Нора Робертс - The Becoming

He crept out of the room—who knew what time it was—and tiptoed his way downstairs.

He heard voices—girl voices—and followed them into the kitchen he’d seen the night before.

At a little worktable that doubled as a small eating space sat Breen and Morena.

Breen popped up. “You’re awake. I thought you’d sleep longer.”

“There was a rooster. I think.”

“Well, it is a farm. Sit, I’ll get you some tea.”

“Coffee, Breen. My life for coffee.”

“Oh. Well.”

He could only cover his eyes with his hand. “Don’t tell me that.”

“The blend of tea’s really strong. Next best thing. Hungry?”

“I really need a shower.”

She sent him that sorry look again. “Oh. Well.”

Now he sat, put his head in his hands. “How does anybody get through a day here without coffee, without showers?”

“We’ve WCs—water closets,” Morena told him. “And nice big tubs.”

“Marco’s not a tub person.”

“You’re just sitting there in the dirt you washed off.”

“You’ve a point there, don’t you?” Morena decided. “I can do you a shower outside.”

“You can?”

“Faeries are connected to the elements. You want a spot of nice warm rain, I can help with that. Outside, of course.”

“Sure, of course. Outside.” He took the cup Breen held out, gulped down tea. Blinked. “I think the enamel just melted off my teeth. Any chance of borrowing some fresh clothes?”

“There’s less of you than there is of Harken, but I can get you a shirt and trousers. Let’s find a spot for your shower.” She opened a cupboard, took out a cake of brown soap. “I like your braids,” Morena said as she opened the back door. “I wouldn’t have the patience to do so many. The far side of the little silo, I think. Private enough.”

“I appreciate this.”

“The friend of my friend is mine. You’ll want the grass under you or you’ll end up standing in mud. So.” She put her hands on her hips. “How warm for you?”

“Hot. I mean, not burning, but good and hot.”

“Hot it is,” she said, and handed him the soap.

In her trousers and boots—her shirt right side out now—Morena lifted her hands, palms up. And she curled her fingers in the air as if drawing something to her.

A thin rain, light as feathers, began to fall. As she continued to draw, it came stronger, harder in an area no more than six feet square.

Marco knew his mouth fell open, but he couldn’t seem to close it.

“You can test it with your hand if you like, see if it’s hot enough for you.”

Marco held out his hand, felt the heat, the wet, the wonder. “Yeah, it’s good. It’s … amazing. Jesus, I don’t know how to handle all this.”

“I think you’re doing more than fine.” Morena stepped back. “We’ll get you some clothes and a towel.”

“Thanks. Um. How do I turn it off?”

“I’ve called it for fifteen minutes. So you’d best get started.”

After she strolled away, Marco wasted nearly another minute staring at the magick shower before he stripped down and stepped into its bliss.

Once he’d dressed in what he thought of as farm chic, fortified himself with a fried egg on toast, he felt almost normal.

“I know we need to talk,” Breen began, “and go over to the cottage, but I need to see my grandmother first. I need to see her, and I want to get Bollocks.”

“I want to meet this dog, and yeah, your granny.”

“She doesn’t live far. It’s a nice walk.”

“Okay. I’m trying to roll with this.” He stepped outside with her. “It looks like Ireland. They sound Irish. Are you sure it’s not—”

“It’s not. You tried to use your phone, didn’t you?”

Marco rubbed a hand on a pocket of the borrowed trousers. “Yeah. Nothing. And yeah, I took a faerie shower about an hour ago. Best shower of my life. It doesn’t feel real.”

“I know.”

“I mean there’s the bay, but it’s not the bay in Ireland where we stayed. And I see mountains way over there, but they’re not the same ones. Flowers all over, lots of sheep and cows. Horses. Horses on the farm. Did you learn to ride on one of those?”

“Yeah.” She decided not to point out the area on the farm where she’d learned to use a sword—poorly—under Keegan’s unrelenting training. “You have to know how to ride here. No cars.”

“No cars.”

“No tech, no machines. They chose magick.”

“No toaster,” he recalled. “Toast the bread on a rack in the wood stove. Water from a well—or a faerie. You were okay with all that?”

“I had the cottage on the other side for working. But there are ways to write over here—magick ways. And it’s pure, Marco. And peaceful, and alive. I guess I fell in love.”

“Sense memory—remember? You were actually born here, you said. Are those the hot bros out there in that field?”

“The hot bros? Oh.” She laughed, linked her arm with his. “Yes. Harken’s a farmer right down to his toes. Keegan’s more a soldier, but he loves the farm, and he works it when he can. He has so much responsibility as taoiseach.”

“As what, now?”

“It means leader. He’s the leader of Talamh, of the Fey.”

“Like King Keegan?”

“No, it’s not like that.”

So strange, she realized, to explain to him things she’d only learned—or remembered—a few months before.

“No kings here, no rulers. He leads. Chosen and choosing. It’s a long tradition with its roots in lore. There’s a lake,” she began, but Marco grabbed her.

“Holy fuck, Breen. Run. Into those woods there.”

“What is— Oh, no, no, it’s okay. It’s Keegan’s dragon.”

“His what the fuck?”

“Just breathe. They have dragons—but not like the virgin princess eaters in some stories. I rode that one.”

His arm stayed around her in an iron grip. “You did the hell not.”

“I the hell did, and it was glorious. They’re loyal—they bond with someone, and they’re loyal. And they’re beautiful. My father had one.”

“I might have to sit down. I don’t want to wimp out on you, girl, but my knees are going again.”

Before he could, right on the road, a joyful bark sounded. Bollocks, topknot and little beard bouncing, bounded toward Breen.

“There you are! There you are.” With a laugh, she stumbled back when he leaped on her, every part of him wagging, from that topknot to the skinny whip of his tail. “Oh, you’re bigger. You grew on me. I missed you, too. I missed you so much!”

She went down on the road with him for kisses and hugs and rubs. “It’s Bollocks.”

“I figured. Jeez, he’s sort of purple, like you said. Purple Haze so maybe you should’ve named him Hendrix. Aren’t you something, puppy! Aren’t you something else all over again.”

Dragon forgotten, Marco crouched down. Bollocks rewarded him with a lapping tongue and wags.

“He likes me!”

“He’s the sweetest dog ever. Nan knows I’m here. He knows, so she knows. Come on. Let’s go see Nan.”

Bollocks ran a few feet ahead, wagged, waited, ran back and forth.

“That’s one happy dog. So, your grandmother. She’s what now?”

“Of the Wise. A witch, with a little Sidhe. She was taoiseach once.”

“So it’s got, like, term limits.”

“No, she gave it up, so there was another. And then my father led. Now it’s Keegan. I’ll explain.”

“What about your grandfather?”

“He’s not here, and we want to keep it that way. He’s the Big Bad.” She took Marco’s hand, turned on the road that led to Mairghread’s cottage. “So much to tell you.”

“It’s sure piling up.”

“She let me go, though it hurt her. After my father died, she sent the money my mother hid from me. And for reasons I’ll explain, but one I can tell you now—because she knew I was unhappy—she worked it out so I found out about the money. After that, the choices were mine. To quit teaching, to come to Ireland. And she made me the cottage and sent me Bollocks. He led me here.