Brighid's Flame

by Cate Morgan

  “Let him go,” she said, voice hoarse but steady. The figures began to coalesce into recognition as she slowly, painstakingly, got to her feet.

  Julien recovered from his surprise quickly, pressing one of Tara’s knives to Stephen’s throat. Stephen’s jade eyes begged her take no chances and neutralize the Dante heir.

  “You’re more resilient than I anticipated,” Julien observed. A trickle of blood coursed its way down Stephen’s throat.

  Tara stumbled, pressed her palm against first one eye, then another, trying to force them to focus. “Yes,” she agreed. “You really should have checked to see if I was dead.”

  “The funny thing is,” Julien replied, “I did.”

  All she saw were Stephen’s eyes, shining like Lady Liberty from across the harbor, as distinctive and full of hope. All she had was one chance to get it right.

  She exhaled. “Well, you know,” she said, damping down the pulsing, growing heat inside her as an unnecessary distraction. “Secrets.”

  Her arm lashed out, wrist flicking.

  Her aim was low, and off center. But good enough.

  Julien dropped Stephen, tumbling away from him as Tara’s second dagger lodged hilt-deep in his side. If she were lucky, she’d nicked a kidney in the process.

  She couldn’t keep the heat banked any longer. Between her throbbing head and the growing light, she cried out and fell against a nearby display case. The rhythmic tromp of booted feet did nothing for her predicament. Neither did the voice that followed it.

  “Pick him up,” Vincent ordered. “Put him somewhere safe until I can deal with him. And spread the word Mr. Dante is no longer employed by us.”

  A hand, familiar and loved, but beyond unwelcome, curled around her shoulder. “Tara?” Vincent’s voice was soft with worry.

  She threw him off with a growl, focused on the flare of heat currently eating her alive from within. “Stephen,” she gasped. Her face in the glass was pale and frightened. “I need Stephen.”

  “Are you—”

  A fire-breathing pulse nearly overtook her. She cried out again, and braced herself against the onslaught. The next pulse nearly knocked her to her feet.

  Her fist smashed through the glass, a million tiny, eye-searing shards.

  The next hand on her shoulder was Stephen’s. She sagged into his arms with relief. “What’s happening to me?”

  Vincent answered, though not directly. “Get her to the torch. No, there’s no time for that. The one here.”

  “I’ve got you,” Stephen said, carrying her. A moment’s jarring movement as he climbed, hands-free, over the railing to the torch in the center of the room.

  Out of some unknown instinct, she pressed her palms into metal and glass, curved and bumpy beneath her touch. Stephen continued to hold her, even when the next pulse dropped her to her knees. “Stephen.” His name escaped her in a whimper.

  “I won’t let go, I promise.” He adjusted her in his arms so he cradled her like a child, her hands still pressed flat against the torch, temple against the cool surface. To Vincent, he demanded, “What’s happening to her? She’s boiling.”

  She was, from the inside out. Her hands turned to claws as the next wave, the final wave, built up to tsunami proportions. She just wanted it to be over.

  And then it was.

  To an outside observer, it looked as though the sun came in low over the horizon. Golden light threaded through every seam and crevice of Lady Liberty, flooding over the façade. Golden light pooled at the base, filled the hexagonal roof of Fort Wood, reached the ground. It stayed there a moment, gathering strength.

  Light shot out in every direction, flooding the landscape as far as the horizon, and beyond. It crawled like molasses up the statue’s upraised arm, and set the torch ablaze.

  And then it was, well and truly, over.

  Peace.

  Cool, quiet, uninterrupted peace. At last.

  Except—

  “I love you,” a voice whispered, over and over again. “I love you.” Warm, soft lips dotted her brow. Shaking, gentle hands smoothed the hair from her face.

  Her brow furrowed. “Stephen?” She gasped in protest as arms tightened about her painfully. They loosened just enough for her regain her breath. Forcing her eyes open proved to be a challenge, but well worth the effort.

