Either way, it was disturbing.
It was the briefest of visions and it was of a herd of Faerie being pushed and prodded through a rift into a barren world beyond, while the Empresses looked on impassively, neither glorying in the sídhes’ distress at leaving this realm nor repulsed by it. They were just standing there, watching, as if Faeries suffocating on the other side was so everyday, so pedestrian, it hardly rated their concern.
Another array of red, silver and green star shells lit the sky as the litter-bearers lowered the curtained litter to the ground. As it touched the raked sand, two identically dressed courtiers hurried from behind the litter, placing small, beautifully carved wooden steps on either side. The courtiers bowed, and then, still bowing low, their eyes downcast, they pulled back the gold curtains to allow their mistresses to alight.
As another series of fireworks decorated the night sky, turning the compound to day for a few seconds, the Empresses climbed out in unison, in a move so well synchronised Ren did not doubt they had practised it until they got it right. One small wooden-sandalled foot followed another, then they emerged, dressed in identical kimonos woven from white silk and bearing the rising sun in a large pattern that reached from the hem to the wide red silk obi at their waists.
Around him, everybody in the compound fell to their knees. Except Ren.
He wanted to see them. He wanted to see if he’d been imagining things. He wanted to know if his vision had been true or just a wild fancy.
Ren watched the Empresses emerge from the litter and walk to the front where they smiled at each other and then turned to face him.
They were exactly as Ren had seen them in his vision. Blonde. Blue-eyed.
And barely ten years old.
CHAPTER 38
Darragh was not entirely unfamiliar with the judicial system. His brother had been arrested on more than one occasion in this realm — albeit for relatively minor infractions until Trása framed him for arson and murder. Since Darragh now shared his brother’s memories, he knew roughly what was going on. Still, there seemed an inordinate number of people involved in the process of deciding a person’s innocence or guilt in this realm. The process was complicated, confusing and, Darragh suspected, prone to substantial error.
It was much easier, he decided, when you had the magical ability to know if someone was telling the truth simply by looking into their mind. Justice was much more accurate in his reality and much swifter.
The court was full of people, surprisingly few of them reporters. Kiva Kavanaugh might not be directly involved in his case, now it had been established he was not the fugitive Chelan Aquarius Kavanaugh but that he was the unexpected identical twin of her missing son, up on charges relating to the missing daughter of her chauffeur. There was a story for any journalist wishing to follow it through, but Darragh realised there were other things happening in the world. The antics of an actress’s wayward offspring didn’t rate a mention against the background of the attack on the World Trade Center.
Even now, as Darragh was led into the dock by the prison officer assigned to guard him, the discussion in the public gallery wasn’t about the next case, although a good many spectators, he gathered, were here for their own business and not to watch him being arraigned. The discussions were about whether or not there was a final death toll yet, what would happen next and if it was going to mean war, although exactly who was going to go to war with whom was something Darragh still couldn’t work out.
There were no familiar faces in the court besides the court-appointed solicitor he’d met earlier this morning in a small bare interview room set aside for prisoners to consult with their counsel. A frazzled, red-haired young man by the name of Mike O’Malley, he briefly explained the procedure to Darragh, asked how he wanted to plead and then hurried off to talk to his next client. His appearance would be necessarily brief, O’Malley assured Darragh. The charges would be read, bail would be set or refused, and then Darragh would be returned to the cells to either await his release once bail was posted or be remanded into custody. A trial would be arranged in the Criminal Courts at a later date.
Darragh listened politely to the explanation and told the young man he planned to plead ‘not guilty’ to the charges when he heard what they were. It was certainly not what he was expecting. He thought they were holding him responsible for Hayley Boyle’s absence, but the charges proved to be assaulting a police officer — which had been Sorcha’s doing, not his — and stealing a police car. As the car they’d borrowed to help Rónán escape St Christopher’s had been recovered by the Gardaí with no apparent harm, Darragh considered the latter charge simply a mischievous waste of time, and he certainly wasn’t going to convict himself of it voluntarily.
