by Cate Morgan
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Thank You!
About Cate
BRIGHID’S FALLEN
Keepers of the Flame #5
By Cate Morgan
COPYRIGHT
Copyright © 2017 by Cate Morgan. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events or locales is purely coincidental. Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.
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CHAPTER ONE
The angel lay dying.
All in all, it was a fascinating experience. So much so he wished he could make a deeper study of it, and capture it on paper. Being a scholar, it was—had been—his habit to document everything. And he had been at it for millennium. But now he found his thoughts as elusive as air, darting this way and that with all the order of the snow flurries whirling about him in the cold, hard Parisian street.
Humanity had been interesting in its own right, of course. And he'd been at it for such a very long time. It would have been nice to have had a little more, in the end. And that, he realized in a bemused, vague sort of way, was about as human as it got.
He supposed it should be a comfort, knowing who had killed him. That it had been a friend. This, this dying bit, he found to be a little frightening. Despite his curiosity with the mechanics of the thing. It was infinitely better, he decided, not to be alone.
There was no light. Only this rather smelly alley, with its damp cobblestones digging into his back and the thick miasma of wet fire permeating...well, everything. He didn't want to know the contents of the puddle he was lying in. He suspected at least part of it might be his own blood. Which, he knew, was bound to present its own unique set of problems.
He stared up at the night sky as the hollow, fleeting breaths left his lungs. Burned their escape from his gasping throat. Flurries turned to snow, so softly he had the sensation of flying among the stars once more. He’d forgotten that part of his other self. It was nice to remember.
Regret pervaded him. He would miss his friends. He hadn't had the chance to say goodbye. But closure was a human concept. There would be other, much-missed friends when he finally returned home. Family, too.
A shadowed figure bent over him. The angel blinked until it coalesced into focus.
Ah, I thought it might be you, he said in his mind, because he no longer possessed the ability to form words. Angels didn’t need to, anyway. I'm glad.
A black leather glove smoothed a drop of blood from his face. I am sorry.
Don't be. I just wish...
The owner of the hand shushed him. I know.
The angel blinked again, and knew it was for the last time. Watch over her.
The figure straightened. I will make it quick.
Then the sky again, and the rushing snowflakes did indeed turn to stars. It was beautiful.
Goodbye, my--
Nothing.
Alex Kane crouched next to the body lying in the quite literal gutter. A medium sized man, neat in all respects other than the obvious. Dark skin, salt and pepper hair tied neatly back, but holding the promise of wildness when unbound. Clothes simple but well made, almost elegant. He had the look of a Buddhist monk turned shopkeeper.
It was a damned shame about the great, charred hole in the middle of his chest where his heart should be.
The unmistakable sounds of someone being violently ill hit the pavement at the end of the alley. He smiled, remembering the first time he'd seen a body up close and personal. At least Johnson had the sense to relinquish his lunch away from Alex’s crime scene.
"You alright?" he called, not taking his eyes from the scene. Blood puddled beneath the corpse, mixing with the runoff of melted snow and liquid ash, improving matters not a wit.
"Who would do such a thing?" Johnson coughed behind him. “How did they do it?”
Poor kid. He would adjust...eventually. Or not. In which case he could transfer to a nice, quiet parish in the middle of nowhere. Antarctica, perhaps.
"Not sure yet." He pulled aside the man's overcoat so he could reach into the inside pocket. Nothing.
"Did you scan his Identichip?"
"No need." Kane lifted the right arm and peeled back the sleeve to reveal underside of the wrist . "He didn't have one."
Johnson blinked wide eyes. "He looks too old to have a birth chip."
Identichips had been implanted on everyone born before the Seven-Year War. Birth chips on those born after.
"Doesn’t matter. I know who it is." He bit back a curse. He really hated it when this happened.
"You do?"
"Brendan Something-or-Other. He owned a little bookshop. This bookshop, as a matter of fact." He watched Johnson's cherubic face turn toward the burnt, still-smoking husk of a building beside the body. He blanched.
Alex hadn't ever witnessed an expression so worthy of the word until now. Johnson was a natural.
He stood. "Come on over. Tell me what you see. Rather, what you don't see."
It took Johnson a minute, because he clearly didn't want to look at the corpse again. "For someone who died in an alley, he sure is clean."
Kane made an encouraging gesture. “Go on."
"Someone cleaned him up?" Johnson's brow furrowed. "He was killed elsewhere and moved here?"
"No, look at the blood." Alex circled his finger, indicating the puddle. "He died here. And now you're wondering why he's so clean other than the crater in his chest. Pristine, almost."
Owl-eyed, Johnson nodded.
"It's a good question. And I only know one answer. Brendan of the former bookshop was an angel."
Any color that might have returned to the kid's face drained straight out of it again. It was a good thing he'd already emptied his stomach. He took another look, swallowing. His Adam’s apple bobbed like an erratic yo-yo.
"An angel? How? Why?" Then, once he’d done the math, “Where are his wings?”
