trying to calm his racing heart. The clarity of his dream was terrifying, but not quite so terrifying as the underlying reason for it.
He glanced at the clock on the bedside table. It was just past three in the morning. Swinging his legs around so he was sitting on the edge of the bed, Pete put his head in his hands, trying to dispel the nightmare which was burned into his brain like a true memory, not the fading wisps of a soon-to-be-forgotten dream.
The nightmare shook Pete to his core, and not just because of the graphic nature of it, or even that he had it in him to imagine such a thing — he’d seen plenty of things in his job that would give a man nightmares. But Pete had studied dreams. He knew more than the average person about the pathology of what made them happen and the current thinking on what fuelled them and what they revealed about the dreamer. But if dreams were supposed to metaphorically act out one’s unresolved expectations, what the hell did a nightmare where he murdered Logan’s unborn babies mean?
Pete had never in his life been jealous of his brother. He would admit to some irritation at the way Logan always seemed to land the better job, the prettier girl, and now even be the first of them to father a child. To have such a nightmare, such a clear and unequivocal expression of such underlying — and until this moment unsuspected — rage toward his brother, so intense that he could imagine himself killing his brother’s children made Pete question everything he knew about himself and his relationship with his twin.
Am I really that jealous of Logan? he asked himself, trying to find some trace of the emotion within himself, even a whisper of it — anything to explain the awful nightmare that kept replaying itself in his mind like a looped video tape. The nonsense about fairies and genies he dismissed as simply his mind populating his dream landscape with information it had on hand. He’d been reading the transcripts of Annad’s interviews with Darragh, whose tortured mind was filled with mythical beasts that roamed his imaginary alternate reality at will, so it was easy enough to guess the source of that part of the dream. But the rest of it … where the hell did slitting babies’ throats come from? In what dark part of his psyche was that lurking in, waiting to ambush him at the first sign of trouble? Was it jealousy of Logan? Was it simply jealousy of his three-minute-older brother, or some deep-seated guilt about signing that pro-choice petition someone was handing around the pub a few months ago, manifesting itself into a horror movie in his head because they’d been talking about Tiffany getting on a plane to have the problem ‘dealt with’?
He’d certainly dealt with the problem in his nightmare. What sort of sick, twisted monster does that make me?
The phone rang before he could answer the question. He picked it up, knowing who it was without even glancing at the number. ‘Logan.’
‘The phone barely even rang,’ Logan remarked, not bothering with a hello. ‘It’s after three in the morning. What? Were you sitting on it?’
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‘I’m not the one calling at three in the morning,’ Pete pointed out, sure his brother could sense the lingering guilt from his nightmare even across the phone. ‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing … I just had a feeling, that’s all.’
Another time, Pete may have laughed off Logan’s fey feelings, but not tonight. ‘What sort of feeling?’ Like I might murder your kids some day?
There was a long pause on the phone before Logan answered. ‘You remember the time you got stabbed chasing down that drug dealer in Killbarrick?’
Pete remembered it well. It wasn’t much more than a flesh wound, really, but Logan had been on the phone to him within minutes of it happening. ‘Yeah, I remember.’
‘It was that sort of feeling.’
‘You’re imagining things,’ Pete told him. ‘I’m at home. Safe and sound, tucked up in my bed.’
‘Answering the phone at three in the morning.’
‘Only because I have this idiot brother who insists on calling me at three in the morning.’
There was another pause. Logan had something else he needed to get off his chest, Pete sensed. He waited, knowing there was no point in pushing his brother to speak faster than he wanted.
‘Hey, Pete …’
Here it comes. ‘Yeah?’
‘Do you think I’d make a good dad?’
Christ. He wants to talk about his kid. ‘Sure. Why wouldn’t you be a good dad?’
‘I dunno … I mean … you’ve studied that shit, haven’t you? Cops deal with that sort of crap all the time. You don’t think I’d ever hurt them, do you?’
Pete suddenly couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t speak. There was a long painful silence between the brothers, until Logan broke the silence with a sarcastic, ‘Way to go there, little brother, with the quick but confident reassurance. Nice to know you think so highly of me.’
Oh, for chrissakes. ‘I … no … I mean … I didn’t answer you, because I can’t believe you’d even ask me something so insane. Christ, Logan, what sort of question is that? Why would you even think that way?’
Logan was silent for a long moment, and then he forced a laugh. ‘No reason. Just a silly notion. You sure you’re not lying in a gutter bleeding to death?’
‘Positive. Go back to sleep, Logan. And stop worrying about stupid things.’
‘’night, Pete.’
‘’night, Logan.’
The phone went dead. With a heavy sigh, he placed it on the side table and lay down again, but sleep eluded him.
Pete lay awake until dawn, certain that Logan had experienced the same nightmare he had, and that for some inexplicable reason, both of them were dreaming about killing Logan’s unborn children.
CHAPTER 51
All hell broke loose with Rónán’s collapse, a situation not helped at all by Trása morphing back into human form beside him, as Chishihero pushed her way forward to take charge.
‘It’s the Youkai!’ the Konketsu magician screamed, as Trása fell to her knees beside Rónán.
Trása didn’t know what to do. Rónán was so pale it was as if all the blood had been drained from his body. His eyes were rolled up into his head and he was barely breathing.
Don’t die, don’t die, don’t die, she repeated over and over to herself as she tried to cradle his head in her arms. If Rónán dies, she told herself, then Darragh will die too. She didn’t want either of them dead.
‘Kill the Youkai!’ Chishihero was screaming behind her. ‘Kill her! Now!’
Trása ignored her. She let go of his head and grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking Rónán as if he was simply in a heavy sleep and that’s all it would take to rouse him. That it was sunset here and in another realm the magic had been torn from him and his brother to be passed on to the new Undivided, mattered little to her. It couldn’t happen like this. It couldn’t end like this.
