Brighid's Fallen (Keepers of the Flame Book 5)

by Cate Morgan

  He recognized Cara easily, her sword clashing against her opponent’s as they grappled. While Cara seemed to be fighting for her life, the other party was simply, if not easily, fending her off.

  They hit the ground, the impact tearing them apart as they tumbled in opposite directions. Cara unfolded in a low crouch, her sword at the ready and the look of a wild-eyed cat defending its territory. Her opponent merely stood, slowly and warily. She was a woman dressed in head to toe in black, with short dark hair and a complexion even more pale than Cara’s. She was tall and painfully thin, but with an aura of strength that made Alex’s demon cower back.

  Alex slowed his approach. Cara was breathing hard, and her eyes flashed like steel. “Cara?”

  “Alex, meet Mairya,” she said with a flat calm that worried him.

  The other woman smiled, but did not shift her gaze. “Hello, Alex.” She stretched out her free arm. A moment later she’d grabbed him by the demon and slammed him back against the nearest wall. Stunned, he fought for breath. “Maybe now you’ll listen,” she said to Cara.

  Cara, however, was having none of it. “Let. Him. Go.” She sprung without waiting for a response.

  Even had he not been pinioned to a wall, he would have been rendered speechless at the sight of them. Cara wasn’t kidding when she’d told him she was a champion with an ancient lineage. She fought like one—without fear, and with tremendous speed and skill.

  She was easily outclassed by the other woman, however. Mairya wasn’t exactly toying with her, but neither was she particularly fazed by Cara’s attack. “I only wish to speak to you, child.”

  Child? They looked to be about the same age. If anything, Cara looked to be the elder of the two. Then it hit him: she must be another Keeper of the Flame, older than she looked.

  “Then why make me remember?” Cara raged.

  Remember? Alex struggled against Mairya’s hold on him, but it only tightened the more he fought. A fist squeezed his heart.

  “Why else?” Mairya replied, parrying with liquid, smooth movements. “So you would know.”

  Cara moved even faster, with increased force. By the Lady, had she actually been holding back? “Know what? That you killed him?”

  Alex dug deep within him, grabbed the demon by the scruff of its proverbial neck. Then he dragged it, kicking and snarling, to the fore. Alex abruptly fell to the ground on his hands and knees, sucking in air as though every breath might be his last. The demon scrabbled back, whimpering.

  “He was one of you,” Cara panted, nearly sobbing now. “He was a protector. And you killed him.”

  “Enough.” Mairya reached for Cara’s sword, taking it by the blade with no ill effects—at least to herself. Then Cara was arcing through the air once more. The Keeper twisted in midair, but hit the ground hard enough that she rolled, over and over again, until she came to a broken stop.

  Alex hurried to her, sliding to her on his knees. “Cara?”

  She tried to get up. Gone was the confident woman who scoffed at the idea of his demon hurting her. Grief had once more taken hold. “She killed Brendan,” she said on a choke of pain as he helped her to her feet.

  Alex looked up at the sound of a deep, exasperated sigh. Mairya, her arms crossed, frowned at them. “Because it was his time, foolish child.”

  Alex stood, anger rising with him. “Mairya, is it?”

  Amusement sparked from her black eyes. “Yes. Although you may know me better by my title.”

  “And what is that?”

  A humorless smile. “The Angel of Death.”

  Cara stumbled into Alex’s apartment, her head spinning with the effort she’d put into attacking Mairya. Someone who had been Brendan’s friend. But while she’d suspected Mairya was an angel as well, she hadn’t known about her status as an archangel, let alone the Angel of Death.

  At least there were answers, now. Even if they only led to yet more questions. At least now they would be the right questions.

  Alex helped her to the sofa. “Are you alright?” he asked quietly, face serious.

  She shook her head, and instantly regretted it. “No. But at least I’m getting an idea of what happened.”

  “I’m glad someone is.” He straightened, and looked between her and Mairya expectantly.

  Cara pinched the bridge of her nose with thumb and forefinger. She could really do with a full night’s sleep. “Yesterday I came to on my bathroom floor, in a pool of blood.”

