by Laura DeLuca
Brigid’s Flame
Laura DeLuca
Contents
Brigid’s Flame
Also Available from Author Laura DeLuca
Excerpt from Falling Star
Copyright ©2013, Laura DeLuca
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Cover Image Credit: Shutterstock
Typeset by Angelique Mroczka
Brigid’s Flame
River Christofel tapped his fingers against his desk and glared at his computer monitor. The blank screen was mocking him. For that matter, so was his own reflection. The dark eyes and serious face that stared back at him appeared almost accusing. He had sat there for two hours, and the only thing he’d accomplished was getting caught up in a political war on one of his social networks and winning a few rounds of virtual solitaire. His new manuscript, however, was nothing more than his name and the words “Chapter One” typed out in two dozen various fonts. He had started writing a real story more than once, but every time he got past the first page he found himself hitting the delete key and starting over. It just wasn’t quality work, and River was nothing if not a perfectionist.
The whole situation was just plain aggravating. Sure, his first book might still be on the best sellers list, but that was no consolation when his recent novel was being ripped to pieces by the critics and he was in a slump in regard to new material. He was officially River Christofel, the one hit wonder, and it seemed like that was all he was ever going to be.
River pulled off his wireframe glasses and pressed his fingers against his eyes, hoping to rub away the headache that was just beginning. He was so busy feeling sorry for himself; he didn’t notice that his girlfriend, Brie, had come into the room until she was peering over his shoulder.
“Working hard again, I see?”
River lifted his head just in time to see her roll her emerald eyes. With a grunt of frustration, he slammed the laptop shut and ran his hands through his short brown hair. He knew it was just good-natured teasing. After all, his monitor had been opened to a game of Minesweep since he had already conquered solitaire. Yet, for some reason the light comment that was meant to be playful really grated on his nerves. Maybe it was because the last thing he needed was yet another reminder of his failure to get anything accomplished. Even Brie’s sweet smile as she adjusted the beret that covered her hair didn’t stop his harsh reply.
“What would you know about work?” He huffed. “Haven’t I been supporting you the last few years?”
River regretted the words almost as soon as they spilled out of his mouth. Brie had given up her own promising career in advertisement to become his personal assistant as soon as his book started to take off. She probably worked ten times harder than he did making travel arrangements for book signings, handling their finances, answering fan mail, and even working as an unofficial editor. She took care of all the menial tasks so he would be able to concentrate on his writing. Originally, they thought his success would leave the door open for her to pursue her own dreams of singing fulltime on the stage, but his hectic schedule and cross-country tours had left her little time for her own desires. She never complained and had never been anything but supportive, but despite her sweet and loving disposition, she also had a quick Irish temper. River saw her eyes narrow and her lips press into a tight frown. She certainly wasn’t going to stand for his insults when she knew quite well she had done nothing to justify them.
“Humph.” She put her hands on her shapely hips and glared at him. “Weren’t you living in your mother’s basement when we met? Who did the supporting back then, huh? And who was the one who stole your first manuscript and sent it into that agent when you didn’t have the nerve to do it yourself? You wouldn’t even be here without me!”
“Here we go with that old line again.” River snorted and gave her a dirty look. “The acknowledgements page just wasn’t enough for you, was it? I guess now you want your name listed on the cover? Or better yet, maybe I should just sign over half my royalties!”
“That isn’t what I meant and you know it!” she argued, her emerald eyes flashing. “I couldn’t care less about getting any credit and I’m happy about your success. I love that your dreams were realized. I just wish you weren’t so…so moody all the time.” She sighed, and relented a little. “I know you’ve been struggling with the new novel but—”
“Don’t you dare play the sympathy card with me!” River snapped. “I don’t want your pity!”
“Aghhh! You’re impossible when you’re like this!” Brie spat back. “Really, do you have to play the role of the temperamental artist all the time? I can’t even be nice to you without you jumping down my throat. Seriously, you were a lot more fun before you were famous!”
“The money doesn’t seem to bother you too much.” He gestured to the Louie Vitton bag she was clutching. “Looks like another designer handbag you’ve got hanging on your arm.”
He knew he had pushed her too far when he saw her close her eyes. He could almost hear her counting to ten in her mind, but when she finally spoke her voice had lost the angry edge and she only sounded disheartened. “I don’t know what’s happening between us, River, but I really hate this. I don’t want to fight with you anymore. I’m so tired of fighting…”
“If you’re so tired of me, then why do you keep hanging around?”
She shook her head, defeated. “I guess I won’t hang around since my presence here seems to bring out the worst in you. I have plans anyway. Maybe I’ll come back tonight. Maybe I won’t.”
River sat at his desk and scowled as Brie pulled her jacket from the closet and disappeared around a corner without another word. A few seconds later, the door to their penthouse slammed shut with so much force the paintings on the wall rattled. River should have shouted something nasty to her retreating back. Something that would have made her feel miserable and guilty about making silly threats she didn’t mean. Apparently, his writer’s block was spreading and he had commentary block as well because he couldn’t come up with anything that was even remotely witty.
