The Dark Divide (4 page)

Jamaspa didn’t appear impressed by Marcroy’s assurances. ‘And if they
don’t
perish?’

He looked at the
djinni
in surprise. ‘How can they not?’

The
djinni
morphed into a more human shape without warning, and sat himself down on the edge of the nearest standing
stone. The sun was almost completely set now, darkness stalking the land. In the distance, the faint sounds of the night creatures coming awake to hunt and play could be heard, if one listened closely. Marcroy ignored the sounds to concentrate on his blue companion’s alarming suggestion.

‘What are you not telling me, Jamaspa?’ he asked, suddenly ill at the thought that he had skirted so close to breaking the treaty of
Tír Na nÓg
just to discover it may have all been for naught.

‘There are rumours,’ Jamaspa said. ‘Unfounded, unreliable and untraceable. But they have been heard in several realms now. Rumours that in some realities, the Undivided have not achieved Partition, despite spawning the twins who can easily achieve it. Rumours that hint at a foe capable of defeating them before they had a chance to mature.’

‘If they are only rumours, what difference do these rumours make to us?’ Marcroy asked.

‘Perhaps a great deal,’ Jamaspa said, watching Marcroy closely. ‘In every realm where the Undivided have achieved Partition, they have turned on the
sídhe
and set out to destroy them. You have seen the result for yourself, now, Marcroy. Once Partition is achieved, the Undivided are effectively immortal, as far as we know. Certainly we’ve not heard of any
sídhe
having success in killing them.’

It occurred to Marcroy that perhaps the animosity of the Undivided toward the
Tuatha Dé Danann
was justified. In some of the realms where the magically gifted humans had managed to free themselves of any need for cooperation with the
sídhe
races, their animosity might have had something to do with the Brethren’s determination to be rid of them. Sending assassins, as a rule, was not the best way to open a dialogue with an enemy.

‘You think there is someone or some
thing
who can kill them?’ Marcroy asked, a little impatiently. ‘Even if they are capable of achieving Partition?’

Jamaspa nodded. ‘One of the rumours we’ve heard claims that twins capable of severing their magical ties with our people were destroyed by their predecessors. Those twins were the rare Undivided who
didn’t
perish during the transfer of power from one generation of Undivided to the next.’

Marcroy thought about that for a moment. He didn’t see how it was possible. ‘Humans cannot channel
sídhe
magic on their own. That’s why we protect them with the triskalion tattoo. Without it, the magic would kill them.’

‘
If
they’re human,’ Jamaspa agreed.

‘How can they not be human?’ Marcroy scoffed.

‘To wield
sídhe
magic,’ Jamaspa pointed out, logically enough, ‘one has to be mostly
sídhe
.’

Marcroy rolled his eyes at the very suggestion. ‘You don’t think we wouldn’t have noticed the Undivided were
sídhe
before now?’

‘That would depend on how much trouble the
Matrarchaí
have taken to conceal it from us.’

‘I would suggest they’ve not much
sídhe
blood in them,’ Marcroy said, ‘because every single one of them has died during the transfer to his or her successors.’

‘Granted,’ the
djinni
conceded. ‘But if RónánDarragh were to survive …’

Marcroy didn’t hear the rest. He was remembering the investiture of RónánDarragh when they were babies.
The tall stones of Beltany casting their shadows over the stone platform where the infant heirs lay. The long, complicated ceremony full of absurd ritual. The sacrifices to the gods and goddesses.
He remembered stifling a yawn as Orlagh stepped forward to take each of the year-old twins by the hand — Rónán by the left and Darragh by the right — to brand them magically with the symbol that would act as a conduit between the
Tuatha
and the Druids.

Marcroy remembered waiting, expecting the children to howl with pain. It was more than a surface tattoo the
Tuatha Dé Danann
queen was bestowing on them. She was branding them to the bone, searing the magical symbol into the boys so deeply that even losing that limb would not interrupt the flow of power.

But the boys hadn’t cried …

These boys — these magically gifted psychic twins born of a human woman — obviated the need for the treaty. There was no need for spells or magical tattoos, Jamaspa had told him a few days later when he came to warn Marcroy about them. These children could take from the
sídhe
that which had, until now, been given under very specific conditions.

