Brighid's Flame

by Cate Morgan

  Learn it easy, or learn it hard. You don’t mess with New York City.

  Keepers of the Flame, Book 3

  Tara Fitzpatrick is amazed how far she’s come since the Seven-Year War, when she and her best friend Stephen eked out a bare-bones existence in the Central Park Shanties. Now she has it all: Stephen at her side, rewarding work for the powerful Vincent Dante’s foundation, and a budding romance with Julien, Vincent’s heir.

  If only the Underground movement would stop inciting civil unrest against Vincent’s efforts to rebuild the Big Apple, Tara’s life would be perfect.

  Then Julien is shot before her eyes, shattering Tara’s world. Her pursuit of the shooter leads her down a rabbit hole dug by betrayal, misconceptions, and inescapable truth.

  Suddenly the fate of an entire city rests on her shoulders. The man she was trained to protect is the man she is now forced to destroy. And the acceptance of her true destiny as a Keeper of the Flame comes at a terrible price—if she even survives the fight.

  But if she’s lucky, perhaps the fight alone will be enough to save the city she loves.

  Warning: Contains powerful alpha men, kick-ass women, dark secrets, and cat-and-mouse games. Also, explosions—because explosions are fun.

  Brighid’s Flame

  Cate Morgan

  Dedication

  For New York City—you’re one of a kind, baby!

  “Give me your tired, your poor,

  Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

  The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

  Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

  I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

  - Statue of Liberty

  Chapter One

  Stephen frowned at his reflection in the Plexiglass display case, his brilliant green eyes narrowed in concentration. The synthetic silk of a bow tie slipped through his musician’s fingers, refusing to hold a decent knot. He tugged and tweaked to no avail.

  The display case was one of twelve lining the stone walls of Saint John Cathedral’s main nave, each case placed beneath a new stained glass window. The cathedral had been without pews since cleared of rubble after the Seven-Year War, and now intimate groupings of candlelit, artfully set tables had been placed strategically throughout the chamber for the Dante Foundation’s event. Twin pillars, alike but not identical, framed a theatre-sized, Holo-projected video feed of scenes played out throughout the city. Crowds gathered in places like Times Square, Central Park, Rockefeller Center. Below, in the pulpit, the thirteenth and largest case protected what remained of the cathedral’s original altar.

  The roof had yet to be restored. A jagged, cavernous hole gaped open to display the night sky and its magnificent array of piercing sweet stars. A privileged throng gathered beneath the open ceiling, enjoying the mild February weather. Recent years had proved unseasonably warm, with storms lasting weeks at a time. Tonight was the first clear night in months.

  A familiar, throaty chuckle distracted Stephen from his efforts. He turned.

  Tara returned his smile, the corners of her rosebud mouth curled ever-so-slightly. “Really, Stephen.” She beckoned; he obeyed. She untied the offending silk in a few, efficient tugs. “Certified genius, eidetic memory, the great Vincent Dante’s most promising ward—defeated by a bow tie.”

  “I suppose there’s just no helping some people.” He swallowed mild disappointment as she tsked and retied him with equal efficiency. He nudged a shock of chocolate cherry hair from her eyes. “You cut your hair.”

  She shrugged, eyes still on her work. The top of her head barely reached the middle of his chest. “Gwen’s idea. You like?”

  “I do.” The sleek wedge cut suited her. “Speaking of Gwen, I just got the call. She and Vincent have left the Tower.” Formerly the Empire State Building, the restored Tower housed the residence and business interests of Vincent Dante and his widespread Foundation.

  Tara stepped back, head cocked as she considered the tie’s set. “And Julien?” She gave the tie a final, stern adjustment.

  “Already here. He went into one of the lesser naves to make a call.”

  “Then it’s nearly time.” She turned to scan the crowd, no doubt searching for Julien’s tall form and unmistakable golden head.

  “Nearly.” He gave her a game smile she never saw. “Go on. He’ll be waiting.”

