Brighid's Flame

by Cate Morgan

  Damn the man, but he was right. “All right. Stop the train.”

  “We’ll get them at the next station, Mr. Dante.”

  A dozen security agents in military gear boarded the train, clearing each car in groups of three. Wide, bright beams of light swept each cabin as the agents consulted satellite photos on their tablets and compared them to each and every passenger, even the ones they weren’t supposed to know about. A palpable patina of fear descended like the rapid fall of dominoes.

  The agents shoved and waded their way through the mass of people and belongings, ignoring the figures squirming corkscrews in their seats, ignoring the whimpers of those they uncovered to get a good look at.

  In a car toward the back, huddled together on a bench packed with belongings behind a partition, their quarry awaited discovery.

  The lead agent quickly called off the search, murmuring into his earpiece. He then approached the couple with care, one booted foot in front of the other, slow but steady and making no sudden movements. He trained his flashlight on them, more and more confident of his find, respectful to the last. “Miss Fitzpatrick? Mr. Saint-John?”

  They didn’t respond, nor did they so much as flinch when the agent reached over and lifted the newsboy hat from Stephen’s head.

  Not Stephen’s head. Nor Tara. The petite girl with the hood of her construction jacket up against the cold blinked curiously at him, a stranger. He swore.

  “Abort,” he said into his comm, nearly spitting the word out as an epitaph. “They’re not here.”

  Twenty minutes later, this proved to be true. Ten minutes after that, the agents were gone and the train once more under way.

  Long before that, however, two figures sans packs and wearing completely different outerwear tiptoed lightly along the roof of the train, climbed stealthily down the back, and disappeared into tunnel shadows until the train was gone.

  Julien’s exquisite, chiseled jaw throbbed from being clenched, first from the anticipation of finding Tara at last, now from acute disappointment.

  “Tell me, Carson.” His exaggerated calm tone suggested someone was ripe for firing in such a way as to put the severe in severance package. “What do you propose we do next?”

  “Search the area they were last seen more thoroughly,” came the prompt, professional response. “And I’m not convinced they weren’t on that train. We should search every nook and cranny of that station, sir.”

  “And then?”

  “Sir?”

  Julien drummed his fingers on his desk with a muted, ominous thumping. “When they are not found after all your efforts? What then?”

  “In my experience, sir, it’s best we rule out the obvious first. If—”

  “Not,” Julien interrupted, “when it comes to Tara Fitzpatrick. Or Gwen, for that matter, and this debacle has her name written all over it.”

  Carson’s brow furrowed in confusion. “I don’t understand, sir. What does Gwen have to do with any of this?”

  The universe was nothing if not a comedian with a flair for timing. At that moment, Agent Carson received a call on his comm unit that changed everything.

  “Well,” Carson said with a little smile that appreciated the irony. “I wouldn’t presume to play ‘good news/bad news’ with you, Mr. Dante, but it seems you were several steps ahead of me.”

  Julien perked up. “Gwen showed up.”

  “It seems so. Nick Santos finally talked—but it appears his all-too convenient divulgence came from her.”

  Julien restrained himself from shooting to his feet, but only just. “She’s leading us to Tara,” he said, thinking out loud. His next question was to Carson. “And just where did he say our girl is going to be, and when?”

  “Liberty Island, tomorrow night.”

  Julien’s eyes had drifted shut, one likely possibility after another scrolling fast in a mental slideshow. Agent Carson’s answer, however, made them spring open again. “Why—”

  He stopped, breath frozen. He could imagine the restored statue, clear as day, only the torch to be completed. Vincent had characteristically fussed over Stephen’s concept drawings and schematics, wanting the new torch to be perfect. He recalled Vincent’s taunt, rejoicing that Tara had been trained to beat Julien, not help him.

  What if the torch was finished? What if Vincent and Gwen had planned the unveiling event, conveniently leaving Tara and himself out of the proverbial loop?