  “You’re alive?” Green eyes stared down at her, long lashes shades of onyx.

  Tara felt the back of her head, wincing at the goose egg awaiting her tentative touch. “People really need to start checking for a pulse before jumping to conclusions.”

  Stephen’s embrace tightened once more, and then he stole her breath with a kiss.

  Epilogue

  A few days later found a recovered Tara staring up at the newsfeed above the pulpit at St. John’s with a smile. Apparently, her little performance had stirred up quite the controversy in the streets of New York. Not everyone had an explanation, but, being New Yorkers, all gave voice to their opinions.

  She was going to miss it.

  Julien had escaped, but Tara was the only one not surprised. Vincent made familiar noises about putting together a team Tara would head. Any other day, Tara would have accepted such commission as her duty and honor.

  Today, in the nicest possible terms, she’d told him “no”.

  Then she packed a bag with the few things that belonged to her, and left.

  “Where will you go?” Vincent wanted to know, as she waited for Stephen’s appearance in the Dante residence foyer.

  “Stephen and I have tickets and the savings to try our luck north. Ithaca, maybe. Mostly, we’re going to play it by ear.”

  “Are you sure I can’t help?”

  Tara shook her head, folding a warm coat over her arm. “I appreciate all you’ve done, never think I don’t. But things have changed. Everything’s changed. And I have to learn to cope on my own.”

  “Not quite on your own,” Stephen pointed out, strolling in with a smile and his own pack.

  Tara smiled back. “No, never that.” She hugged Vincent, something she would never have dared initiate on her own before. “I’ll return when the city needs me. Until then, I have a life to live.

  “Before you go, Gwen left you something.” Vincent removed a long object from his desk and handed to her with both hands and a smile.

  Tara took the sheath from him, and slid the simple but lethal blade from its case. Something in her clicked, became complete. She knew, instinctively, that Gwen had only been the messenger—the giver had been Brighid. This was the weapon Tara had been trained to wield. That, and the light still abating within her.

  As though in answer to her imagination, Stephen walked up the center aisle, belongings in hand. “Ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be. Arrangements check out?”

  Stephen quirked a smile, though she couldn’t immediately tell if it was from the newsfeed overhead or in answer to her question. “It seems our resources have increased,” he said. “Severance from Vincent. Think he’ll find Julien without you or Gwen?”

  Tara shrugged. “Probably. Either way, he’ll be back and we’ll be ready.” She smiled up at him. “On to the next adventure?”

  Stephen held his hand out to her. “Lead the way.”

  About the Author

  Cate Morgan hails from a long line of storytellers and musicians, so it came as no surprise to her mother when she taught herself to read from the back of cereal boxes at the ripe age of three. Now she’s fulfilling her family obligations by foisting her own stories on an unsuspecting public.

  She resides in Florida with her long-suffering, if supportive, husband, gators in the backyard and two resident Ninja Katz underfoot.

  Author site/blog: www.catemorgan.com (rum drink recipes welcome)

  Facebook: www.facebook.com/pages/Cate-Morgan

 
; Goodreads: www.goodreads.com/author/show/5139662.Cate_Morgan

  Twitter: @typemonkeytype

  Look for these titles by Cate Morgan

  Now Available:

  Keepers of the Flame

  Brighid’s Cross

  Brighid’s Mark

  One chance for survival, and everyone’s rolling the dice. Even the gods.

  Brighid’s Mark

  © 2014 Cate Morgan

  Keepers of the Flame, Book 2

  Callie Trevelyan, Keeper of the Flame, has a reputation as a highly effective demon hunter. So the SOS from New Orleans isn’t a surprise. What is? The news her mentor has been murdered. Keepers are nearly impossible to kill—Callie has the scars to prove it.

  An even bigger surprise: her partner in the hunt for the murderer is Marked, like her, as a champion.