  Her Tiffany-blue gown shimmered over her figure as she swayed off. She managed to avoid Vincent’s guests without seeming to divert her path by more than an instinctive footfall—a neat trick of Gwen’s, and alluring as all hell. Stephen watched her lovely back retreat from him in unintentional mockery and repressed a sigh, reminding himself once again she was meant for someone else.

  Tara twined her way through the glittering crowd, focused as a cat who’d spotted caviar on the horizon. Caviar there was—the first in the city since the War, when all imports had ceased with the suddenness of floodgates slamming shut. Even Dreamtech, government conglomerate and all-powerful architects of the biosphere—and ultimately victims of the sphere’s mysterious disappearance—had been hard put to make certain luxuries available afterwards, even for its own members. Thus the lively market in expensive imitations.

  Vincent Dante had eyed Dreamtech’s rise and abrupt fall with disturbing equanimity that made his fellow entrepreneurs suspect he either possessed the Third Sight or inside information. He rose from the ashes with all the stylish aplomb of the phoenix that made the Dante Foundation insignia. The high and mighty seeking to salvage their fortunes as well as New York’s halcyon days welcomed his leadership. The far more numerous—and vocal—people of the city, however, wanted the security of the biosphere back. What if there were another war?

  Tara could hardly blame them. She had been there, visiting Times Square with her mother, when the first attacks struck with the violence of a sudden summer storm. It had been nothing but blood and destruction and death for weeks before someone had found her and taken her to a shelter. Then, as what was tantamount to World War III erupted all over the world, an inexplicable strangeness began to permeate the city.

  No one knew where the bombs had come from. At least, no one who knew were saying, other than to point out the usual suspects and to go about retaliating. Facts, however, had been rather thin on the vine. And New York hadn’t been the only city whose magnificent skyline had been shattered beyond recognition: London. Paris. Moscow and Toyko and Shanghai—all shadows of their former vibrant, teeming selves.

  Tara has seen...things. And no one was offering any explanations. The city had cried out for a protector, and seven years later, there was Dreamtech and Identichips—referred to now as birth chips since the law required every newborn to have one—and the biosphere.

  Her fingers ran over the little telltale bump in the back of her neck, as they always did when she was anxious. She never had found out what happened to her mother. And if someone had known where the bombs had come from, no one was saying.

  Tara paused before the live video feed framed between the pillars, retrieved from the rubble of the original structure and lovingly restored as Stephen’s first project for Vincent.

  The pillar at the left depicted the wonders of New York City at its glamorous height—The Statue of Liberty, proud Twin Towers, the signature jut of the Empire State Building. The column on the right predicted matters as they now stood—the coastline crumbling into a surging sea, the once famous skyline shattered and smoking, the Statue rent in heart-breaking pieces. Only the Tower remained.

  Only Vincent.

  The video feed framed between the columns provided a window into the shattered rema
ins of Times Square, known since the initial attacks as the Bloody Square. Glutted theatres, flourishing pawn shops dealing in salvage and sacrificed heirlooms, seedy hotels illuminated in millions of multi-colored lights. Not all the signs held aloft by members of the throng were legible at this distance, but there were enough to give her the gist.

  Variations of this scene repeated in other gathering places throughout the city. Central Park had filled, denizens of the Shanties as well as the overcrowded Fifth Avenue tenements flooding into a ragged half-moon shape around one bank of the lake. A churning mass wreathed the Tower, waiting for Vincent to appear. A cordoned mob waited outside the cathedral itself.

  The city’s palpable, stewing anger seeped into her, reverberated deep in her gut, and flooded back again as if raw emotion could be transmitted via satellite. She only vaguely registered her manicured nails digging into her palms.

  Damn the Underground. Damn them and their presence amidst the worst of the fear and violence. They’d hijacked three of Vincent’s trucks this month alone, trucks filled with supplies necessary to the survival of the very people they incited.