  What if he and Tara and been purposely set against one another—and the unveiling was supposed to serve as stage for Julien’s very public humiliation?

  He considered, briefly, not showing up, ruining all of Vincent’s grand schemes in one fell swoop.

  But why should he? He’d sparred with Tara plenty of times over the years. She was good. He was much, much better. Not even Gwen stood much of a chance against him, brilliant as she was. Besides, she wouldn’t interfere. This was Tara’s fight, and she’d let the girl destroy herself against him to the point of no return.

  Of course, there was still a good chance he could seduce Tara back to his side if she still cared for him. He had to believe she could still be brought back into the fold.

  Getting Tara back alone made it worth the risk.

  Travelling on foot to Bowling Green without their gear hadn’t been easy, or comfortable. Tara and Stephen had been forced to trade their flashlights for outerwear and enough food to get them as far as the Refugee Train stop, having left the bulk of their equipment behind in their escape. Stephen had turned his ankle jumping from the subway roof, slowing them down more than anticipated.

  He’d told her to go on without him. She told him if he made the suggestion one more time, she’d duct tape his mouth shut.

  The searing bright fire that had so surprisingly sprung up between them hadn’t dampened with their predicament, but at this point she could only see so far ahead. She wasn’t so naïve as to think she wouldn’t need him every step of the way—a difficult lesson hard-earned.

  So they huddled together in a corner of the Ellis Island Ferry, even more slow-moving than the train, with the wind whistling harshly in their numb ears and splashing gray-green water on them over the rail. Stephen merely held Tara in his arms, arms and legs knotted with her head wearily on his chest, his head resting atop hers. And thus they made themselves a small cocoon of warmth and privacy.

  Despite the cold and lack of speed, this cozy state of affairs proved short-lived. They joined the throng eager to leave the ferry for the next part of their journey, hands firmly entwined as they endeavored to blend in. The shuffle from ferry to dock to processing center felt to Tara like the interminable shuffle of the damned toward the gates of Hell. She hadn’t quite reached the point of abandoning all hope, but she imagined herself heading there at something less than speed. She clutched Stephen’s hand all the tighter and kept her head down.

  The processing center was packed with people all waiting their turns at the desks and tables lining the walls of the main hall like sentinels. There were sentinels, guards at regular intervals like sharp, jet crystals on a beaded necklace. People seeking to exit the city were camped out with the meager belongings on benches and the floor, wherever space could be had. Occasionally, an administrator type would come along, identify their quarry from the small tablet in their hand, and take them away to some other part of the building. These, Tara gathered, were the few fortunate ones who’d reserved their places ahead of time, either through years of waiting and paperwork or the strategic placement of bribes.

  Tara and Stephen made it through the first checkpoint, their thumbprints bringing up false identities as a young couple seeking a fresh start in a colony in upstate New York—she as a militia transfer and he a skilled engineer. In turn they were given numbers, a small packet of military vouchers, and instructions to find a place to wait, as someone would be with them shortly.

&nbs
p; They traded a small, ironic smile at the sight of the teeming crowds in the main hall. Shortly, perhaps compared to the end of the next millennium. Tara gave an accepting shrug and led the way into the masses. Ellis Island’s conversion to a military border operation did more to hinder the halfhearted efforts of a festival atmosphere than help it. The Hall lacked the determined, if slightly manic, vibe of the Wreckage in Central Park whenever the Foundation trucks made an appearance.

  Tara and Stephen exchanged a few of their vouchers for coffee and sandwiches at a small kiosk awash in bodies, a small island due to fall beneath the sea at any moment. Then they waded their way through the hall until they found a dank, dusty little square of floor to settle on, their backs to a pillar.

  “It’d be nice, wouldn’t it? If it were true?”

  It was the first time they’d spoken to one another since the train. “If what were true?” Tara asked, handing him two creamers for his coffee.

  “Gwen’s background story—a young couple headed north to try their luck at one of the colonies.”