They were calling him Darragh Aquitania. This reality was so full of forms and procedures they even killed trees to write things down — which was foreign to the Druid reality Darragh came from where every event of import was committed to memory by a bard and nothing had to die to record it. A family name was everything in this realm and their computers wouldn’t function without one. Pete Doherty had given him the name when he asked Darragh his full name in order to complete the form to qualify for legal assistance. At least, that’s what Detective Pete had told him was the reason for the form. So he’d explained he was Darragh, son of Sybille, hoping that would help. He didn’t mind the name Aquitania, but it was so new and unfamiliar that when they addressed him by it, he had to remind himself they were talking to him.
There was a note attached to his file, according to Mike O’Malley, saying he had been assessed by a psychiatrist and was deemed competent to stand trial.
‘We’ve got your GSAS-1 form,’ he said, taking a seat opposite Darragh.
‘I assume that’s good news?’ Darragh asked, having no idea what the form was, or its relevance to his current predicament.
‘Well, it means you get legal aid,’ the solicitor said. ‘Did you confess to anything?’
‘Only bewilderment at the legal process of this realm,’ Darragh replied.
O’Malley smiled briefly. ‘I hear you, brother. Why did they bring in a shrink to talk to you?’ he added distractedly as he read through the file.
‘I believe they were worried I might be suffering from some sort of mental disorder.’
‘Do you?’
‘I don’t believe so.’
‘Are you taking anything?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Drugs,’ the lawyer asked. ‘Speed, smack, charlies, doves?’
Darragh looked at him blankly. ‘I have no idea what you are talking about, sir.’
‘Yeah … right …’ O’Malley muttered, and then he glanced up at Darragh. ‘Did you assault a police officer?’
‘Not at all,’ Darragh assured him, quite truthfully. ‘That was my companion, Sorcha.’
‘I see,’ O’Malley said, making notes on a large yellow pad. ‘So … where is this Sorcha now? If you can get her to turn herself in, maybe we can get those charges dropped.’
‘She has returned through the rift to the reality where she belongs.’ Darragh firmly believed that — one way or another — his time in this realm was limited. And as these people had no reliable way to detect if he were lying, Darragh saw no need to betray Sorcha’s continuing presence in this realm. He may yet need her help. He certainly wasn’t going to aid her capture — or implicate Jack — by betraying her location, particularly as it seemed punching a Gardaí detective between the eyes in the process of helping a fugitive escape was a criminal offence worthy of incarceration.
O’Malley looked up. ‘Excuse me?’
‘I am from another reality,’ Darragh explained patiently. ‘I am really only here until someone can open a rift from the other side so I can return home.’
O’Malley was silent for a long moment. ‘I see. And you’re saying you don’t do drugs, eh? Well, that explains the shrink. Do you know anything about Hayley Boyle’s disappearance that might help?’
‘I have told them everything I know about it. Why?’
‘It would aid your case considerably if the judge thought you were being more cooperative about finding her.’
‘I have been nothing but cooperative,’ Darragh pointed out, a little exasperated by the suggestion. ‘Almost everything I have told them is the truth.’
‘Almost?’ O’Malley asked with a raised brow.
Darragh clasped his hands together, the cuffs making a metallic sound against the cold metal table. ‘It is not my fault the people of this realm are not equipped with the knowledge to understand when I am telling the truth,’ he said. ‘You cannot know what I have seen or what I am capable of in my own realm, and I don’t know how to explain it to you. I’ve been as truthful as I can.’
The solicitor nodded and then pointed at Darragh’s tattooed hand. ‘Is that a gang sign?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘The tat. Is it gang related?’
‘No.’
‘Well, keep it out of sight, whatever it is,’ O’Malley warned. ‘You’re up in front of Judge Riordan, and cracking down on gangs is his pet project. Let’s not give him any reason to get upset.’