  In two centuries of protecting Crescent City from supernatural threats and answering the occasional summons of the Loa, Liam Byrne thought he’d seen everything—until Callie and her entourage take over his life. Their hunt for the demonic killer leads them on a Crossroads journey to betrayals, Otherworld intrigue and, eventually, each other.

  But the Demon patiently awaits Callie’s arrival on the battlefield. Callie is ready and willing, but there’s just one problem: Brighid’s Flame, the source of her power, is every bit as missing as Eva’s soul. And as the full truth unfolds, Callie realizes she’s in for the fight of her life.

  If she’s lucky, winning will only cost her everything.

  Warning: Contains magical tattoos, angsty demon hunters, tricksy Loa, smokin’ hot…jazz…in the Big Easy, and rum. Lots of rum.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for Brighid’s Mark:

  Liam and Donal stood side by side in an empty intersection outside the city, watching the haze of humidity stretch its lazy reach over the skyline. Old, unmaintained asphalt glittered dully in the mellow moonlight, while the gleam of broken glass spoke to the frequent occupation of transients. A forlorn bit of plastic bumped and scraped its way across the lot. Expectancy filled the air, adding to the already overwhelming humidity.

  Donal pushed his spine from a crumbling cement wall, which was covered in a chaotic patchwork of graffiti. “It must be close to time by now. We’ll need a focal point.”

  Liam’s eyebrows lifted. “Focal point?”

  Donal held out an expectant hand. “Something small will do. I don’t have anything that will work, not here.”

  Curious, Liam pulled the ring off his finger and passed it over.

  Donal hefted it experimentally. “That should do’er.” He struck out into the empty intersection, gauging by some secret set of criteria only he was privy to. Liam followed.

  Donal flung Liam’s ring high into the air. It stuck at its highest apex with a ping, a small earthbound star. Its light expanded and brightened, followed by a deafening roar. Liam shielded his eyes.

  Donal tackled him to the ground as a beat up blue van screamed out of nowhere. It screeched to a halt, back end swinging. It rocked on its axles and gently steamed as the metal cooled. After a moment, the passenger side door creaked open. From his prone position, Liam watched boots land on the pavement.

  “You always overshoot it,” a drawling male voice observed, as a matter of interest. The driver reached through the open window to unlatch the door from the outside.

  “It’s not an exact science,” his passenger pointed out, slamming her door.

  Liam leveraged himself upright. His left arm throbbed where he’d landed. After a moment spent recapturing his breath, Liam circled the front of the van.

  What he saw was Donal being embraced by a woman taller than the mid-sized Irishman, with a mass of wild raspberry and russet hair more or less anchored to the back of her head and a figure appropriate for the ranks of the valkyrie. The skin on Liam’s arms and the back of his neck tingled, something at his core resonating with an eerie sense recognition.

  Donal stepped back from the woman, hands on her arms. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but we lost a Keeper.”

  She stilled. “Tell me it isn’t—

  “Eva. I’m so sorry.”

  She pulled away, voice shaking. “She was one of the oldest.”

  “There’s someone who can help us figure out what happened.” Donal beckoned Liam forward. “This is Liam. Liam, Callie.”

  “Donny says we should talk.” Callie had the eyes of a lioness, tawny hazel and brimming with predatory curiosity.

  It was a little off-putting, those eyes, but in a way that turned his insides to warm honey. The feeling of recognition increased, déjà vu coming to fruition.

  Liam cleared his throat and proffered his hand. “I’m sorry about Eva. She was a colleague, of sorts.”

  When he slid his hand into hers, a strange thing happened. His throbbing arm turned to wildfire, exquisite hot pain raging from hand to shoulder. In that moment, he would have gladly cut it off.

  He hit the ground. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe. He could only hurt.

  Solid weight landed next to him. He shied away from the warm hand reaching for his neck.

  “Settle down, darlin’.” Callie pressed her palm against his jugular, and some of the pain dissipated. He sucked in a lung full of precious air…and immediately started coughing.

