The Undivided (4 page)

The only thing that made losing one’s magic bearable, Trása thought, as she picked up the remote control, was television. Even after six months in this strange realm with its huge cities, its countless people and its incomprehensible array of gadgets for every purpose — no matter how trivial or inane — the real magic in this world, Trása decided, was television.

She could watch it for hours, and often did, using it as a visual instruction manual on how to exist in this reality. Nothing she’d been told before she left her own realm had prepared her for the sheer enormity of this one.

It was overwhelming, and to make matters worse, her search wasn’t so much looking for a needle in a haystack as searching for a single grain of sand on an endless, sparkling beach.

‘Can we watch
The Simpsons
?’

Trása started at the unexpected voice and turned to her newly arrived companion with a puzzled look. He had materialised out of thin air and stretched out across the bedspread, his red coat unbuttoned to reveal an orange and green tartan waistcoat underneath. His matching red hat sat at a jaunty angle on his head, forced there by the fact that he was resting his pointy little chin on his left hand.

‘How long have
you
been there?’ she asked the
Leipreachán
,
flicking past the news channels as she turned back to the TV. Trása found television news boring beyond words. The programs — and there seemed to be thousands of them — just repeated the same thing, over and over, never actually adding anything useful to the discussion, more often than not on subjects that made no sense to her at all. She preferred programs that showed real human dramas, true glimpses of life in this strange reality, like
Coronation Street
and
The Bold and the Beautiful
.

‘Long enough,’ the
Leipreachán
said. ‘Ye’re up early.’

‘So are you,’ she replied, stopping when she came to a channel dedicated to her other favourite topic — celebrity gossip. She was fascinated by these golden creatures called celebrities, even though — after nearly six months — she still hadn’t figured out what made one human a celebrity over another. ‘You haven’t been out causing trouble again, have you, Plunkett?’

‘Of course I have,’ the
Leipreachán
said, looking at her as if it was the most foolish question ever posed. ‘This is London.’

‘It’s nothing like the London I know,’ Trása said with a frown, stopping on a channel showing scenes from a movie premiere the night before. Trása had no interest in the film, but she did love the pretty dresses parading down the red carpet. There were so many colours, so many gorgeous fabrics, so many wonderful jewels, all worn by beautiful, elegant women who didn’t seem quite real.

‘Ye think this place is strange? Wait ’til ye see New York.’ Plunkett pulled his pipe from his pocket — already alight — and began to puff on it contentedly, despite the ‘no smoking’ sign prominently displayed on top of the TV. ‘Did ye know New York has a big parade every year for us? On St Patrick’s Day?’

‘Who’s St Patrick?’ she asked, only half listening to the little man. His daily escapades were of little concern to Trása. He was here to aid her search for the missing Undivided twin. It was an almost impossible task, made worse because there was so little
magic left in this realm, only the smallest of the
Daoine sídhe
could still tap into it. Trouble was, the smaller the Faerie, the more easily they were distracted. The
Leipreachán
were about the only
sídhe
still able to use magic — limited though it was — in this reality, who could be relied upon to do as they were told.

Well, most of the time anyway.

Not that Plunkett O’Bannon was very reliable. His idea of entertainment was appearing to drunks and drug addicts in alleys late at night and coaxing them into handing over their valuables in return for vague promises of good fortune, wealth and even the odd pot of gold. They’d been living on stolen credit cards since they arrived, procured magically by Trása’s larcenous little companion. She didn’t think he’d given that up just because — at this very moment in time — their hotel bill wasn’t due.

‘Patrick be the patron saint of Ireland.’

‘What’s a saint?’

‘Not sure, t’be honest.’

‘Then who made him one?’

‘The Christians, I think.’

Trása shook her head and picked up the room service menu, the part of her not listening to Plunkett debating whether to have breakfast sent up or to brave the restaurant. ‘I will never understand how a ragtag bunch of Hebrew outcasts managed to end up in control of half this realm,’ she remarked. The various religions of this reality were even more confusing than the rules of celebrity. Surely the deities of her reality had existed here at some point? Had they not resisted the notion that one of their number was more powerful, more worthy of worship, than all the others? Or had the gods faded here — like the magic — leaving only their human worshippers with their human delusions of grandeur to carry on in their names?