Basic subtraction was a wonderful thing. “Didn’t you learn anything in training, kid? Angels don’t have wings. That’s a human notion, from back when the obvious manner of getting around heaven was a pair of wings. But just like a lot of demons, angels look just like you and me.” Ha. “Poor bastard.”
Johnson made a little sound like urk.
“Relax. He doesn’t care what I call him at this point.” From what Alex recalled, Brendan had been a nice enough guy. Mild-mannered with a dry, wry sense of humor. Nice. Boring. Not one to cultivate enemies.
"I don't know what happened. But we're going to find out." Kane beckoned the hovering officials forward. "All yours, boys."
Johnson looked away. Shaken to the core. "Father Desmond was right, wasn't he? It's starting all over again."
"Seems that way." He spun the kid on his heels and sent him stumbling in the direction of the nearest coffee shop. "Go on, get some caffeine in you. Then we’ll need to ward the shop. It's going to be a long night, but there’s something I have to do first."
Off Johnson went, head hunched into the high collar of his jacket. Kane lifted the corner of his mouth in a crooked smile. The kid really didn't need to see this. His world h
ad already spun off its axis into whole new dimensions of bloody awful for one night.
Alex crouched once more where the body had lain, soaking in a fetid soup of alley runoff and blood.
His years in the militia had taught him a thing or two. One of those things was that only an angel could kill another angel.
Correction: only an angelic weapon could kill an angel. A human couldn’t wield one, but a demon might.
It would depend on what Brendan's rank had been. He'd have to figure out the man's true name, see if he rated among the illustrious and revered. Perhaps the Padre knew. The last thing they needed was a Prince of Hell prowling Paris’ streets. His streets.
He removed a couple of glass vials from his pocket and filled them with the blood. Once they were sealed he put them back in his pocket for safekeeping.
He looked around. Once he determined the coast was clear, he touched his fingertips to the puddle. The eyes in his muddied reflection flashed brilliant, amber gold.
Then he was seeing what the angel had seen in his last moments, as though removed by a pane of glass. Muffled sound, distorted images. The sickly sweet stench of wet fire mixed with Paris' own brand of eau de yuck. His mother had been from New Orleans, but Paris made post-Mardi Gras Bourbon Street smell like roses in comparison. And that was before the war.
His heartbeat thundered in his ears, slow and ominous. Tiny pinpricks of snow dotted his face, stinging with cold.
He saw the figure, hooded, looking down at him. He got the distinct impression the two were having a conversation, though no words were spoken.
Then the sword, clearly angelic. For one, it was flaming. Blue and orange fire licked the blade seductively. His entire world filled with light. Then the plunge.
Alex came back to himself, gasping for breath. He really hated that part.
Rubbing the phantom ache in his chest, he poked his head out the alley. Still no sign of Johnson. Good. The wagon that now carried the angel’s body roared off in a shower of slush and fumes. Once Johnson sealed the bookshop, no one else but him would be able to enter.
He retreated back down the alley. Then he looked up, calculating.
A few moments later he was on the roof of the nearest building. Funny how the bookshop was the only one damaged in the fire.
He surveyed his surroundings. Not quite a bird's eye view of the neighborhood, but it would do. He needed to get the lay of the land.
The hooded figure had been of medium height, but that was about all he'd got. The question was, where would the killer have gone? And were they demon or angel?
This part of the city was older, so its patterns tracing medieval byways that were more charming than orderly. Side streets little better than this alleyway twisted and twined within the larger pattern like a spider’s web.
Thankfully, he had the blood to help him track. But first, he would need to confer with Father Desmond.
He reached the ground just in time for Johnson to come looking for him.
"Thanks," he said, taking the coffee he proffered. He sipped it gratefully. Black, two sugars, no cream. And piping, almost lethally hot. Perfect.
Johnson looked so miserable Kane slapped him on the back again. "Don't worry about it, kid. My first body was an eye-opener, too. Especially since I was the one who created it."
Johnson nodded. "The war was pretty awful, I guess."
Words couldn’t do it justice. “Once you’re done sealing the place, go home. I’ll handle the Padre."
Cara Kendrick awakened in a pool of blood.
She lifted her head, and regretted it almost instantly. She lowered it with a groan as the inside of her own brain rang like the bells of Notre Dame. She gave it about a minute of shallow breathing, which was when she came to understand she was lying in something thick and sticky.
A metallic twang pervaded her nostrils. She knew that smell. And when it registered, she forced herself to her hands and knees. The insidious bellman in her head swung from the ropes in response. When she was relatively certain she wasn’t going to be sick, she peeled open her eyelids.
The cross hatch pattern of her eyelashes blurred her vision, so she forced them open a little more.
A puddle of rich crimson lay beneath her. Her eyes clenched shut once again.
Mental inventory: Bruises all over. A burning sensation along her ribs on the right. Shallow cuts—upper left thigh, several along both arms. One knee throbbed, as though she’d landed on it. Hard.