  Mairya nodded, her onyx eyes gleaming. “You found Brendan and I, tried to fight me off. You did admirably well.”

  She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, seeking to blot out the images that would not leave her. “Did I Ascend?”

  “No, although it was a very near thing.” Mairya paused. “I sent you home before you could do serious harm to yourself. Had I killed you, even in Ascension, it would have been for good. Not even your soul would have survived. Brendan was not human, and thus had no need of your protection.”

  She glared up at the other woman. “Then why? Why kill him at all? He was your friend.”

  “That is precisely why, child.” Mairya pulled a chair forward and sat. “Brendan was called home. And made the choice to answer it, which meant leaving his humanity behind.” She sighed, patiently. “I killed him, yes. But I did not murder him. I’m afraid he was already dying.”

  She shook her head. It made no sense. “But his work…centuries of it.”

  Mairya looked sympathetic. “He found what he came for, my dear.”

  Alex sank down onto the coffee table. “Michael’s sword.”

  Cara gaped. “He found it?” For the first time in she couldn’t recall how long, her spirits lifted. “We won?”

  Mairya’s mouth tilted at the corners. “Not quite. He requested the assistance of a colleague to retrieve it from its current location. Otherwise the Vatican would have had it off him in a trice.”

  Well, that was something at least. “Who’s the colleague?” Cara asked, catching a strange look on Alex’s face, too quick to interpret. “It sounds like they’re our best lead in this mess.”

  Mairya nodded pleasantly. “Father Andreas Desmond. But he didn’t murder Brendan, either.”

  Cara looked her right in the eye. “Then who?”

  Mairya didn’t hesitate. “Lillith.”

  Once Alex closed the door after Mairya, the pixie-haired, incongruous Angel of Death, he leaned on it with both hands, with his head bowed and his eyes squeezed shut. At least she’d had the good manners to repair his window on her way out, with an almost negligible wave of her bony hand.

  He had been wondering of late just how bad his luck could possibly get. Now he supposed he knew.

  “Alex?” Cara’s voice was soft behind him, and infinitely sympathetic. Or perhaps fatigue had finally overwhelmed her. Her small hand grasped his shoulder.

  He crooked his arm to take her hand in gratitude, and turned to offer her a weak smile. “It’s alright. I just wasn’t expecting that. Any of it.”

  Her eyes shimmered, ocean green one moment, darkening to sapphire the next, then lightening to the clear, vivid shade of a French summer sky. They really were quite extraordinary. So much so, he had to shake himself to focus on her words.

  “The fact of the matter is, we don’t know. Brendan’s death…it just keeps getting stranger, doesn’t it? I mean, why would Michael call Brendan back before he could get his hands on the sword? It makes no bloody sense.”

  “Mairya said he chose to.” He would never, but never, become accustomed to being on a first name basis with the Angel of Death. It was just too surreal.”Maybe…”

  Her brows lifted. “Maybe?”

  “Maybe he thought you were ready.” He chuckled as her brow furrowed. “He got you through a war, a life-altering…well, let’s face it—you became something else entirely.” If anyone knew what that was like, he did. “He trained you, brought you to Paris to face the damned catacombs. Maybe he felt he’d done everything pos
sible to make sure you were prepared.”

  “Prepared?” Her gaze went distant as it hit her. “You think he meant me to take up the sword after all? To take on Lillith?”

  He took a step closer, turning her hand in his. “Maybe that’s why he locked you out of his office at the counting house. You were born a champion, from a long line of champions. He might have felt it was time you stood on your own. To prove to yourself you could, if nothing else.”

  She sank to the couch, her face almost blank with disbelief. And doubt. She sighed, her shoulders slumping as understanding coursed through her. “Oh, Brendan,” she breathed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  His lips twitched. “You took on the Angel of Death without so much as blinking. Twice. Do you blame him?”

  That got a weak laugh out of her, just as he’d intended. He perched on the coffee table in front of her. “Okay, Keeper. Where do we go from here?”