  Tara tried to imagine it. “I guess it’s not too far out of the realm of possibility—you are a trained engineer, after all. And my training could only be described as ‘militia’.”

  Stephen smiled down at her. “Maybe we could still do it, after all this—whatever this is—is over.”

  Tara very carefully removed the plastic lid from her Styrofoam cup. “Leave the city?”

  “Leave Vincent, you mean.” Stephen tried not to sound disappointed. “You don’t think that part of our lives is over?”

  “I honestly haven’t thought that far ahead.” It was true. The idea of anything happening after tomorrow night was beyond her present mental capacity. Leave it to Stephen to consider it simply another beginning. It made her proud, and a little sad, that he had so much faith in her.

  “It’s okay to be angry with them. Gwen and Vincent, I mean.” He gave his coffee an experimental sip, grimaced, and added the last creamer. “They should have told you.”

  She sipped her own coffee by way of stalling. “I’m sure they had their reasons.”

  “I’m sure they did. But it doesn’t change the fact they should have told you.”

  A mere six or seven hours later—Tara lost track, and she wasn’t sure the one available public clock was correct—one of the uniformed administrators found them, escorted by two armed guards. “Mr. and Mrs. Stephen Marshall?”

  Tara startled, still not fully accustomed to being addressed by the cover name the Underground had supplied them. Marshall was Stephen’s real last name, prior to Vincent sponsoring him as a scholarship student at St. John’s Academy instead of formally adopting him as he had Julien. They stood, Tara taking the opportunity to recover from her surprise with as much aplomb as possible.

  Gwen must have established their new identities as a married couple under Stephen’s birth name. No wonder he’d been talking about a fresh start, settling down in a colony somewhere like they were regular people.

  The administrator didn’t appear to notice her fumble. “Follow me, please.”

  They followed, the armed guard carving an efficient path through the crowd until they reached a larger desk with a much smaller, less-travelled group surrounding it. They waited for the family of four currently being seen to pass through the next checkpoint into the public grounds of the base, then stepped forward while their administrator presented their credentials.

  “Mr. Stephen Marshall, engineer. Mrs. Tara Marshall, militia. Northbound.”

  The bald, bored clerk at the desk gave the administrator’s tablet a cursory look. He cocked an interested brow at Tara. “Says here you have formal military training?”

  Tara responded with a curt salute, for the look of the thing. “Private security,” she hazarded. “Dante Foundation.”

  He checked her credentials again. “Ah, yes. Central Park, says here. Can’t say I blame you for wanting out of that particular brand of Hades. Almost as bad as the Bloody Square, if you ask me,” he said with the solid confidence of a man who had never been to either place. “Well, Mr. and Mrs. Marshall. I recommend you try Ithaca Colony. I know the commanding officer there could make valuable use of your skills in their rebuilding efforts.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He nodded and waved them on their way. “Next.”

  The administrator took them through the checkpoint and into the base, pointing out areas of interest as they walked along the neat paths. If possible, it was even colder here than it had been on the ferry, and windier besides. “Commissary,” he pointed out. “Med Bay, next to the official hospital.” They stopped in front of a large, brick building. “Transition Dormitories. Be ready to leave at a moment’s notice, or you risk losing your spot.” He pointed up at the PA speakers, on high poles dotted along the walkways. “You’re in Gold Group.”

  Stephen pulled out the dingy yellow labels buried within the wad of vouchers for approval. The administrator gave them a nod, and marched away with his guards. She watched him leave, feeling the weight of the world—or at least one city of it—pressing down around them.

  Tara couldn’t see the Statue from here. Perhaps it was better that way.

  Chapter Seven

  They came for her in the middle of the night.

  Unable to sleep, she and Stephen lay pressed together under the meager covers of a narrow cot, in a long room of other crowded bunk beds and sleeping forms on the floor, using their belongings as pillows. Tara crowded against Stephen’s warmth, letting his steady heartbeat drown her ears, while he wrapped his arms around her and tried to pass the time reading by the streetlamp shining its weak light through a dust-filmed window.