Clearly, she’d been in a fight. Not unusual, except for the salient fact she could usually remember when she had.
She felt for, and then grasped, the rim of the pedestal sink above her. Chill porcelain sent welcome waves of cold through her hand. Goosebumps coursed through her body. She hoped she wasn’t going into shock. The blood couldn’t be all hers.
More deep breaths to brace herself. Then she painstakingly pulled herself upright. Her knees shook, but she got herself up on one. The throbbing one, as luck would have it.
She grabbed the sink with her other hand and took another breath, filling her entire torso. Deep enough to make her ribs hurt. Inch by painful inch, she levered herself to both feet. One booted foot slipped in the blood, and she caught her breath.
In. Out. In. Out. Breathe, Keeper.
She opened her eyes.
She was covered in blood. Saturated with it.
She stilled, and focused on her breathing. As Brendan had taught her before he’d ever let her near a training ring. Then forced herself to really see.
There was a cut above one eyebrow that looked like it had bled quite a bit. Deep bags under her eyes, the purple turning them a brilliant blue. Her bottom lip was swollen. And she looked pale unto death. Granted, an overly sunny day stood a fair chance of causing her to spontaneously combust, with her fair complexion. But this was something else altogether.
She reminded herself Keepers didn’t die. Not really. Their souls went to Tir na Nog, the Celtic afterlife, to await the End of Days. So unless their souls were destroyed as well…
She shook her head to quiet the slightly panicked mental rambling.
Cara looked—and felt—like she’d gone more than her fair share of rounds with a whole battalion of Carrion demons. Unarmed, and blindfolded. But she had no memory of it.
Her first clear recollection was going over to Brendan’s bookshop with an order of his favorite soup and fresh baked bread. She liked to tease him about his penchant for spicy food. Their running joke being her quest to find the pepper or combination of spices that would finally make him blink. So far, he had suffered no ill effects from her offerings. Smugly.
Brendan. His name and face echoed over and over again in her addled mind. Maybe she had a concussion? She tried to remember the symptoms, and failed. But maybe that was a sign in and of itself.
She checked her pockets. No phone. Damn.
She pressed her palm against the nearly-closed bathroom door and eased it open. After listening hard enough to strain her ears, she peeked into the main room of her small flat.
The coast appeared to be clear. Just as well—she wouldn’t be able to fight off an exuberant puppy in this condition.
Her phone lay on her coffee table/night stand, her couch also serving as her bed. A forest of empty beer bottles, coffee mugs, and take out containers covered most of the table. Well, she had never been accused of neatness.
She plopped down into the couch cushions permanently distended in her shape. She didn’t sleep much, but when she did it was like the dead. Swallowing, she thumb printed the device on.
Or, rather, she tried. It have a little hopeful flash of silver blue, and promptly spit out a little razzberry of mocking denial.
Fried.What the hell had happened?
She wondered if she could make it to Brendan’s on foot. She bit her lip and looked down at her bloody clothes. She supposed she didn’t have much of a choice.
She stood too fast and fell back on the couch. She tried again, slower this ti
me, and managed to keep her feet. She was worse off than a newborn foal, or an amateur drunk.
She stumbled her way into her small kitchenette and emptied her laundry onto the floor. Resolved to strip out of her clothes, shower the aches and cobwebs away, and don fresh attire before taking the bloodied garments to Brendan.
She peeled her cotton T-shirt from her torso, gritting her teeth as the wet material tore free from the as yet unseen wound in her side. Her shoulders protested in their sockets. The shirt was nearly over her head when her right arm gave a sudden spasm and a tendon between her shoulder and collarbone pulled. She lowered the shirt and pressed her hand against the blossoming pain.
So that was out of the question. Forget the shower, and fresh clothes. She reached for the whiskey bottle on her breakfast bar with her good arm, twisted the cap open, and took a healthy, grateful swig.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, grazing her swollen lip with a burning sensation. Then she poured more liquor on a dishtowel—clean—and pressed it against her ribs. Her skin ignited, and she leaned against the counter with a little choke of pain. But then it subsided to a dull throb, and she took the now bloody towel away.
It looked like someone had made a spirited attempt to disembowel her, but she’d gotten out of the way just in time. A clean slice, as if by a surgeon’s scalpel, curved across her ribs toward her belly button. Good job she healed fast.
That settled it. She reached for the leather jacket draped across the couch arm where it lived when not being worn. She would make it to Brendan’s if it killed her.
At this rate, it just might.
A sudden notion occurred to her. She pivoted, eyes searching for her sword. There it was, blade-down in the umbrella stand, its only occupant. One of these days she would actually have to acquire an umbrella.Or, possibly, a sword mount.
She strode over and extracted the sheathed weapon from the basket. Slid the blade free.
Clean. No sign of blood, no new nicks. In fact, it was highly polished as though she’d just taken her sharpening stones and buffing cloths to it. She didn’t know whether to feel relief, or further concern. The only thing she and her brain could agree on at this point was more confusion.