  “Like I know?” She sat back, propping one booted foot on the edge of the table next to him. She ruffled her strawberry blonde locks with one hand until wavy tendrils covered her face. Then she shoved them from her eyes, determined. “Clearly you need to speak with Desmond. I think that’s the first order of business. Lillith can only come if invited. If summoned.”

  “You could be right.” He had no idea how he was going to approach his mentor regarding his circumspect behavior. Of course, it wasn’t as though Brendan had told Cara everything, either. Desmond had to have had a good reason, as well. “What about you?”

  “I’ll start by going through Brendan’s journal, page by page.” She gave him a game smile.

  He stood to retrieve the food where he’d dropped it on the counter of his kitchenette. “We’ll do it together. In fact, we’ll go through every piece of evidence we’ve got. Then I’ll talk to Desmond.”

  She stood and went to his desk where the journal lay where she’d left it before Mairya’s arrival. “I really should have asked more questions of Brendan. But I trusted him. Implicitly.”

  “Perfectly understandable.” He hefted the bag of food with a smile and began emptying it. “First, we eat. Saving the world on an empty stomach sounds only marginally worse than saving it on a full one, but there it is.”

  He didn’t have a dining room table—or even a dining room, really—so he spread everything out on the coffee table between them. Then he pulled a chair over, and together they went through Brendan’s things as they ate. Occasionally one of them would make a comment, point out something of interest, or ask a question.

  “If you were going to smuggle an angelic sword from the catacombs,” Cara asked as she chewed thoughtfully on an olive, “how would you do it?”

  Alex looked up, considering. “I’d definitely go to Desmond for help. He runs all excavations in France. As someone not affiliated with or serving the Vatican, it’d be near impossible for Brendan to get permission to do it himself.”

  Cara smiled at the irony of an angel not getting cooperation from the church. “But he could tag along on one of Desmond’s expeditions.”

  He nodded. “The Padre calls the shots as the senior pontiff in France, and his only directive is to acquire sacred artifacts. If Brendan could help up find Michael’s sword…well, Desmond would be pope by sundown.”

  “Some of the tunnels were rebuilt after the war,” Cara added, as the two of them carried on a silent communication bordering on telepathy. “One of them goes right up to the Pont St. Michel.”

  “And the Crypte Archeologique,” Alex finished for her. The crypt was attached to the cathedral. He tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling. “It’s the only explanation, isn’t it?”

  “We don’t know,” she said again. They seemed to be saying that a lot to one another. “There’s so much we don’t bloody well know.” She closed the journal with a snap.

  But she was bloody well going to find out.

  Alex bided his time until Cara dropped off to sleep, Brendan’s journal tumbling face down to the floor as her dangling grip relaxed. He waited a bit more to make sure exhaustion had truly taken hold before putting his own work aside. Then he went to the couch and gently lifted her up with one arm supporting her back and the other hooked under her knees. Even in slumber she hardly weighed a thing. He had to wonder if she ate enough on a regular basis, or if—like him—she had an overactive metabolism.

  His place wasn’t large, but he’d managed to section off part of the main room with an oversized bookcase that even the Seven Year War couldn’t dislodge. Behind this antique monstrosity he’d placed his double bed, which is where he lay the boneless Keeper. He tugged the cuff of one of her pant legs up so he could unzip her boot and pull it off. He did the same with the other, and then pulled the blankets from underneath her light form to cover her. His old building was as drafty as they came, damage from the war notwithstanding.

  He watched her a long moment, as one of the healing bruises on her face disappeared altogether, leaving behind clear, fair skin with a healthy flush. If only the circles beneath her eyes would vanish so easily. He relented to temptation, leaning down to smooth the hair back from her eyes. The wavy locks were silky beneath his palm.

  “Sleep,” he murmured, satisfied as the perpetual furrow between her brows eased. Her head turned into the pillow as she gave a contented murmur.