‘If you wish.’
‘You sure you can’t give them something useful about the Boyle girl?’
‘I have told them everything I know.’
‘I doubt we’ll make bail unless you do.’
Darragh shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter. I have no money to arrange bail, in any case,’ he said. ‘All my wealth, I fear, is in the other realm. Ironically, if I could get to it, I could return home, and these entire proceedings would be moot, wouldn’t they?’
O’Malley sighed heavily. ‘Okay … I’ll see if I can get you remanded into a psychiatric hospital for a full assessment,’ he said, closing the file as he rose to his feet. ‘And get you on some nice, helpful medication, maybe. At the very least, we should be able to get you remanded to St Patrick’s. They specialise in kids your age. You really don’t want to wind up in the general prison population.’
Darragh nodded and smiled. O’Malley seemed competent and concerned for his welfare. His intention to have Darragh committed to a hospital rather than a prison was welcome. And it wouldn’t be for long. Presumably Rónán or Ciarán were waiting for an opportunity to open the rift again so they could rescue him. The days were ticking by, after all. It wasn’t long now until Lughnasadh. Darragh needed to be home with Rónán by then, or it really wouldn’t matter what they did in this realm, because he would be dead.
It would be easier, Darragh knew, for Rónán to extract him from a poorly guarded hospital than a well-guarded gaol. It was the reason Brogan and Niamh removed Rónán from the cells of the Gardaí station several weeks ago, rather than wait for him to be sent to prison, when they recovered Rónán from this realm the first time.
He refused to let their continued absence get him down. Darragh had spent his whole life looking for Rónán. Now that he’d found him and brought him home, he didn’t doubt for a moment that his brother would do the same for him.
The remand hearing, when it happened, was over almost before Darragh realised it had started. He’d barely stated his name for the judge before a quick exchange between O’Malley and the prosecution took place and he was asked if he wanted to plead guilty or not guilty — to which he responded ‘not guilty’ in a clear voice. A date later in the month was set and the judge was banging his gavel, ordering Darragh be remanded into custody. He didn’t agree to the hospital suggestion O’Malley put forward, based on O’Malley’s contention that claiming he came from another reality made him barking mad in this one, but the judge did order a full psychiatric assessment for his next court appearance. Before he knew it, Darragh was being hustled away and another prisoner brought into the dock.
O’Malley caught up with him and his prison officer escort in the hall. The solicitor was carrying a pile of other files, in addition to Darragh’s slender volume.
‘Someone from our office will be in touch,’ Mike promised, already pulling out the file for his next case. ‘Don’t give them any grief, eh?’
‘What do you mean?’ Darragh asked.
‘Just take your meds and answer their questions,’ the lawyer advised. ‘And keep your head down. Been inside before this?’
‘I have been inside many times,’ Darragh told him, looking around the hall as people pushed past them, heading for the courtrooms. ‘Are we not inside now?’
‘Yeah … I get it,’ O’Malley said, rolling his eyes. ‘You’re a tough guy. You can handle it.’ He thrust a small card at Darragh. ‘That’s the office number if you need anything. Catch you later.’
O’Malley turned and hurried back down the hall, leaving Darragh clutching his business card, without giving him an opportunity to speak.
‘Come on,’ his escort said, taking Darragh by the arm. He was a large, taciturn, uniformed man with a bored expression that hadn’t wavered the whole time Darragh had been in his custody.
‘What happens now?’ Darragh asked, still confused by the whole judicial process.
‘You’re going to gaol, my lad,’ the prison officer told him. ‘Weren’t you listening in there?’
CHAPTER 39
Pete spent several days trying to track down his mother in New York, without success. Brendá had no luck with her contacts, and between them Logan and Pete had quite a few of their own. They called in every favour they were owed, every contact they knew and every slender lead they had. Pete refused to accept his mother was dead. Logan was a little more philosophical about it, but he was just as anxious to find her. So the brothers turned their considerable investigative talents and network of contacts to the task.
