Brighid's Flame (8 page)

He grabbed her by the throat and squeezed, slamming her hard against the wall. Her arms were too short to reach his face or torso with her knives, so she went for his hands. He slammed her head so hard against the bricks she thought she heard her own skull crack. Miniscule pebbles of mortar rained down behind her, achingly loud with slowed time and breath.

The slick steel knives tumbled from her hands. She tried to claw his fingers away, to find escape from the crushing blackness, and could not. He slammed her one last time, and she sank unwillingly into unconsciousness. The hands from her throat dropped. She fell, and continued to fall. Her head was yanked back by her hair, the touch of cold steel pressed against her neck, and she knew no more. Darkness closed in over her.

Tara awoke in a dark, empty place. Her throat burned, along with every pinprick and cut piercing her skin. She discerned no temperature to speak of, or even air current. It was all eerily still, like a room pregnant with inevitable explosion. She could sense no walls, or ceiling, or floor, for that matter, though she was apparently laying on it.

She should be more worried, she decided, in a distant sort of way. Instead she found herself bemused, in the manner of the recently concussed.

“She's coming around.”

Tara's eyes snapped open. She knew that voice. Hell, she was
pissed
at that voice. “Gwen?”

A cool hand cradled her cheek, and Gwen's lovely, smiling face filled her immediate vision. “Tara. What happened?”

“I ran out of snappy comebacks.” Tara pushed herself upright, head swimming. “You should have told me. Earlier, I mean. It would have saved an awful lot of trouble. Where are we?”

Instead of taking offense, Gwen turned her smile on someone standing behind her. “You see what I've been dealing with.”

“Indeed I do. She reminds me of you, at that age.” This woman's voice was rich, full of laughter and musically lilted with long vowels and short consonants. The entire place—whatever it was—hummed with her presence.

Gwen helped Tara to her feet.

The other woman exited shadow, bringing what light there was with her. Her hair, a strange mixture of gold, brown, and red, curled nearly to her knees. Her eyes were neither blue, or brown, or green, but all these colors and more, all at once. Tara immediately thought
Queen…Empress…Goddess…
and fought the urge to drop to genuflect as though she were in church.

Hell, she didn't even genuflect
in
church.

“Tara, this is Brighid,” Gwen told her. “She's…well, not what we are, exactly. But she is the reason for it, and the source of our power.”

Strangely, Brighid's gown provided no hint of color in this empty place, other than a flicker of firefly movement along swirling seams as she moved forward to get a good look at Tara. A slender finger tilted Tara's head up in deep interest, a Mona Lisa smile on her lovely face.

Tara could not look away from Brighid's utterly changeable, mesmerizing eyes. Before she quite knew it was happening, a rush of knowledge and memories flooded Tara's mind: Her mother, taking Tara's hand as they left the Times Square subway station just before the first bombs hit. Further back, her mother as a child, exploring a stone circle on the outskirts of someone's property in…Ireland? Her mother had been born there.

The images began to race and unravel like a pulled thread. More women, more girls, sudden, intermittent bursts of light—all leading to this woman. Brighid.

“Goddess,” Tara breathed, and only realized she spoke out loud when the other woman's laughter brought her back to the present.

“Your ancestors—my antecedents—did not worship gods,” Brighid explained, “but those of us who stand between gods and man, and the champions who performed feats in our honor. We are the
Tuatha du Danaan:
timeless, ageless, and with much to do before the apocalypse ushers in a new era of evolution. Humanity is in grave danger from being caught between the armies of good and evil, and there are those who would annihilate humans completely from the Earth. It is my responsibility, with assistance of my champions, to protect them as much as possible in the coming days.”

Again, Tara remembered that day when the first attacks reached the city. “Did…did my mother know?” she asked.

“Your mother was one of us, though she had not ascended, as you are now. She was always drawn to the stone circle on her family's property, though she never knew why.” Brighid said sadly. “Her unexpected loss was deeply mourned in the Tír. But I'm relieved her bloodline proved true. More Keepers of my Flame than I care to admit have already been lost, and the fight has not yet truly begun.”

