reassuring her that twenty thousand US dollars would be a small price to pay for a Utah Brat Camp if it meant Ren could be saved from himself.
Ren took the stairs two at a time, locked the door to his room and headed for his bathroom where the light switch was now free of blood smears. He poured a glass of water from the tap then took out of his pocket the two codeine tables Jack had given him earlier. He swallowed them with a grimace and went back into his room, kicked off his shoes and lay on his bed, wondering how long it would be before the pain in his side abated enough for him to keep up the pretence that nothing was wrong.
CHAPTER 11
Somewhat to Trása’s amazement, Dublin Guided Limousine Tours had a whole list of celebrity addresses on their tour itinerary, most of which, however, belonged to dead people.
The latest stop had brought the tour to Baggot Street. They were standing on the pavement outside yet another old house. This one was neat and narrow, four storeys tall with a bright blue door trimmed with brass fittings.
‘Do you only know where dead people used to live?’ Trása asked her guide, a plump blonde woman wearing a green uniform with a rather ridiculous four-leaf clover-shaped hat. The woman had introduced herself as Kathleen, which seemed odd to Trása because she looked more like an Anthea. ‘Or do you know where some live ones can be found?’
Trása had booked the tour with reception at the hotel when she checked in. She’d left Plunkett in her room to amuse himself while she went scouting their quarry. She had been in Dublin for less than three hours. She should have been minutes away from finally laying eyes on Rónán of the Undivided and this foolish woman with her ridiculous hat was wasting time showing her the residence of some pork vendor.
‘Francis Bacon is one of Dublin’s most famous sons. His paintings have been exhibited in every major gallery in theworld, including the Guggenheim Museum and the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York.’
‘But he’s dead,’ Trása pointed out impatiently. ‘So was the last chap, Yeats.’
‘You asked for the celebrity tour, miss.’
‘I wanted the live celebrity tour,’ Trása said.
‘I’m sorry,’ Kathleen replied in a tone that was anything but conciliatory. ‘People who take this tour have usually some idea of the depth of Ireland’s cultural heritage.’
Trása smiled, which didn’t help matters much. Stupid cow, you don’t know the half of it. ‘I want to know where Kiva Kavanaugh lives.’
‘Blackrock,’ the woman said with a sigh. She clearly thought Trása a complete philistine. ‘It’s about fifteen minutes from here. Ten, if the traffic’s with us.’
‘Let’s go then,’ Trása ordered, jerking open the car door. She climbed into the back of the limo, wishing she’d brought Plunkett along. He might have been able to glamour some manners into her rather put-upon tour guide.
Still … they were only fifteen minutes from the Kavanaugh house.
Only fifteen minutes from locating Darragh’s long-lost twin …
She cut the thought off before it could form into something more dangerous. Instead, she concentrated on the good things.
Her time in this reality was almost done. Soon she could go back to her own world where her magic worked. A world where she wasn’t constrained by the whim of a fickle Leipreachán . A world where everything made sense to her.
Well, almost everything …
Trása sank back into the deep leather seat of the limo.
It wouldn’t be long now, and she could go home.
‘You should have seen it, Plunkett,’ Trása told the Leipreachán when she arrived back at the hotel a couple of hours later. ‘It’s like a fortress. It has a high fence and locked gates and there’s a whole mob of noisy people camped outside with cameras, waiting to get in.’
Plunkett shrugged indifferently when he heard Trása’s tale of woe. He was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the king-sized
Ren took the stairs two at a time, locked the door to his room and headed for his bathroom where the light switch was now free of blood smears. He poured a glass of water from the tap then took out of his pocket the two codeine tables Jack had given him earlier. He swallowed them with a grimace and went back into his room, kicked off his shoes and lay on his bed, wondering how long it would be before the pain in his side abated enough for him to keep up the pretence that nothing was wrong.
CHAPTER 11
Somewhat to Trása’s amazement, Dublin Guided Limousine Tours had a whole list of celebrity addresses on their tour itinerary, most of which, however, belonged to dead people.
The latest stop had brought the tour to Baggot Street. They were standing on the pavement outside yet another old house. This one was neat and narrow, four storeys tall with a bright blue door trimmed with brass fittings.
‘Do you only know where dead people used to live?’ Trása asked her guide, a plump blonde woman wearing a green uniform with a rather ridiculous four-leaf clover-shaped hat. The woman had introduced herself as Kathleen, which seemed odd to Trása because she looked more like an Anthea. ‘Or do you know where some live ones can be found?’
Trása had booked the tour with reception at the hotel when she checked in. She’d left Plunkett in her room to amuse himself while she went scouting their quarry. She had been in Dublin for less than three hours. She should have been minutes away from finally laying eyes on Rónán of the Undivided and this foolish woman with her ridiculous hat was wasting time showing her the residence of some pork vendor.
‘Francis Bacon is one of Dublin’s most famous sons. His paintings have been exhibited in every major gallery in theworld, including the Guggenheim Museum and the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York.’
‘But he’s dead,’ Trása pointed out impatiently. ‘So was the last chap, Yeats.’
‘You asked for the celebrity tour, miss.’
‘I wanted the live celebrity tour,’ Trása said.
‘I’m sorry,’ Kathleen replied in a tone that was anything but conciliatory. ‘People who take this tour have usually some idea of the depth of Ireland’s cultural heritage.’
Trása smiled, which didn’t help matters much. Stupid cow, you don’t know the half of it. ‘I want to know where Kiva Kavanaugh lives.’
‘Blackrock,’ the woman said with a sigh. She clearly thought Trása a complete philistine. ‘It’s about fifteen minutes from here. Ten, if the traffic’s with us.’
‘Let’s go then,’ Trása ordered, jerking open the car door. She climbed into the back of the limo, wishing she’d brought Plunkett along. He might have been able to glamour some manners into her rather put-upon tour guide.
Still … they were only fifteen minutes from the Kavanaugh house.
Only fifteen minutes from locating Darragh’s long-lost twin …
She cut the thought off before it could form into something more dangerous. Instead, she concentrated on the good things.
Her time in this reality was almost done. Soon she could go back to her own world where her magic worked. A world where she wasn’t constrained by the whim of a fickle Leipreachán . A world where everything made sense to her.
Well, almost everything …
Trása sank back into the deep leather seat of the limo.
It wouldn’t be long now, and she could go home.
‘You should have seen it, Plunkett,’ Trása told the Leipreachán when she arrived back at the hotel a couple of hours later. ‘It’s like a fortress. It has a high fence and locked gates and there’s a whole mob of noisy people camped outside with cameras, waiting to get in.’
Plunkett shrugged indifferently when he heard Trása’s tale of woe. He was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the king-sized
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