  Before her jaw could pop with the clenching of her teeth, an abrupt presence warmed her immediate world. She turned to find Julien standing behind her, just at her shoulder.

  Julien Dante gazed over her head at the projected images with apparent unconcern. She watched him watch the crowds, a young lion waiting to spring a cage he could get out of at any time he pleased, just as soon as he got around to it. After dinner, perhaps.

  “It never seems to end, does it?” His tone wasn’t weary, as hers might have been—it was bored. But that was Julien: perpetually calm, and at a cool distance. He was not an easy man to know, or to get close to. In other words, like Vincent.

  “I understand their position,” Tara agreed, returning her attention to the satellite feed. “What I don’t get is why they won’t let Vincent help them. Why don’t they see what the Underground is doing?”

  Julien, Stephen and Tara, among others, had all been rescued by the resources and foresight of Vincent Dante, though no one else had risen quite so high in his ranks. She watched her former fellow denizens of the Central Park Shanties with frustration and faint, albeit guilty, smugness. Vincent had chosen Tara and Stephen to help save his city. Seen their worth and claimed them for his own.

  Julien’s tone took on a hint of indulgence. “Of course. I sometimes forget you were one of them, once.”

  Tara didn’t avert her attention from the video. “I never will.”

  “No, I imagine not.” She startled when his warm hand cupped her bare upper arm. He rarely touched her, unless they were sparring. “Come. Tonight you are an empress, and there are people eager to pay their respects. Shall we enjoy ourselves, deciding whom makes our guest list in future?”

  Tara smiled back, amused out of her annoyance. “Plotting against our ‘allies for a better New York’?”

  “Always.” Now Julien’s charming smile turned feral. “Serves them right for being cowards, and sheep into the bargain. Let’s watch them scrape for the privilege of our regard.”

  By the time Vincent arrived with the always pristinely put-together Gwen at his side, everyone was on tenterhooks as to what he would say. Not even Tara was in on the secret, nor Julien. Gwen was certainly behind it, and only Stephen might have a hint, as he was responsible for the technology behind tonight’s event.

  Tara took her place off to one side with Stephen and his tablet. Gwen, so elegant in her deep-plum gown and matching killer stilettos, auburn hair and glamour makeup so precise she appeared almost clinical, stood with them. Few knew exactly what Gwen did for Vincent, though there were plenty of suspicions.

  Tara knew the truth. She knew, because from the day Vincent brought her to the Tower, she had been trained by Gwen. Vincent was her benefactor and savior; Gwen was her mentor. While Stephen attended private school in upstate New York along with Julien as a scholarship student, Tara had spent her days learning everything Gwen had to teach her. She owed Vincent her life, so she would do anything he asked.

  She knew Vincent had a purpose for her. He just hadn’t told her what it was yet. It seemed to be an unspoken given, however, that Tara was meant to take Gwen’s place one day, when Julien inherited the Foundation.

  Julien stood cool and blond at Vincent’s left hand. If Vincent hadn’t been standing between them, she might not have been able to keep her eyes off him. Looking at the two of them together, one might mistake them for father and son by blood rather than adoption.

  Vincent curled his manicured hands over either side of the podium, the video playing behind and above. Now it was the city’s turn to watch him, to hear what he had to say. Tara hoped it worked, whatever it was. To classify the city as a powder keg would be a gross understatement, equivalent to calling water a bit damp.

  Tara had provided the audience and the venue, Stephen the technology. It was up to Vincent now.

  Surely they would listen.

  They had to listen.

  “My friends,” Vincent began, his tone cultured and patient. “It means the world to me that you agreed to be here tonight. I can only hope you prove equally generous in hearing my plea.”

  Vincent raised his voice slightly over the rustles and murmurs of his audience. A captive one, at this point: the scene playing out as his dramatic backdrop showed the crowd outside the cathedral growing by the moment. As the throng increased in number, its intense interest threatened to tip over into something far more dangerous.