‘You knew,’ he accused the
djinni
. ‘Back when you first came to me, you knew then that they were part-
sídhe
.’

Jamaspa shook his head. ‘I didn’t
know
. I still don’t. In fact, we won’t know at all, for certain, until the power transfer at
Lughnasadh
. If Darragh survives it, then we have our answer. And maybe our weapon. So the other twin you devoted so much time to hiding will also need to be brought home.’

The ramifications were mindboggling. Marcroy didn’t know what to think. He was certain, however, that nothing good could come of any Undivided having the temerity to survive what was, effectively, his own execution. ‘I don’t see how Darragh or his brother can help us fight off the
Matrarchaí
, even if they are almost all
sídhe
, which I seriously doubt.’ Even as he said it, he could hear the lack of conviction in his own voice.

‘That’s because you are not thinking this through, cousin,’ Jamaspa said. ‘Consider for a moment. What is the one thing we Faerie cannot do? What we cannot even contemplate doing?’

‘Breaking
sídhe
law,’ Marcroy answered without hesitation.

‘Then imagine,’ the
Djinn
suggested, ‘if RónánDarragh are mostly
sídhe
, without even knowing it they are bound by
sídhe
law, too. They must defend us. They have no choice.’

Marcroy paused as he slowly realised what Jamaspa was saying. ‘And these rumours? Do you think it means these
Undivided the Matrachai bred to defeat us were destroyed because the eileféin of our RónánDarragh turned on them when they tried to annihilate the Faerie? I suppose they must have. As
sídhe
themselves, they could do nothing else.’

Jamaspa smiled. ‘See! I told the Brethren you weren’t as foolish as you seem.’

Marcroy was stunned. ‘But this means if Darragh and his brother survive
Lughnasadh
we can win. We are saved. This is excellent news!’

‘If it’s true.’

‘I suppose we won’t know until
Lughnasadh
,’ Marcroy said, rubbing his chin, wondering how he was going to manage this. He needed to bring the Undivided home. Both of them. He needed to know whether they were going to survive the transfer of power, and if they did, he needed to be the one to reveal the truth to them. He would become their mentor … their guardian … the father figure both boys had always lacked.

He would be the reason they chose to save their true people.

The idea that he might be the saviour of the
sídhe
races in this realm was very enticing to a
sídhe
as ambitious as Marcroy. Such a deed would come with great reward, great prestige — perhaps even admittance to the ranks of the Brethren, who hadn’t opened their ranks to a new member in several thousand years …

Marcroy could already taste the delicious ambrosia of success. The heady taste of being hailed as a hero, not just by his own people, but by every
sídhe
in this realm. He was already scheming, already trying to plan how to make it happen.

The first step was obvious — bring Darragh and his brother back to this realm. If they survived the transfer, to have any hope of success he had to keep RónánDarragh close.

In theory, it was all too easy …

Pity, then, Marcroy had no idea what had become of the Undivided.

CHAPTER 3

The media circus that had taken up residence in the car park of Dublin’s Castle Golf Club with alarming speed had obviously been undaunted by the early-morning rain or by the fact they were not permitted any closer to the action.

Now, in daylight, the full extent of the carnage wrought on the club’s pristine fairways and greens was apparent.

There was plenty to keep the cameras rolling and the reporters talking into their microphones and cameras, as they breathlessly reported on what little they knew about last night’s events, which was — Pete Doherty was quite certain — barely anything at all.

After all, Pete had been in the thick of things for most of the night and he knew next to nothing about what had happened down there on the ninth hole, so he was pretty certain the media was no better informed.

The Gardaí had cordoned off the car park and another area around a metallic-silver Audi parked at an odd angle with its doors open. His own unmarked patrol car would soon be subject to a similar level of forensic scrutiny. It was down on the fairway, wrapped around the trunk of a large oak tree.