‘Ye should watch the History Channel more often,’ the
Leipreachán
advised. ‘Ye’ll find Christians ruling the world is no
more strange a thing than a score of other odd occurrences that have happened in this realm.’

‘I suppose.’

‘If ye can’t find
The Simpsons
,
Road Runner
will do.’

Although they both regularly viewed the History Channel with something approaching awe as they watched documentary after documentary detailing the bizarre past of this realm, Plunkett was almost as fond of cartoons as Trása was of soap operas and the E! Channel. Fortunately, she controlled the remote. For some reason — possibly the magic that infused every cell of the
Leipreachán
— when Plunkett tried to use anything battery operated, it shorted out. As a consequence, Plunkett watched what she wanted, and if Plunkett wanted to watch cartoons, he had to earn it.

One did what they must, to control a creature as fickle as a
Leipreachán.

‘What do you want for breakfast?’ she asked, tossing the remote on the bed as she reached for the phone. With a
Leipreachán
for company, a public dining room was a bad idea.

‘Bacon,’ Plunkett announced. ‘Mounds of it.’

Trása wondered why she’d even bothered to ask. In some things, Plunkett was as predictable as a rainy summer in
Tír Chonaill
. She muted the TV with its breathless descriptions of the designer dresses worn by the celebrities attending last night’s star-studded movie premiere and dialled room service.

‘Room service. How can I help you?’

‘This is room five-fourteen,’ she said, pleased she was now able to do this as if it was the most natural thing in the world. It had taken her months to gain the confidence to use a telephone with ease, something Plunkett took a certain degree of malicious glee in reminding her. ‘I wish to order breakfast.’

‘Of course, madam,’ the oddly accented male voice on the other end replied. ‘What would you like?’

‘Um … two American breakfasts,’ she said, even though she considered it a silly description. If every American ate bacon, eggs, hash browns, tomato and beans for breakfast every day, they’d all be as fat as those little Chinese Buddha statues, and all the Americans she’d seen on TV were quite thin. Some of them seemed to be actually starving. ‘One with extra —’

‘Holy Jaysus, Mary and Harry!’ Plunkett suddenly exclaimed. He’d been experimenting with the curses of this reality ever since they arrived. This was his latest favourite, having heard it a couple of weeks ago on TV. Unfortunately, he could never remember the last name that belonged in the phrase so he usually added whatever he thought of first. Trása thought the right name might have been John or Jerry. She was quite certain it wasn’t ‘Harry’.

‘Do you mind!’ she hissed, putting her hand over the receiver. ‘I’m on the phone!’

The
Leipreachán
didn’t answer her. He was jumping up and down on the bed, red coat-tails flapping, pointing at the TV, his little eyes fairly bulging out of his head. He was nigh on apoplectic with excitement.

‘Extra bacon,’ she said to the room service man on the other end of the phone.

‘Certainly, madam,’ he replied. ‘That will be —’

Trása hung up the phone. ‘Plunkett! You stupid little
sídhe
! How many times have I told you,’ she said sternly, turning to look at whatever it was that had the little
Leipreachán
so excited, ‘that when I’m talking to real people in this world, you need to keep qui — Oh, by the Goddess
Danú
!’

Trása grabbed the remote, unmuted the sound and sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the screen, almost as apoplectic as the
Leipreachán.
On the TV, wearing an expensive, beautifully tailored tuxedo, his dark hair falling across his achingly familiar sapphire eyes, and on the arm of a stunning older woman, was the young man she’d come here looking for.

Darragh of the Undivided.

Or, rather, Darragh’s twin brother, Rónán. Darragh was back home where he belonged. In her own realm.

Her heart pounding, Trása turned up the volume. ‘…
and here comes the star of
Rain over Tuscany
herself
,’ the female presenter was gushing. ‘
The fabulous Kiva Kavanaugh, escorted this evening by her son, Ren
.’

‘His name be Rónán, not Ren,’ Plunkett told the reporter on the screen, a little miffed they got it wrong.