  He padded silently out of the bedroom, begging the floorboards not to creak. Then he donned his jacket as though the mere rustle of fabric would be enough to alert the entire building to his movements. Then he crept over to the newly repaired window and leaned on the frame so it wouldn’t squeak as he opened it. Even his inner demon remained still, as though afraid to disturb their guest.

  He ducked out, twisting to grab hold of the facade above. He scrabbled up the wall, nudging the window closed once more with his foot before spider-crawling up the side of the building. Only when he reached the roof did he dare breathe normally, his shoulders and spine relaxing. Hopefully he’d return before Cara awakened. By the look of things he might actually have a couple of days to work with.

  Before long he landed on the roof of a building near Brendan’s excavation site. He went to the edge to take a look.

  The cement nearly crumbled beneath his hands as he stared in disbelief.

  The catacombs were crawling—crawling—with Desmond’s men. From Alex’s vantage, the place looked as industrious as an ant farm.

  Only when his jaw began to ache did he realize how tightly he was clenching his teeth. He didn’t think they’d dug out the sword as of yet, but at this rate it could only be a matter of time. The demon in him growled at the thought.

  Brendan must have determined the location of the sword,and asked for the Padre’s help in pulling it out. And only Desmond could have gotten into the angel’s safe and sealed the area to keep unwanted visitors from discovering the theft. Brendan hadn’t locked Cara out at all, which should at least relieve the Keeper of that bit of hurt. His chest tightened, remembering how upset she’d been to think the angel had cut her off in the end.

  After awhile he turned from the activity below and made his way, rooftop to rooftop, over to Notre Dame. As he neared the cathedral his heart began to thump in anticipation of facing Andreas. He paused on the bridge, just as he always did, to gaze up at the ancient building. Lights illuminated the stained glass windows with a warm glow, reflecting off the stone and out onto the water in mellow benediction. With the destruction of Paris’ other landmarks, he had always thought it a miracle the building was not only still standing, but well-nigh undamaged in the wake of the worst war in history.

  Until now.

  He closed his eyes a moment, drinking in the calm of the Seine beneath his feet, the breeze ruffling his hair, staining his cheeks with cold. This might be his last moment of peace for awhile, so he indulged himself. Instead of his mind clearing, however, it turned to Cara. He imagined her as he’d left her: in his bed, breathing even and untroubled for the first time since he’d met her, her thick ey
elashes fanning delicately against her high cheekbones. Her skin cool and pale as porcelain, her small hand loosely clenched on the pillow.

  An unknown time later he opened his eyes. Then he squared his shoulders, and crossed the bridge in an unhurried stride.

  He tried not to imagine it burning in his wake.

  Moments later, Alex knocked on the thick, ornate door to Desmond’s office. Andreas’ muffled voice bid him enter, so he slipped in and closed the door behind him. On the walk over he’d tried to decide how he was going to approach his mentor, and hadn’t made up his mind even now, as Desmond smiled at him from behind his desk.

  “Ah, there you are.” Desmond waved at him to sit. “How goes the investigation?”

  “I was about to ask you the same,” Alex hedged. “Anything come of Brendan’s autopsy?”

  Desmond reached for a nearby file folder. “Not a lot. As we suspected, his blood proved to be angelic. Cause of death was obvious, of course.”

  He tried not to smile. “You really didn’t know he was an angel?”

  Desmond shook his head with a wry twinkle in his bright blue eyes. “I’m guessing the girl did?” At Alex’s nod, he continued his perusal. “Speaking of which, her blood came up almost entirely human. There was a bit of angelic in it, but I imagine that was from Brendan. Once we know what she is, we can properly catalog the sample.”

  “I’m not sure yet what she is, either.” Funny, the lie didn’t hurt as much as he thought it would. “Turns out Brendan had been training her since the war. She helped him clear the catacombs.”

  Desmond set aside the file with interest. “Did she know what he was after?”

  “Not specifically. She just helped him excavate the old tunnels. I’d be surprised if there were single demon left at this point.”

  The old man shook his head. “Quite the training ground—the whole place was overrun with Carrion demon and the like. It got difficult to tell who was still human and who wasn’t after awhile.”