Нора Робертс - The Becoming

“Marco—”

“I got choices, too, girl, and that’s mine.”

“You don’t have any powers. You have no idea what Odran can do.”

“I’ve been getting a pretty clear picture, and it scares the shit out of me. But I’m staying.”

He shot the index finger of each hand in the air. “That’s it, that’s all. If you start nagging on me about it, I’ll ask Nan here if she’ll put me up. Look me in the eye, Breen, look me right in the eye and tell me if we switched places, you’d just go on back to Philly and leave me.”

“If anything happened to you—”

“Same goes. So that’s settled. I guess I need to borrow something to write down this list.”

Breen didn’t argue with him—she knew better. But she hoped to gradually erode his determination to stay over the next handful of days. Marco, more than anyone she knew, was a creature of urban life and all its conveniences.

The more time he spent in Talamh, without technology, without the basics, the more … maneuverable he might be. Especially if she could convince him of something he could do on the other side to help.

At the moment, she couldn’t think of a single thing.

On the walk back to the farm, she pointed out a pair of dragons, with riders, gliding through the skies.

“Those are scouts.”

“Okay, so, uh, dragons come in all different colors. How about people? Any of my type here?”

“Yes, and of your persuasion. Love is love here.”

“That’s good to hear. Not looking for romance right now, but it’s good to know people around here have open minds.”

“And hearts. There are some, like anywhere, that don’t. They had a religious cult—the Pious. Didn’t start out that way, but they went, well, dark, you could say. And there have been Fey who’ve turned that way. Marco, I want to point out that if you stay, and you want to get anywhere, you’re going to have to learn to ride. A horse.”

“You think I can’t?” He hooked his thumbs in his waistband and strutted. “I can give cowboying it a try. And if you can learn how to do the sword thing, I can.”

“I’m pretty crappy at it.”

“Aw, now.”

“Just ask Keegan. He trained me, and would be the first to say so.”

Marco slid an arm around her shoulders while Bollocks trotted along with them. “You gonna snuggle back up with that fine example?”

“I’m not interested in romance right now either. And I doubt he is. There’s something in the air.”

“You going all—” He wagged his hands.

“I am all—” She mirrored the gesture. “I can feel something … pushing. He wants in. He’s not there yet, but he’s close.”

She shook it off. “But not yet. We’ll get my things, go to the cottage. I think it’ll be easier if you read what I wrote about everything. Then if you have questions, I’ll answer them.”

“Okay, so we just walk from here back to Ireland? Through another of those wind tunnels?”

“It won’t be like that. Not that dramatic.”

Bollocks let out happy barks and raced around. He leaped nimbly over the stone wall and bulleted straight for the two children and the big wolfhound who guarded them.

“Those are Finian and Kavan. And the woman in the vegetable garden? That’s Keegan and Harken’s sister, Aisling. Their mom.”

“So everyone is pretty here.”

They used the gate. Aisling, her dark hair bundled up, dusted her hands on her trousers, laid one on the mound of her belly, before walking toward them.

“Welcome, Breen Siobhan. Welcome. You came back as you said. I should never have doubted you.” She caught Breen in a hug. “I’m sorry for it.”

“Don’t be. I know how you worried, and why. This is Marco.”

“So I hear. You had a tumble into Talamh, I’m told. Are you doing fine now?”

“All good, thanks. It’s nice to meet you.”

“And you as well. Will you have some tea? Mab will mind the boys while we go in.”

“We’ve just come from Nan’s, where we had tea—and wine. I just need to get my things so we can get settled into Fey Cottage.”

“Oh, they’re sent over already. Morena saw to it, and your very handsome clothes, Marco, had a cleaning.”

“Thanks. I borrowed these from your brother. From Harken.”

“Not to worry. He has more.”

The older boy, Finian, raced over, with his younger brother scrambling in his wake.

“It’s almost my birthday,” Finian announced. “You’ll be here for my birthday.”

“On Samhain.” Breen crouched down. “I remember. You’ll be three.”

“Say your hello and welcome to Breen’s friend, Fin. This is Marco.”

He ducked his head. “Hello, and welcome.”

“A bit shy with new people, this one. But,” Aisling continued as Kavan reached them and immediately tried to climb Marco’s legs, “not a bit with that one.”

Marco hauled him up. “And who’s this?”

“That’s our Kavan,” Aisling said as the boy babbled at Marco. “Who’s never met a stranger.”

Kavan grabbed a handful of Marco’s braids, grinned at them. “Like!”

“Me, too.”

Then the boy dived to Breen, babbled at her.

“When are you due?” Marco asked.

“Around and about Imbolc. Early in February,” she explained at his baffled look. “I’m past the halfway mark as I figure it. Hoping for a girl this time, as you can see I’ve two heathens already.”

“I missed your heathens,” Breen said, and gave Kavan a nuzzle before she set him down. “We’ll be back tomorrow. I’ll work with Nan, as I did before. And if you’d tell Keegan I’ll train if he wants.”

“No doubt he will. He and Mahon—that’s my man,” she told Marco, “will be back by moonsrise. Come and see me when you can, the both of you are welcome. Come on, lads. Did we or did we not promise Harken we’d see to the kitchen garden? Blessings on you both,” she said as she herded her kids away.

“And on you,” Breen called. “Come on, Bollocks.”

She gestured as they went through the gate again. “The portal’s through that tree. Or the portal is the tree, I’m not sure which.”

He looked over, beyond the dirt road, another stone fence, a pasture of sheep, and up a hill.

The tree spread more than twenty feet wide as it rose out of a tumble of rock. Its thick branches curved down, some reaching the ground before they arched up again. The leaves Breen remembered as boldly green all summer had a wash of crimson.

“What kind of tree is that?”

“It’s the Welcoming Tree, and the portal—or the main one—between Talamh and Ireland.”

She led him across. Bollocks bounded ahead, scrambled up the seven stone steps on the hillside. Perched on a branch, he stopped, barked as if to tell them to hurry up.

“Okay. If I pass out, you can go get me the ale again, or whatever was in it.”

“I can, but you won’t need it. You’ll feel the change,” she told him as he followed her up the steps. “And there’s some wind—but not like the other. A change in light, just a flash. Then we’re over. Don’t be surprised if it’s raining on the other side. You never know.”

“I don’t think anything’s going to surprise me again. Ever.”

Standing above him, she reached back. She felt his anxiety, but it couldn’t compete with his loyalty.

“Take my hand. Go ahead, Bollocks. We’re coming. Step on the branch. It might feel a little like you’re falling, but …”

The light flashed, the sudden breeze blew through her hair.

“You’re not. See?”

“We’re through? Gut shook a little, but. Are you sure we’re through?”

“Yes. You just need to climb down.”

“Little shaky in the knees,” he admitted. “But not all whacked like before. And it’s not raining.”