‘Shhh … I’m trying to listen.’ Trása wasn’t really surprised — or concerned — to learn Rónán had a different name in this realm. It would have surprised her more if he’d had the same name. And it was easy to guess where the diminutive came from. After all, the twins’ Druid mother, Sybille, was from Gaul. Although Trása had never known her, Sybille probably called Rónán by the French version of his name — Renan. Perhaps that’s all Rónán remembered about who he really was.

‘
My, hasn’t he grown into the handsomest young man
,’ the presenter’s male counterpart sighed.

‘
That’s right, Clive. But it’s rare to see Ren in public.
’ Sally smiled and winked at her unseen audience. ‘
Well, I’m sure he’s thrilled to be here, sharing this moment with his mother.
’

Trása thought that highly unlikely. The young man in question seemed anything but happy. In fact, he looked as if he’d rather be
anywhere
but standing next to the star of the night, blinded by a hailstorm of flashbulbs, fending off his mother’s screaming fans.

‘The triskalion! The triskalion! Can ye see the triskalion?’

‘Not unless he waves at the camera, idiot,’ Trása pointed out, her gaze glued to the TV.

Reporter Clive nodded enthusiastically to his co-host. ‘Y
ou’re right, Sally. If you remember, this is the boy Kiva rescued from
drowning in that terrible boating accident while she was filming
Fire on the Water
up in Northern Ireland
.’

‘It’s him!’ Plunkett shouted, jumping up and down on the bed even harder. ‘It’s him! It’s him! It’s him!’

‘Shut up! I told you … I’m trying to listen!’

‘
… Seems hard to credit that was … what?
’ Clive was saying. ‘
Fifteen, maybe sixteen years ago, now?
’ He gave his co-presenter no time to answer. ‘
And here she is! The star of tonight’s premiere, the fabulous and beautiful Miss Kiva Kavanaugh! How are you this evening, Kiva?
’

The actress was dressed in flowing red with a train that billowed behind her like a cloud of warm blood. A matching cascade of rubies — that in Trása’s reality would have marked her as a sorceress of unthinkable power — graced her earlobes, and a diamond and ruby bracelet, worth more than Trása could calculate, sparkled at her slender wrist. Kiva Kavanaugh turned to the camera, her eyes bright, and smiled with practised ease. ‘
I’m thrilled to be here, Clive.
’

‘
Fabulous dress, Kiva. Who’s the designer?
’

‘
Dior by Hedi Slimane, of course.
’

‘
You look fantastic! And how are you feeling about the movie? There’s already talk of an Oscar …
’

Kiva Kavanaugh lifted her shoulders in an elegant, self-deprecating shrug. ‘
I never listen to gossip, Clive. But I do think Xavier Hannigan is the best director of his generation.
’

‘
Do you expect he’ll get an Oscar nod for
Rain Over Tuscany?’ Sally asked, thrusting her mike at the actress. She seemed a little peeved Clive was hogging all the questions.

‘
He certainly should
,’ Kiva agreed. ‘
He’s so talented.
’

Not to be outdone, Clive thrust his mike in front of Rónán. ‘
And what about you, Ren? Are you looking forward to seeing your mother’s performance tonight?
’

‘
Not particularly
,’ the boy replied in a flat, emotionless tone.
Trása shivered. His voice, even in those two words, was so like Darragh’s it was frightening.

‘See! I told ye!’ Plunkett shouted again. ‘It’s him! It’s him! It’s him!’

‘I heard you the first three hundred times, you fool. Now shut up and let me listen!’

‘
Really?
’ Clive was saying, somewhat taken aback by Rónán’s answer. ‘
Why not?
’

Rónán leaned into the mike. ‘
She’s playing a drug-addicted hooker, dude. Would you want to watch
your
mother shooting up and fucking complete strangers on a forty-foot screen?
’

Clive laughed uncomfortably. ‘
Oh, well … if you put it like that …
’

Rónán wasn’t afforded a chance to make any further embarrassing remarks. His mother’s expression hadn’t wavered, but she abruptly took his arm, smiled stiffly, waved to the camera, and dragged Rónán away from the reporters toward the theatre.

Chilled and thrilled all at once, Trása muted the TV again, and sat staring at the screen without seeing it.