She would not allow it to end like this, stuck here in a realm where she was the only one of her kind left except for Rónán, although she still hadn’t gotten her head around the idea that Rónán and Darragh were more sídhe than she was.
Rónán mustn’t die, she caught herself thinking, a little surprised by the thought, because it was Darragh she loved. Darragh she yearned for. Darragh she wanted to be with.
‘Wait!’ someone called behind her. ‘You don’t have to kill her. We know her true name.’
Trása ignored them. She rolled Rónán onto his side so he wouldn’t choke on his tongue — something she learned watching Rescue 911 repeats in his reality — and tried to think what else she could do to keep him alive.
What’s happening to Darragh? she wondered. Is the same thing happening to him in Rónán’s realm? Is someone with him? How will they know what’s wrong with him?
Trása had seen the medical wizardry of Rónán’s realm first-hand. She’d considered it clumsy and inelegant and no substitute for magical healing at all. But she knew they had machines there which could artificially sustain life. When Darragh collapsed, has someone thought to intervene? Is he somewhere he can get help? Will they sustain his life with their incomprehensible machines and will that, because of the link between the twins, sustain Rónán in this realm as well?
The questions flashed through Trása’s mind so quickly, she was unaware of the discussion going on above her, as Chishihero tried to have her killed and the Empresses tried to prevent it.
‘We can control her, I tell you,’ one of the little girls said impatiently, and then Trása felt a hand on her shoulder. ‘Tinkerbell, take your hands off Renkavana this instant!’
Tinkerbell? Oh, for pity’s sake, she’s talking to me! Trása had only a split second to decide how to respond to the command. If she defied it, they would know Rónán had lied to them. If she obeyed it, on the other hand, the Empresses would think they had control of her and she might be allowed to stay with him. At the very least, Chishihero would not be allowed to have her summarily executed.
She snatched her hand back from Rónán and sat back on her heels, acutely aware that she was naked. Nudity didn’t bother her normally, but here, amid so many unfriendly and accusing stares, she felt her vulnerability keenly.
‘Yes, mistress,’ she replied meekly, keeping her eyes downcast and her tone resentful. She had seen Marcroy deal with enough sídhe whose names he commanded to know that invoking one’s true name produced obedience, but a great deal of resentment, too. If she was to convince these humans they controlled her, she would have to behave like any other trapped and annoyed Faerie, forced to do someone else’s bidding against her will.
‘See!’ the Empress who had commanded her announced. ‘I told you so.’
‘You cannot trust it, Jotei,’ Chishihero insisted. ‘Even if you know its real name.’
‘It seems to be working just fine,’ the other Empress said.
‘Roll over, Tinkerbell,’ the first little girl said. ‘And shake your hands and feet in the air.’
Sadistic little bitch, Trása said silently, as she did what the little girl commanded. She rolled on to her back and wiggled her arms and legs about — to the great amusement of everyone gathered in the akunoya — grateful she did not have to prove her obedience to anybody else. Teagan and Isleen were children, and what entertained them was far less onerous than any test someone like Chishihero could devise.
Isleen or Teagan — who could tell? — laughed delightedly and clapped her hands. ‘Oh, this is going to be so much fun.’
‘But what about Renkavana?’ the other girl asked, looking down at Rónán’s rigid body with concern. ‘What’s wrong with him?’
Although they hadn’t invoked her name, Trása used the question as an excuse to stop her ridiculous waving about. She quickly rolled back onto her knees and bowed low to the Empresses, glancing at Rónán with concern as she did. Danú, she asked the goddess silently, is he even breathing? ‘Something has happened in the realm from which Renkavana originates, Jotei,’ she told them.
‘Is he going
to die from it?’
Trása glanced at Rónán again and was inclined to tell the truth, but that might mean the end of both of them. She had to stall for time. Perhaps, against all the odds, Rónán and Darragh might live. If not, she didn’t want to hasten his demise. ‘I don’t think so, Jotei,’ she said meekly.
‘Can you heal him, Chishihero?’ the twin on the left asked. Trása had decided that was Isleen. She seemed the more sensible of the two.
‘I do not know what is wrong with him,’ the Konketsu woman replied. Trása couldn’t see her face. Still kneeling, all she saw was a forest of stockinged feet, with an odd gap between the toes to fit the straps of the geta lined up outside the akunoya. ‘I cannot fold a healing spell unless I know what it is we are dealing with.’
‘We could try fixing him ourselves,’ Teagan suggested.
Trása wasn’t sure that was a good idea, but she didn’t know how to explain that. Telling these little monsters who had rid themselves of their own Undivided — their own father to boot — that Rónán was one half of the Undivided from another realm, might cause them to kill him, rather than save him. She wasn’t sure magic was the answer here, either. Rónán had just had the magic ripped from him. The tattoo on his hand was gone. Trying to heal a magical wound so deep with more magic was, Trása suspected, akin to treating a serious burn with more fire. That Rónán was even still alive was a miracle. What is happening to Darragh in the magic-less realm? Is Rónán still breathing because Darragh is too?
Or maybe it was just wishful thinking. Maybe Darragh was already dead and any minute now, Rónán will be, too.
‘I don’t know if it would help, Jotei,’ Trása said, trying to sound obsequious and angry at the same time. ‘What ails Renkavana comes from another realm. The magic you wield here may have no effect.’
‘The Youkai could be right,’ Chishihero conceded. ‘But I am happy to attempt a general healing fold, to see if that will help.’
‘It can’t do any harm, I suppose,’ Isleen agreed. ‘I wish I could remember more of what Lady Delphine taught us about healing magic.’
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