It was a waste of time. They found nothing and in the end, they needn’t have done anything.
Delphine found them.
She rang Pete early in the morning, almost a week after the attack that all the TV news networks — who were still running images of the planes flying into the Twin Towers in an endless, maudlin loop — were calling Nine-Eleven. He was asleep when the phone rang and it took him a moment to realise it was his mother calling when he answered it. Phone calls at that hour usually meant work. The bedside clock read 2:42 am.
Delphine sounded far away and tired. Pete had never heard anything so wonderful.
‘I am so sorry, cherie,’ she said, her voice weary. ‘It is madness here. What you all must be thinking …’
‘God, Mum! Where are you?’ Pete asked, reaching forward to turn on the lamp. She’d called him on his landline. Pete grabbed his cell phone off the bedside table and started texting Logan while they spoke.
‘I don’t want you to worry …’
‘Where are you?’
‘I’m in Chicago.’
‘What are you doing there? Your office told us you were in New York.’
‘Fortunately, we had some problems with a photoshoot, so I had to swing by Chicago instead of staying in the New York office.’ She laughed softly. ‘Honestly, cherie, you’re making things sound far more dramatic than they are.’
He couldn’t understand why she was laughing. ‘What about the other the people who worked there? Are they okay? Did they get out?’
‘The office is closed on Tuesdays,’ Delphine said. ‘We lost some important equipment, but none of our staff. It’s nice of you to worry about it, though, cherie.’
Pete didn’t think he was dramatising her disappearance at a time like this one little bit, but there was no point arguing about it. Nor did he think it strange that he worried over the fate of the people who worked for his mother. But there was no arguing with her at a time like this. He sighed with defeat. ‘Exactly where are you in Chicago, then?’
‘The Rush Presbyterian Hospital.’
‘What are you doing in a Presbyterian Hospital?’ Pete asked.
‘A Presbyterian hospital is as good as a Catholic one, cherie,’ Delphine said.
Pete let out another exaspera
ted sigh, certain she was deliberately misunderstanding him. ‘That’s not what I mean, Mum, and you know it. We’ve been going crazy over here. You sent Kelly a text saying you’d call her, and then you disappear off the face of the Earth while the worst terrorist attack in the Western Hemisphere is happening in a building where you apparently have an office.’
‘I was having breakfast when the attack happened,’ she explained. ‘A friend of mine, Marguerite Villiers, is stationed in Chicago at the moment. Do you remember her? We went to the Sorbonne together. I’m sure I introduced you and Logan to her that time I took you to Paris … anyway … when I learned I’d be visiting Chicago unexpectedly, I rang Marguerite and we met for breakfast at the Sears Tower. I completely missed all the excitement.’
Excitement wasn’t quite how Pete would have described it, but he was relieved beyond words to learn she was alive and well enough to call. He could also tell there was something she wasn’t telling him. No matter how innocent her side trip to Chicago, nobody had heard from her for days. ‘That doesn’t explain what you’re doing in hospital, Mum. Or why we haven’t heard from you for a week.’
‘I had … a little accident, cherie.’
‘What kind of little accident?’ He knew what his mother was like. When his barely remembered father was diagnosed with lung cancer more than twenty years ago, she’d smiled comfortingly and assured her anxious children he was suffering from nothing more than ‘a little chest problem’. Six months later, he was dead.
‘I discovered that when one takes on a taxi cab, one is going to lose.’
‘Jesus, Mum! You got hit by a taxi?’
‘It’s not so surprising, cherie,’ she said. ‘They’re everywhere here. America is choked with them. You can’t move without running into one of them. Quite literally.’
‘I’m coming over on the next flight,’ he announced, tossing his cell phone aside to fish his passport out of the drawer beside the bed.
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