“Bloodline?” Tara managed to sputter out.

“Yes,” Brighid said, with fierce pride. “Mine. Come.” Her cool hand threaded Tara's, leading her off into the dark empty. Tara looked back at Gwen, who nodded encouragement.

The empty spun, disorienting as an off-balance merry-go-round in a midnight playground. Tara felt the contents of her stomach slosh in menacing fashion, days full of bad coffee and uncertain processed food following years of the high-quality, good and fresh.

If I toss my giblets all over a goddess,
Tara reflected,
I will never, in all my life, live it down.

Following on the heels of this horrified realization her giblets were, in fact, going to be tossed, came an abrupt flooding of light, sound, and smell into her world. So startled by the overload of sensation, her stomach completely forgot to be sick.

Stunning, world-spinning height. Rushing wind, and the laughter of a goddess or a saint, Tara couldn't decide which.

She slammed her eyes shut. Once sound and smell had been duly catalogued and adjusted to, only then did she creak one eye open at a time.

And caught her breath at the view. Blue-green water for miles around, shrunken buildings across the harbor, and an endless, golden swath of land past the horizon, clear, summer-blue sky overhead with the fluffy white clouds she couldn't recall seeing since she was a little girl. She grasped the sun-warmed steel railing in both hands and basked in it.

She turned to look behind her, but the view was blocked by a massive, stylized flame, elegant in its mathematical precision. That was when she realized she was atop the Statue of Liberty's torch—the new one, Stephen's fantastical design. She ran her hands over the metal bands and intricate filigree, pride welling up within her.

“He is the mind of a generation—with the soul of a poet.”

Tara turned to Brighid. “He's magnificent,” she agreed, tone reflecting her wonderment. “And he is mine.”

Brighid didn't answer, running her own hands, eerily like Gwen's, over the flame with evident pleasure. “Only he could have seen this—seen it, and realized it. A man of his taste and talents are highly regarded by our kind, for good reason. Come, feel this.”

Tara placed her hand over what she'd thought was a bronze wash to the glass, lent heat by the sun. Instead, the golden glow pulsed, faint at first, but growing as though, sensing her, it lay on the brink of awakening.

“This is what lies inside you,” Brighid told her. “With it, you can protect Stephen. You can protect them all. You can give them the time they need to rebuild their lives. Your light is as weak as this, but it grows stronger with every heartbeat.”

Tara swallowed. “I'm dying, aren't I?”

Brighid nodded. “If you weren't, you wouldn't have made it this far. Your sacrifice brought you here, to me. Your mother never got the choice. But now comes the time of making yours. You can accept your death, accept your humanity—or you can transcend it, and guard theirs.”

“What's the catch?” Tara wanted to know.

Brighid tucked Tara's hair behind her ear, maternal and everlasting. “Nothing will ever be the same again. However, I will allow you to keep one thing—one, only.”

Tara didn't hesitate. “Stephen. I want Stephen.”

Brighid cocked her head. “Anyone else might have sacrificed love to see evil defeated. Or kept a powerful patron, a cunning teacher.”

Tara shook her head, silken hair falling before her face once more.

Brighid's smile stretched into a pleased grin. “Well done.”

The torch's glow pulsed strong enough to bend the glass against Tara's hands. An answering pulse within her pressed against the insides of her chest, pooled heat in her guts. A second pulse took her breath away, choked it from her throat.

The third blasted her from that place, off the ledge and into the blue-green-gold-black void. She had just enough time to register Lady Liberty bore a striking resemblance to Brighid before the empty swallowed her whole once more.

This time, when Tara creaked an eye open, all she discerned was pain. Her brain beat a tribal rhythm in her aching skull, while various cuts and bruises lined up to voice their own complaints. In the blurred distance, two figures struggled. A familiar voice cried out, carrying panic through her bloodstream to her dulled synapses. Fortunately, her muscles seemed to be working without need of mental commands. She scrabbled on the floor for a slim bit of metal forgotten among the diamond shards of glass.

“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.”