Afterwards, River hoped and even expected that she would come back. Brie did that a lot when they had arguments. Despite her quick temper, she was one of those people who not only hated to go to bed angry, but also hated to walk away from any argument that was unresolved. This time, he must have pushed her too far. When she didn’t reappear, he peeked out the window and looked down into the city streets. He caught a glimpse of her far below, hailing a cab with one hand while her other was holding down her beret so it wouldn’t blow off in the wind. He turned away before she even got into the vehicle, realizing that this time, Brie wasn’t coming back.
The moment River knew she was really gone, he instantly regretted their argument. For a second, he thought about following her and apologizing, but he knew it wouldn’t make any difference. Even if they patched things up tonight, there would only be another argument later. Things just weren’t the same between them. Sometimes he longed for the old days, even if it would mean giving up his newfound wealth and fame. Back before he was consumed with deadlines and interviews, it had seemed like he and Brie were the only two people in the world. That was the happiest time in his life and the time when he had done his best work.
The thing he missed the most was spending his evenings watching Brie perform on the stage in a little jazz bar called The Rusty Nail. It was a small club that was lucky to have ten patrons on a busy night. The few people that were regulars there were all collecting social security, but River had never been a socialite and he pref
erred the company of elders to people his own age.
River treasured the memories of that little bar with its high stools and candlelit tables. He loved watching Brie sitting on top of the grand piano in her little black dress, belting out jazz standards alongside a sax player who was old enough to be her grandfather. Every time he heard her sing, it would stir his own artistic drive. It was her exotic voice that had inspired his first novel, The Siren’s Call. And it was her insatiable love making that had turned a simple fantasy into an exotic phenomenon that had housewives all over the country dusting off their vibrators. It was just a shame their own bed had turned to ice. River knew it was mostly his own fault. His lack of inspiration left him in a foul mood, and Brie’s fiery temper made her less than sympathetic to his plight. The clash led to a lot of fireworks, and not the good kind.
River banged his head against his keyboard and groaned. He was such an ungrateful, undeserving idiot. Brie was beautiful, talented, and energetic. She could have any man she wanted. River knew she was getting tired of his artistic melancholy. She was spending more and more nights out on the town with her friends, and he was usually asleep by the time she came home. He couldn’t remember the last time they had made love. Sometimes he had to wonder if she was really out with the girls at all or if she had found a new love to warm her bed.
To River, it seemed like his whole life was plummeting out of control. His career was going down the toilet right along with his love life. He should never have let his agent coerce him into changing his last story to suit what they thought the people wanted. He should have stayed true to his vision instead of selling out for a larger advance. But he was paying the price for his foolishness. Soon he would be a washed-up author whose books would only be sold on the discarded quarter shelf at the library, and he didn’t deserve any better.
Eventually, being alone in the huge penthouse with nothing but his inactive imagination and negative thoughts became too much to bear. River threw his laptop and a notebook into his briefcase, grabbed his winter coat, and headed out. He hoped maybe a change of scenery would help get his creative juices flowing, but he wasn’t prepared for the bitter cold wind and icy hale that slapped against his bare cheeks when he stepped through the door. Immediately his glasses fogged up from the sudden temperature change, making it hard for him to see where he was going. Things were even more out of focus when he took them off and tried to wipe them down. Endless hours of staring at a computer monitor hadn’t helped improve his already poor eyesight. He would probably be legally blind before he reached forty. Just one more thing for him to be depressed about.
Once his glasses were back in place, River walked with his head downcast and did his best not to make eye contact with any of the passersby. Sometimes people recognized him as the famous author of The Siren’s Call, and he always felt overwhelmed when fans gushed about how wonderful he was, especially when they knew nothing about him. He had only made it a few blocks when his teeth started chattering. He probably should have checked the forecast before stumbling out into the city streets. It had to be ten below in New York City, which was hardly surprising for the first day in February. Piles of soot stained snow were heaped up two feet high on the corners, remnants from their last snowstorm. The overcast sky promised yet another winter squall was on the way. It was already starting to flurry pretty heavily. Not many pedestrians were brave enough to face the harsh weather, making the city street appear strangely barren, despite the late hour.
River shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and wished he occasionally remembered everyday things like gloves and hats. Even in his creative slump, his artistic mind still pushed the necessities to the side when he was in writer mode. The work was often so all-consuming he would sometimes forget to eat or use the bathroom for hours at a time. He was certainly paying the price for his absentmindedness that day. His cheeks were chaffed and his fingers were numb when he finally pulled open the door of his favorite coffee house. He stomped the snow from his metal-tipped boots and stumbled through the door. He hoped the large coffee he ordered would warm him up a bit, but his hands shook so badly that he splashed creamer all over the counter when he tried to pour some into his cup.
