The Dark Divide

by Jennifer Fallon

  Kiva Kavanaugh loved her son Ren. Darragh didn’t doubt that for a moment — and neither did Rónán, his twin’s borrowed memories told him. But after a day in her company, he doubted Rónán would be irreparably damaged by her absence. Kiva loved him in a way that seemed to have more to do with how her son’s behaviour reflected on her, than what he might want or need. As they’d talked — Darragh deliberately telling Kiva what she needed to hear to assuage her suspicions — he began to wonder if it mattered what he told her. Kiva’s focus was almost exclusively on how they were going to manage this crisis in a way that wouldn’t look too awful in the tabloids.

  For much of the previous day they had been alone. To keep Kerry away, Kiva had called her cell phone and told her housekeeper to forget the groceries. She claimed a headache and said was planning to spend the rest of the day in bed so Kerry might as well take the day off, too. After all, with all this business about Hayley, it was unreasonable of Kiva to expect her parents to be putting in a full day’s work. Kiva then made a similar call to Patrick, telling her chauffeur to keep the Bentley after the new tyres were fitted and return it tomorrow, as she wasn’t planning to go out today.

  Another call to her publicist and her stylist to cancel their scheduled appointments and the job was done. Kiva and her son were alone and unlikely to be disturbed.

  Darragh didn’t mention Sorcha to Kiva — he wasn’t sure how she would fit into the whole ‘I was kidnapped by an evil drug lord’ scenario he was selling her. Not that it was an immediate problem. The warrior was nowhere to be found since leaving Jack’s place in the early hours of yesterday morning. She had gone to kill Warren, and Darragh didn’t expect to see or hear from her again until the job was done.

  Now she believed he was home again, Kiva wasn’t planning to let the boy she thought was Ren out of her sight. Darragh couldn’t shift in his chair without her fussing over him and when he tried to use the bathroom, she waited for him outside the door until he was done.

  Four or five years ago, Darragh gleaned from his brother’s memories, Kiva had starred in a film where she played a psychiatrist engaged in a battle of wits with a serial killer, trying to draw out the location of his last victim before she suffocated in her watery prison. Darragh couldn’t help but feel Kiva was playing the role again to deal with him now. Her language seemed at odds with her personality. Whole sentences seemed to have been lifted straight from the script of Death by the Third Degree.

  Kiva had a huge dilemma and she seemed to swing from one position to another without any noticeable reason Darragh could detect. On one hand, she genuinely seemed to want to bring Hayley home, safe and sound. On the other, she was desperate to protect Ren from the consequences of what she believed were his actions.

  She wanted neither outcome quite as much — Darragh concluded after a while — as she wanted to protect her career. Finding Hayley in a blaze of publicity would make her a hero, but one overshadowed somewhat by the kidnapper being her son.

  Darragh found Kiva pathetically easy to placate. She desperately needed to be seen as a good mother, and there was nobody who could give her that assurance more than her own son. So Darragh had spent most of the previous day telling her everything his brother had never told her. It wasn’t hard. He had shared Rónán’s memories, but he had none of his twin’s emotional investment in this woman. It cost him nothing to say the words she wanted to hear.

  Although it was callous to think of her in such terms, Kiva was a means to an end for Darragh. If making her feel better about her parenting skills was all it took for Darragh to be safe until he could return to his own reality, he was happy to oblige.

  And perhaps once he and Rónán were gone from this reality for good, Kiva would be able to console herself with the knowledge that her last few days with her son were happy ones, and that the problems plaguing her troubled child were not her fault.

  The only potential problem arose late in the afternoon when Patrick unexpectedly returned with the Bentley to find Kiva and ‘Ren’ sitting at the granite counter sharing a pizza.

  Darragh had never tasted anything quite like pizza, and was trying very hard not to act as if it was the first one he’d ever had. Kiva had some restaurant on speed-dial who delivered food to the house. Not long before Patrick arrived they’d delivered a steaming, cheesy platter of bliss, which Darragh was devouring with gusto when Patrick walked in. Caught mid-mouthful, he didn’t get a chance to say a word before Kiva jumped to her feet and ran to Patrick, placing herself firmly between him and her son.