Uniformed officers were on duty to keep the paparazzi pack at bay. Over by the elegant, two-storey clubhouse, another crowd of curious onlookers had gathered, despite the rain, to watch all the
excitement. There was an ambulance parked on the edge of the green, its back doors open, the paramedics wearing high-visibility fluorescent vests sitting on the back step of the ambulance sipping coffee from polystyrene mugs. They were waiting for someone to treat. Other than Pete, nobody was injured, but there had been shots fired and people were still missing. Pete made a mental note of the Audi’s licence plate and turned to glance over his shoulder, more than a little annoyed that Inspector Duggan was sending him home. She wasn’t concerned about his supposed concussion — she thought he’d screwed up by letting the Kavanaugh kid escape last night. He watched through the rain-streaked window of the patrol car as it slowly headed across the car park for the gates. The line of uniforms scouring the rough around the fairways weren’t just looking for evidence, he knew. They were looking for bodies.

‘Jesus wept!’ the officer driving the car exclaimed, slamming on the brakes. ‘There’s two of you!’

Pete jerked against his seat belt with a grunt and squinted through the beating wipers, looking at the figure that stepped in front of the patrol car taking him home on Inspector Duggan’s orders. The reporter brazenly blocked their way as the car headed away from the chaos that smart-arsed Kavanaugh kid had managed to wreak while kidnapping his cousin from St Christopher’s Visual Rehabilitation Centre last night.

‘It’s okay,’ Pete assured the driver as he jerked open the door. He was angry enough at being sent home and excluded from the action. He certainly didn’t need the added complication of an over-enthusiastic reporter who figured Pete owed him a favour or two just because they were related. ‘I’ll take care of this.’

He climbed out of the car, pulled up the collar of his coat against the drizzling rain and approached the reporter, who eyed him up and down with a frown.

‘That’s an impressive shiner you’ve got brewing there, my friend,’ the reporter said, his frown changing to a mischievous
grin as he examined Pete’s face more closely. ‘You gonna get a medal for it? Mum’ll be thrilled.’

‘What are you doing here, Logan?’ Pete asked, glad his brother hadn’t asked for details on how he had acquired the two rapidly blackening eyes he sported. He would never hear the end of it if his twin learned a girl had knocked him out cold.

‘Same as you. My job.’ Logan thrust the mike he was holding toward his battered and bruised brother and assumed his very best on-camera voice. ‘Care to give me an exclusive, Detective-Sergeant Doherty?’

‘Fuck off,’ he said pleasantly, knowing his use of an expletive would render the tape unusable for the evening news. He pushed away the lens Logan’s cameraman shoved in his face. ‘Get that thing away from me, George, or I swear I’ll shove it sideways up your —’

‘Keep filming Duggan if you can spot her,’ Logan ordered George hastily, before turning back to Pete. George obliged and moved the focus off Pete and onto the action across the course — or what little they could see of it. Logan took Pete by the arm and drew him aside, out of George’s hearing. ‘Off the record then. Brother to brother. What’s really going on down there, Pete? Did you catch the Kavanaugh kid?’

‘No comment,
brother
,’ Pete told him, amused Logan had even bothered to try such a tactic. ‘I know your idea of
off the record
.’

‘Is it true Ren Kavanaugh kidnapped some girl from a hospital in the city last night,’ Logan asked, undeterred, ‘and made his getaway in a stolen patrol car?
Your
patrol car, perchance?’

‘Why are you even asking me, Logan?’ Pete sighed, wondering where Logan had heard about
that
. He probably had a police scanner in his car. Or the TV station had one. Nothing was really a secret these days. ‘You know I’m not going to tell you anything.’

‘Ah, but you’re wrong. Your silence is very revealing.’

Logan glanced past Pete at the chaos across the fairways, where a cluster of patrol cars and a whole platoon of Gardaí were scouring the course, looking for any sign of the fugitive, Ren Kavanaugh, and his missing cousin, Hayley Boyle. Pete doubted they’d find anything. Kavanaugh was proving to be a right little Houdini, and if he was still hiding on the golf course somewhere, surely they would have found him — or the girl he’d kidnapped — by now.

His brother frowned at the police for a moment and then turned to Pete with a cheerful smile. ‘So … if you won’t tell me anything useful, any chance you can do your favourite brother a favour and line me up an interview with old Iron-Britches Duggan before you go?’