by Cate Morgan
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.
Other Books
Check out these titles from speculative ink:
AIKA (Keepers of the Flame: Origins #1)
BRIGHID’S CROSS (Keepers of the Flame #1)
CALLIE (Keepers of the Flame: Origins #2)
BRIGHID’S MARK (Keepers of the Flame #2)
TARA (Keepers of the Flame: Origins #3)
BRIGHID’S FLAME (Keepers of the Flame #3)—Forthcoming March 2015
Or, Enjoy the romance of new beginnings with the Heart Linked line:
THE LADY TENNANT (Waking Muse #1)
HEARTH & HOME (Waking Muse #2)
FALLEN ANGEL (Waking Muse #3)
About The Author
Cate Morgan hails from a long line of Irish 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 familial obligations by foisting her stories on an unsuspecting public.
She resides in Florida with her long-suffering, supportive husband, gators in the backyard, and two resident Ninja Katz underfoot.
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