  ‘Now, Patrick, please, don’t do anything rash …’

  Patrick stared past Kiva at Darragh, his expression impossible to read. Kiva had no idea Patrick had helped to bring Darragh here. She also knew nothing of their earlier conversation when Darragh had told Patrick who he really was.

  He couldn’t imagine what the man must be thinking now, seeing Darragh, wearing Ren’s clothes and with his hair freshly cut, sitting in Kiva’s kitchen eating pizza as though there was nothing amiss. Especially as his daughter was still missing, and he believed she was being held hostage by Darragh and Sorcha until Ren’s name was cleared.

  ‘Hello, Ren,’ Patrick said in a flat, emotionless tone.

  ‘Patrick.’

  ‘You’re back, then.’

  Darragh put down his half-eaten slice of pizza and wiped his hands, wondering if he was going to have to fight his way out of here. He hoped not. His ankle was still throbbing and he could barely walk. He couldn’t maintain the balance required to engage in unarmed combat. Or run.

  ‘So it seems,’ he agreed in a cautious tone.

  ‘Patrick …’ Kiva began, but he cut her off.

  ‘Has he told you where my Hayley is yet?’

  ‘He says she’s safe, but —’

  ‘Have you called the Gardaí then?’

  ‘No!’ Kiva said. ‘And I forbid you to do it either, Patrick. Not until Ren has had a chance to explain —’

  ‘Oh, I think the lad’s had plenty of opportunity to explain,’ Patrick said, his eyes boring into Darragh with an intensity that reminded him of Amergin in his darkest moments. In that instant, knowing what his eileféin had been capable of, Darragh was grateful for the lack of magic in this world.

  Patrick must be feeling utterly betrayed. He had saved Darragh and Sorcha once in this reality already. And Darragh had confided in him. He’d told him his fantastic tale about being Ren’s twin from another realm. He’d even convinced Patrick, apparently, that Hayley had been sent there to make her well. Sorcha’s additional threat to harm Hayley if any harm came to them must have had some effect, too. Patrick must have believed them, at least in part, because he’d done nothing since then to betray Darragh’s presence to the police or anybody else in this realm.

  Yet, after making Patrick believe all that, here he was sitting in Kiva Kavanaugh’s kitchen, eating pizza and claiming to be Ren.

  This is what it feels like, Amergin, another, less noble part of Darragh whispered silently, to be betrayed.

  ‘Where’s your friend?’

  ‘What friend?’

  ‘The woman. Sorcha.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Darragh said, which was the truth. He really had no idea where Sorcha was at present.

  ‘Who is Sorcha?’ Kiva asked Darragh.

  ‘Nobody,’ Darragh told her. His gaze was still fixed on Patrick, trying to predict what he would do next.

  ‘Are you going to tell me what you did with Hayley?’

  ‘I already did,’ Darragh said, his eyes locked with Patrick’s.

  Kiva must have assumed he meant the explanation he’d given her. She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could utter a word, he turned on her. ‘Fuck you, Kiva, if you’d rather feed this lying little arsehole pizza, while you arrange for him to get away with murder, just so you won’t look bad in the papers.’

  Kiva was shocked by the accusation, but she was a mother protecting her son, and she burred up like a whelping pi
t bull protecting her pup. ‘How dare you speak to me like that, Patrick Boyle! Ren is just as much a victim in all this as your daughter! In fact, she probably led him on. Half the trouble he’s ever been in, Hayley was there egging my son on. You have no idea what he’s been through these past few weeks. No idea what’s been done to him! Look at him! He’s injured. And he’s —’

  ‘And he’s feeding you exactly what you want to hear,’ Patrick told her, his voice filled with contempt. He turned to Darragh again and shook his head. ‘He’s pretty fecking good at that. Well, you know … fuck you both. I’m done with you.’ He tossed the keys to the Bentley on the counter. ‘I quit.’