  Snores filled the eerie dark, interspersed by the occasional muffled weeping and quickly hushed sigh. Tara pressed to the thin layers of Stephen’s shirt, and tried to pretend she was anywhere else. Mostly, she tried not to dwell on the fight to come.

  Stephen must have sensed her anxiety. He read to her, as she had read to him in their leaky shanty and he’d laid in bed too ill to read for himself. She listened to his night-rough voice and rhythmic cadences of Romeo and Juliet. Better that, she mused, drifting on a gentle dark sea, than Julius Caesar.

  He whispered the words against the crown of her head, murmured them more softly still, warming her chill temple as he brushed her hair back. His hand slid beneath her silken hair, cool, stale air drifting across her neck. He tilted her head slightly, so she would open her eyes and look at him.

  “‘She doth teach the torches to burn bright’,” he finished, and kissed her.

  Tara’s body filled with liquid heat, as though the sun had unexpectedly burned its way through the open window above them. Her hand clenched tighter in Stephen’s sweater, pulling him with her as she shifted onto her back. He gave a muffled sound of surprise, followed by a deep growl of satisfaction.

  Having found the path to forgetting, Tara hurtled forward, heedless of potential danger. Her legs curled and tangled with Stephen’s, her hands burrowing beneath layers of blanket and fabric until they found his warm, strong, bare back. He reflexively pressed harder into her, deepening the kiss until their tongues entwined. His book fell from their one pillow to the floor with a dull thud.

  Light flooded over them, startling them apart like guilty teenagers. Breathing hard from both surprise and racing adrenaline, they turned away from the blinding light. Sleepy snarls protested from all around them.

  The light flickered off as abruptly as it appeared. “It’s her.” The voice sounded amused.

  “Miss Fitzpatrick, you need to come with us.”

  Tara’s heart pounded painfully in her chest as she unwound herself from Stephen and got to her feet. Her muscles trembled slightly.

  “Not him,” the one in charge hissed, as Stephen gathered their belongings.

  “Where she goes I go,” Ste
phen snapped back, still slightly out of breath.

  “And if he stays, I stay,” Tara added, groping for his hand in the dark.

  The voice swore unintelligibly. “We don’t have for this. Come on, then—both of you.”

  They picked their way over bodies and belongings in the dark, Tara guiding Stephen along behind her because she refused to relinquish his hand. They finally made it into the milky light of the corridor beyond, where they quickened their pace to a near-run. The voices, Tara found, belonged to two men in the military uniform of the Island.

  They took Tara and Stephen outside and through the compound, wind and water surrounding them like a solid wall. They reached the military port where a boat awaited them, manned by more Ellis Island military. Despite bone-rattling cold, Tara felt as though she were burning through her clothes with fever.

  They climbed aboard, earning frowns at Stephen’s presence, followed by accepting shrugs all around.

  “She did say they wouldn’t be separated,” the one in charge pointed out, sounding annoyed and proving Gwen’s influence behind this mad escape.

  The boat made quick work of the harbor, south to Liberty Island. Tara gripped the railing and stared as the statue came into full view. “It’s finished?”

  Stephen grinned at her. “Surprise. It was supposed to be unveiled tonight in a big to-do. I was going to show it to you privately, before the party.”

  Despite her worry, Tara filled with pride. Stephen—her Stephen—had restored the Statue of Liberty. At Vincent’s instruction, sure—but she knew he’d done it for her.

  Lady Liberty shone copper bright again, the sea air not yet having time to provide its signature green patina over the metal. Her torch raised high over the harbor once more. There was hope there, just as there’d been the first time she’d seen it as a child, before the Bloody Square. She felt it again now, joining her pride for Stephen until tears stung her eyes. Whatever doubts she may have harbored in regards to her feelings for Stephen were whisked away in the howling wind as they turned wide with the current on their approach to the island. She loved him, fully and truly.