  She ripped apart the buttons on his tailored shirt, damaging it beyond repair. Her spicy sweet scent of ginger tempered by clean wind and rain washed over him. “He’s Marked.” Her eyes flickered up to meet his, the corner of her mouth quirking upward in bemusement. “Well, well.”

  “Marked?” Donal cocked his head at Liam, thoroughly unfazed by his new contact’s current predicament.

  “It seems so, though these are unlike any Marks I’ve ever seen.” She laid her hand over the geometric maze pattern on his chest, partially covered by his undershirt. “Now. Look at me with those gorgeous dark eyes of yours and breathe with me.”

  Everyone has a breaking point.

  Fading Light

  © 2014 Angela Dennis

  Shadow Born, Book 2

  Her hundred-year penance lifted, Shadow Bearer Brenna Baudouin returns to the Earthly plane with her partner, Gray Warlow, to keep the peace between humans and supernatural creatures—and to prevent another apocalyptic war from happening.

  The attraction between them is nearing a critical point, but their checkered history has left Brenna unable to trust either her heart or her instincts.

  It’s chaotic business as usual until humans begin turning to statues of dust. There is no explanation, no sign of magical foul play or a biological toxin. The humans are convinced it’s the work of a deviant supernatural faction, twisting the knife in the already tense relationship between their species. Brenna and Gray agree—the deaths have a former comrade-turned-rogue stamped all over them.

  In a race against time, they enlist the help of both friend and foe to save the human race and stop the impending civil war. Along the way, they are forced to come to terms with their past and decide, once and for all, whether they will come together or fall apart.

  Warning: Contains a heroine who knows her weapons but not her own heart, an outbreak of supernatural proportions, copious bloodletting, and a race to save an endangered species—humans. All tied up in a tight bow of sexual tension.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for Fading Light:

  Darkness embraced Brenna like a thick wool blanket. It wrapped around her, blocking the dim lamplight as she walked toward the seedy bar. Glass residue from the riots crunched beneath her leather boots. Mixed with snow, the bits of broken beer bottles and smashed windows glittered like an army of broken icicles. She breathed deeply, inhaling the cool night air. It smelled of sour beer and clove cigarettes and left a bitter taste on her tongue.

  Shadows embraced the sides of the stone structure that
housed the Dirty Ruby, one of the few multi-species bars in Denver proper. They stalked across the snow and mixed with the night to merge into a black mass. From its midst stepped a man. Well over six feet, he moved with grace in contrast to his size. The moonlight played across his face, highlighting his chiseled features.

  Brenna’s pulse quickened and she took an involuntary step forward. Self-conscious, she ran a hand through her copper curls, freeing them from the careless bun. The thick strands streamed down her back like fire as she moved, her breath coming in quick harsh bursts. She slipped off her black leather duster and draped it across her arm. Without it the tight black corset left her taut belly and back exposed, but she didn’t feel the cold. She never did around Gray.

  “Four demons. Thirty humans. Keep the casualties to a minimum.” Brenna brushed past him, tossing him her coat. “I’ll bring them out. You send them back to hell.”

  “Hell?” Gray grinned. His teeth gleamed in the moonlight. “You speak human now?”

  She shrugged. “When in Rome.”

  Her back to him, she turned toward the freshly white-washed door. But before she could move, he had her shoulder in a vise grip. His fingers twined in the hair at the base of her skull. His breath hot against her cheek. “I know your other partners let you boss them around.” He turned her to face him. “I’m not them.”

  He stepped forward, forcing her back. They moved in an awkward dance until her ass hit the stone wall. Trapped, she stared at him, wary. A shadow fell across his face hiding all but his piercing violet eyes.

  “We enter together. Once they’re dead, we leave.” He stepped back, loosening his hold.

  “The humans—”

  “Won’t remember a thing.” He crushed his lips to hers even as he slid the duster across her shoulders. “And I’m not your coat rack.” Releasing her, he stepped back.