  Kiva looked panicked by the idea. ‘You can’t just quit, Patrick.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I can.’ And with that he turned on his heel and left, slamming the kitchen door behind him.

  Rónán’s mother stared at the door for a moment and then turned to Darragh, forcing a reassuring smile. ‘Don’t worry about Patrick, darling. You know how he is. He always quits when he’s even a little pissed off.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Darragh said, frowning. Patrick appeared more than a little pissed off. ‘He seemed pretty serious.’

  ‘I’ll talk to Kerry. She’ll make him see reason. Tomorrow we’ll all be friends again. You’ll see.’

  ‘What if he goes to the Gardaí?’

  Kiva shook her head. ‘Patrick would never do that,’ she said confidently. ‘He is like a father to you, Ren. That at least we can be sure of. Patrick would never betray you. Never.’

  Despite Kiva’s prediction about Patrick’s loyalty having an ominous ‘famous last words’ ring to it, by the following morning Darragh was beginning to believe Kiva had the right of it. No Gardaí had arrived in the dead of night to take him away. Tuesday dawned bright and clear. Darragh slept heavily, limping downstairs late mid-morning to find Kiva making him waffles for breakfast — or rather she toasted a pile of frozen waffles from the freezer and topped them with cream from a can and a maple syrup from New Zealand she said Ren liked.

  Kiva had noticed the pain Darragh was in from his sprained ankle — a concern that drew a gasp of horror from her when he explained he’d gained the injury jumping out of a moving car. She had given him two of her painkillers to help him sleep. The pills had knocked him out cold. When he woke his mouth was furry, he was bleary-eyed and groggy and felt as if he’d spent the night drying to drink Ciarán under the table at Sí an Bhrú.

  After their late breakfast, Darragh followed Kiva into the living room. She fussed over him, settling him in front of the TV, making sure his ankle was elevated on the big padded leather ottoman. She applied a remarkably expert bandage to his wounded ankle, courtesy of the training she’d done for her starring role as a war nurse in Nightingale’s War, the widely panned World War I epic she’d made when Rónán was six years old. She joked as she tied the bandage off that at least she’d gotten something out of the film, other than bad reviews. Kiva left Darragh with the remote control and a steaming cup of hot chocolate, while she went into the study to put off another day’s appointments. Darragh wondered how much longer she thought she could keep doing that, particularly as Patrick had not been heard from since yesterday afternoon. Surely by now he would have told his wife, Kerry, that Ren was back and Kiva was hiding him?

  Surely one of the people in her entourage would become suspicious of her efforts to keep them away?

  Darragh knew it was time to leave. He’d learned what he needed to know and he was living here on borrowed time. He needed to get out of this alarmingly comfortable armchair, positioned so perfectly to catch the morning sun, and escape this place while Kiva was occupied with her calls. He needed to get back to Jack’s house next door, find Sorcha, and leave this place forever. He had to get back to the Castle Golf Club with Sorcha so that when Ciarán opened the rift from the other side, he’d be there to take advantage of it.

  Darragh rubbed his eyes. The warmth of the room, the ankle pain and the lingering lethargy from Kiva’s painkillers made it easier to ponder a decision than act upon it. He drifted off, lulled by the sun, the inexplicable excitement of the audience watching a chubby talk-show hostess and her equally chubby guest discuss the most effective strategies they used for sustained weight-loss.

  A shout and a shattering of glass woke him abruptly. Somewhere in the house he could hear Kiva screaming. There were other shouts, too. Male. Gruff and threatening.

  Darragh scrambled out of the armchair, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palms, trying to clear the wool from his mind. He cried out involuntarily as he shifted his weight onto his injured ankle. Seconds later the room was full of dark-uniformed men carrying short, ugly weapons that painted a spray of red dots across his chest and face. They were yelling at him to get down. Darragh wasn’t standing on anything, so he wasn’t sure what they wanted, but then one of them yelled at him to get on his knees. Darragh complied, still confused.