As he wiped up the mess, River noticed a couple walking together just outside the window. They were snuggled up close to brace themselves against the harsh gusts, but still laughing and holding hands. His thoughts again turned to Brie. Back in their home state of Vermont, they had faced much colder nights than this one, but it hadn’t seemed nearly as uncomfortable with her warm body beside him. He wondered if they would ever get back to that place or if his heart had turned as cold as the frosty February night.
Frustrated with his own depressing thoughts, River tossed his dirty napkin toward the trash bin. Of course, he missed his intended target and it landed on the floor. He bent down to pick it up and told himself that he wasn’t doing anyone any good by dwelling on the past. What he had with Brie had changed. Maybe it had died right along with his artistic drive. Maybe in real life there were no happy endings.
River sighed over his heavy thoughts as he squeezed into a corner booth. He was determined to put his personal issues aside for at least a little while and concentrate on his work. The table he had chosen was big enough for four, but he liked to have room to spread out his papers. There was also a large fire burning in the flue not too far away and the flames added a little extra warmth to the chilly air. He was grateful for the heat it emitted which was finally thawing out his frostbitten fingers. The combination of the fireplace and the hot coffee restored a little of his energy and he decided he wasn’t going to spend the whole night sulking. He pulled out his laptop and hooked into the coffee house Wi-Fi.
If he couldn’t think of anything interesting to write, River decided he could at least do some basic research. His genre was fantasy, but his work was loosely based on ancient mythology and legends. He didn’t have much of a plot charted out yet, but he wanted his hero to be a despondent human who had lost his home, his family, and his hope. His love interest had to be something more—a divine female with the power to heal the grief-stricken heart of his protagonist and give him the strength he needed to face whatever perils might lie in his path. River wasn’t sure what type of creature would realistically fill that role. He only knew she had to be something unique and beautiful.
River concentrated for quite a while but nothing came to him. It was ludicrous that he couldn’t even establish his basic characters without drawing a blank. If he couldn’t get that far, he might as well admit to himself now that it was hopeless and move on to a more mundane career choice, because he was never going to make it as a professional writer. He was just about to slam the laptop closed when the flickering lights of the fireplace caught his eye. River watched the flames dance and twist with a life of their own, and a small seed started to sprout somewhere in the deepest recesses of his mind. As he studied the radiant blaze, he at last had a spark of inspiration. He knew what type of female his hero would encounter. She would be a goddess—a goddess who had control over the element of fire.
Feeling a twinge of excitement for the first time in days, River typed the words “fire goddess” into the search engine. Instantly, dozens of fabulous images popped up onto the screen. There were humanoid women, their naked bodies consumed by the blaze yet untouched by its fury. Some wore gowns woven from flames as they waltzed in the heavens among the stars. There were also elemental creatures that were made entirely from fire with hair that sizzled down their backs in a red-orange glow. Some of the women wore vicious expressions and seemed bent on destruction as they welded swords of fire towards unseen enemies. Others appeared peaceful and serene with deep set eyes that held the wisdom of the ages.
They were all divinely beautiful, but one image stood out from all the others. River found himself instantly captivated by a beautiful woman with auburn tresses that spun down her back, in a blanket of curls that reached nearly to her ankles. She wore a rich gown of green
velvet embroidered throughout with Celtic insignia that was sewn in delicate silver threads. A golden crown with a solitary emerald sat upon her brow and beads and feathers were braided into her hair, making her appear to be of royal lineage. Yet, despite her majestic beauty and vivid finery, a small calf stood by her side which made her seem somehow much more approachable. She could have been human if not for her inhuman perfection and the flame that she cradled in the palm of her hand.
It was strange how that image called to him. As a virile man, he should have been more intrigued by the less modest images of naked she-devils with perky breasts and welcoming, seductive stances. Yet somehow, the loving grace he saw mirrored in that woman’s eyes appealed to him on a much deeper level than those primordial urges. It was as though her outstretched hands were beseeching him. Instantly smitten with her, and hungry to learn who and what she was, River clicked his mouse on the image. He was brought to a website dedicated to Celtic myths and legends. At the top of the page was an odd symbol he had never seen before. It had a woven square at its center and four radials that jutted out from all four corners. It was called Brigid’s Cross and apparently it was the symbol of the flame haired woman he admired. River sipped his coffee as he scanned through the website and learned her story.
“The Goddess Brigid,” he read aloud. “Also known as Bride and Brigitania, Brigid is the patron goddess of poetry, childbearing, and hmmm, smith craft. That’s an interesting combination. Then again, they do all require hard work and labor before the final project is complete, so maybe it makes sense after all.”
River muttered his thoughts out loud, forgetting where he was. Luckily, there weren’t any other people desperate or foolish enough to face the elements for a late-night latte, so no one overheard him mumbling to himself. Even the lone worker was too busy texting on her cell phone to notice him talking to himself.