  “New York was once a city vibrant with promise, rich in resources and opportunity for anyone willing to take a risk—I might say, especially for anyone willing to take a risk. It can be again. We have nothing left to lose, and unless a risk is taken, we will have not even that.”

  Thanks to Stephen, the gatherings around the city could see Vincent and his audience and hear every word, via the two-way satellite holographic feed. Only the event’s audience—the displaced, once and future royalty of New York—didn’t realize they were being watched. Tara’s blood buzzed with the knowledge.

  Vincent went on to describe how government conglomerates such as Dreamtech only ever acted in their own interests, how the biosphere had been a cage rather than a shield, keeping everyone from the truth. How, now the biosphere was finally gone, it was time to rebuild.

  “Now,” he finished, “let me show you how.”

  The tables had been arranged around a clear space beneath the cathedral’s open roof. This area became the staging area for Vincent’s vision. A few taps of Stephen’s stylus brought an image of the Statue of Liberty, which reached nearly through the ragged ceiling. Gasps and murmurs rippled throughout the room.

  Half the statue’s face was ground to nothing, ragged cracks breaking the sculptured lines of her gown, tablet broken to pieces with only a small chunk left in her hand. Her raised arm was missing nearly to the elbow, her torch a jagged iceberg in the bay at her shattered feet.

  “As you are no doubt aware, the Dante Foundation has painstakingly worked to restore Lady Liberty to her former glory. If we are to begin again, we need her intact. She is our city’s legacy. She is our legacy.” He paused, smiled. “And here is what she looks like today.”

  Stephen made one final tap beside her. Molten gold emanated from every crack and wound, growing in intensity until the members of the audience seated closest to the image were forced to look away. A final flash made the statue whole, tablet and torch replaced, face restored.

  “One final task remains to complete her restoration,” Vincent said. “The torch cannot be completed without your assistance. New York cannot rally without it. We have a long, arduous path ahead of us. But if you would take a risk, we will shine again.”

  Tara hovered at one end of the nave, waiting for Vincent to find time for her, a flute of champagne in her hand. She was accustomed to hovering
on the perimeter for her benefactor’s attention. Vincent was rarely in residence at the Tower, and busy with business when he was. He’d always found time for her, however—rare hours that were the brightest spots of her new life. So as he circulated the room with Stephen in tow, she bided her time.

  Tara had been trained to a hunter’s patience. She just wasn’t very good at it.

  Julien materialized at her side, swirling a glass of rich brandy she’d made sure was available for him. “We needn’t wait for them,” he said. “He’ll need to charm the lot of them before the night’s done.”

  Tara nodded but didn’t look away, hoping Vincent would give her some sign of being ready for her. Instead, Gwen took Vincent’s arm and smiled at her, cocking her head in a clear signal of release. Tara understood—Vincent would see her at home.

  She supposed she should have resented the dismissal. But Vincent had a great deal of work to be getting on with, and she would do whatever was needed to help him in his cause. So instead of waiting around, she smiled her agreement. “Let’s go.”

  Julien returned her smile, taking the now-lukewarm champagne from her and setting it aside along with his brandy before offering her his arm.

  As soon as they were outside, however, he excused himself to answer his phone and stepped off to one side. Tara occupied herself with adjusting her wrap and studying the throng of people stretched along the opposite side of the street. Some took pictures while others raised protest signs.

  A guard respectfully pulled her out of the open, indicating one of his colleagues should collect Julien, who in the course of his phone call had wandered unthinking onto the steps, his free hand in his pocket.

  Something rippled through the crowd, like a shark fin through ocean waves. Tara’s heart stopped, but not before the crack and flash of that potential violence bearing fruit.

  Julien crumpled even as Tara’s feet were already moving in instinctive panic. A split second after he hit the ground, she tore her gown sliding to his side. All around her, the Dante security detail launched into swift, well-trained action. The crowd broke apart like scattered pool balls, first going ragged at the edges as individuals and small groups disappeared, followed by larger bunches.