  As soon as his knees hit the floor they were on him. He was pushed flat on his face, his arms jerked behind his back and secured with cold metal handcuffs. He cried out again when something was tightened around his bandaged ankle. The shouts kept on from other more distant rooms in the house — men shouting ‘clear!’ against a background of Kiva screaming at them to leave her son alone. They dragged Darragh upright and he discovered he was shackled hand and foot. The chains around his ankles allowed him only the smallest steps.

  He hadn’t uttered a word, or had time to defend himself. These warriors of Rónán’s realm were exceptionally good at this, he realised. He was amazed that Brogan and Niamh had extracted his brother from their custody. Could they achieve the same feat a second time?

  Another man, this one not wearing the dark uniform with ERU emblazoned across the back, walked in. Even if Darragh hadn’t known him from Rónán’s memories, he would have known him.

  This was the detective Sorcha had knocked out in the car. The one who had captured Rónán at St Christopher’s.

  He looked inordinately pleased with himself when he entered the living room to find Darragh already in chains.

  This will be interesting, Darragh thought. This man knows I’m not Ren Kavanaugh.

  Pete studied Darragh for a moment and then turned him around. He grabbed his hands and forced Darragh’s palms open for a moment and then turned him back around and looked him in the eye.

  ‘You’re the other one,’ he said.

  Darragh nodded. If this man was prepared to admit he wasn’t Ren Kavanaugh, then surely he must order his release?

  Even knowing he hadn’t captured the right twin, it seemed he wasn’t going to admit it here. He simply eyed Darragh up and down for a moment and said, ‘Chelan Aquarius Kavanaugh, you’re under arrest for —’

  ‘Jesus wept! Look at that!’

  Everybody in the crowded living room turned toward the ERU officer who had spoken so out of turn.

  The man had lifted his goggles and was staring at the large, flat screen TV hanging on the wall over the ornamental fireplace. Darragh and Pete turned with everyone else, just in time to see a large commercial airliner flying into the side of an impossibly tall building, somewhere on the other side of the world.

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER 23

  ‘It is a necklace fit for a queen, Prionsa.’

  From her amethyst prison, Brydie snorted at that suggestion, and at Prince Torcán, who was bending over the table with an idiotic smile on his face, looking at the Indian-styled gem-encrusted collar. Staring into the stolen jewel in which the djinni, Jamaspa, had magically trapped Brydie.

  The collar was intended for Anwen. It was — at Anwen’s suggestion — going to be Torcán’s wedding gift to his bride. Or so the goldsmith had informed his wife as they chatted in his workroom while he beat the metal into submission, and threaded the scores of polished stones onto fine gold wire.

  Typical of Torcán, Brydie thought, to give his betrothed something fashioned from a stolen ge
m to cover up the disappearance of one of his mother’s court maidens. And to give her something so pretentious. Even Álmhath didn’t swan about all day in a crown, and she was a queen.

  It augured much for the future of their marriage. A gift fashioned from deception.

  ‘You have done well, Master Goldsmith,’ Torcán said, placing the collar back on the bench. Brydie was knocked off her feet by the careless way he dropped it. She scrambled upright, cursing Torcán. Not that it did any good. He couldn’t hear or see her any more than the goldsmith who’d been working on the collar for days could see, or his wife, or even his large black hound who sniffed around the jewel a few times to see if it was edible, scaring the life out of Brydie as his massive pink tongue enveloped the stone.

  That had been a close call. It was bad enough being stuck in here, doomed to see and hear everything happening on the outside but unable to take part. How much worse could life become if she was fated to spend the rest of her days stuck in a dog’s lower intestine?

  Fortunately, the goldsmith had returned to his workshop and shooed the dog away, saving Brydie before she had a chance to find out, but the incident made her weep. She had not seen Jamaspa for days, not since the day Colmán had handed over the brooch to Anwen and Torcán. She concluded that the djinni didn’t know where she was. He knew where to find her when the jewel was set in Marcroy’s brooch, which she had left in Darragh of the Undivided’s bedchamber. But now that the stone had been removed, the gold melted down and the jewel set in an entirely different piece, Jamaspa may never find her again.