by Cate Morgan
She turned away, almost blushing. And when was the last time that had happened? “Is this all Brendan’s case?”
“I wish. I'm afraid I didn't find much.” His voice deepened to a growl, and his eyes flashed. “Hang on.”
She pivoted in time for him to take the drink from her hand and set it firmly aside. “What is it?”
“Turn back around,” he snarled.
Confused, she complied. She yiped when he lifted the hem of her tank top. And if she didn’t blush, she certainly wasn’t one to squeak like a cathedral mouse. “What?” she repeated.
“Hold still.”
With her shirt bunched up under her breasts, he turned her this way and that. He prodded one of her bruises. “Ow. Ow!” She danced out of his reach, pulling her shirt back down.
“How many ribs did you break?” he demanded, as though she’d personally done him a serious wrong.
She huffed and retrieved her drink, trying not to wince. “I don’t know. Two, maybe? I was already half-healed when I came to.”
“And the scars?” He prowled around her, gaze moving up and down as he cataloged every injury.
Now she was well and truly annoyed. “What scars?”
“Your back,” he gritted through his teeth, “looks like you’ve been flogged for mutiny.”
And her morale was nowhere near improving. She tried to twist around to view her own back, and only ended up circling round for her trouble. “Maybe that’s where all the blood came from.”
He looked at her as if she’d gone mad. “Your arms aren’t much better, though they seem to be healing faster. Where else are you hurt?” He took her shoulders to stop her spinning.
“Everywhere, alright?” What did he expect? “I fight. I get hurt. I heal. Rinse and repeat. What more do you want?”
He looked into her eyes. “Tell me straight: Are you human?”
She blew a strand of hair from her face. “Mostly.”
He continued to study her, his mouth a grim, thin line as he searched her gaze. Then he let her go. “I have a feeling I’m going to need another drink. Hell, I’ll bring the bottle.”
She gulped half her drink before he could take it from her again and plopped down on his couch. “Got any food?”
He tore open the icebox door. “No,” he said, and slammed it shut. “I’ll get some—after you explain one or two things.”
It would have to do. “Where should I start?”
He perched on the edge of the coffee table, and poured himself a hefty drink. “Start with the immortality thing. I think that’s what’s giving me the most trouble.” He set the bottle aside, and waited.
She raised a brow. “Sure about that? Fine,” she said when he scowled. “But I’m going to have to go back a ways.”
He waved at her to continue. “I’ve got all night, sweetheart.But if we’re going to find out what happened to Brendan, then I need to know. Everything.”
She sat back against the cushions and took on an almost singsong tone. “A millennium or so ago, pre-Roman era, a small temple was built in the middle of Ireland. And in that temple a fire was built in a cauldron, and that fire never went out. Until briefly, in contemporary times, when the temple was moved. Nineteen priestesses took turns protecting and tending the fire, and it was said no man was ever able to cross its threshold. Plenty tried, all failed. But after all, it was the quest of men to search for such things. Everlasting Flames. Holy Grails."
She paused as he refilled her glass, then continued in a normal voice. "In reality it wasn’t really men who were rebuffed, but anyone with harm in their hearts. The temple belonged to Brighid, and the women weren’t priestesses but warriors. Champions. They were called Keepers of the Flame.” She stopped, gauging his reaction.
“I’m with you,” he said. “Go on.”
“One of them was my ancestor,” she explained. “And they were descended directly from Brighid. So, in essence…”
He made the leap. “Wait a minute. You’re descended from a goddess?”
“The Celts didn’t have gods,” she explained patiently. “They revered their champions, and the race of powerful humans that came before, the Tuatha de Danaan. Meta humans, I suppose you could call them. Not deities. Not modern humans. Just different, and powerful. Evolved.”
His mouth opened and shut as he tried to come to terms with this startling information. “And this is what makes you immortal?”
She shook her head. “The bloodline makes it possible, but it only starts there. But you have to be called to it. My ancestors have all gone through history since then, perfectly ordinary, living their lives. I was perfectly ordinary, until the war. A few of my fellow Keepers are much older than I, or so Brendan told me. There’s one in New Orleans who Ascended back in the 1920s.”
“What, then?” he asked, putting his untouched drink aside.
“I sacrificed my life for others,” she said quietly, staring into her own drink. “For my unit. I gave my loyalty to Brighid, to humanity, and became...this." She shrugged and drank.
He released a shaky exhale. “So you can die.”
She gave a crooked smile. “It’s not easy. But ‘immortal’ isn’t the same as ‘invulnerable’. The more times I Ascend, the more powerful I'll get—and the harder it will be." She finished her drink. "I’ve only done it the first time, during the war. But the immortality only kicks in if I give my life to save others. If I don’t dodge a runaway truck in time, I’m toast. And doomed for mortal embarrassment when my soul arrives in the Tir and my ancestors ask ‘So, how’d you die, then?’ ”
He suppressed a smile, one that brought his scar into prominence. “Where does Brendan come in?”
“He was there when I was brought in. Shell shocked, half my unit gone, and no idea what hit us. Apparently, I behaved…oddly. Berserk. No one could figure out how I survived. But Brendan had a theory, especially as the only thing I remembered was a conversation with a woman in a dark void who told me I was hers. He gave me that sword, said it had been found with me.” She nodded in the direction of her sheathed weapon, leaning against the side of the couch. “It all sort of clicked when I held it. It felt right, the way nothing else had in my life.”
He was looking at the ceiling now, in the way of a man who was putting together a mental puzzle. “Desmond has been saying the apocalypse is coming. He’s right, isn’t he?”
She nodded. “Some might say it’s already here, at least the beginning stages. The forces of good and evil populating the Earth, recruiting for their sides. Humanity beginning to evolve, some of us becoming more in preparation. Keepers aren’t the only champions coming out of the woodwork. Brendan was working on figuring it all out.”
Alex leaned forward, looking at her intently. “You need to know…the demon inside me won’t hurt you.”
She gave him a pitying smile. “Of course it won’t,” she said, as though he hadn’t just been listening to her story. “Why do you think Keepers of the Flame exist?”
He looked at her for a long time. Finally, his clamped jaw softened, and the glint left his eyes. “Okay,” he said, and Cara felt they’d come to some sort of accord. “What can you tell me about what Brendan was working on? I can’t make heads or tails of it.”
“He was collecting—information, mainly. But objects as well.” She went to his work tables, sifting through the papers. “Brendan was mostly interested in anything that might protect humanity in the coming war,” she explained. “He’d been doing it for centuries.”
“Centuries?” Alex pulled up a chair and sat next to her.
“Time doesn’t have the same meaning for angels as it does for us.” She unearthed Brendan’s leather bound journal. She smoothed the dog-eared cover with a reminiscent smile. “In other words, it doesn’t exist. After a while the days must just run together, I suppose.”
“What’s this on the cover?” he asked, running his fingertips over the embossed design.
“The Tree of Life. In my culture, it’s a
lso the symbol of the Tir na Nog—where the souls of champions go to await the End of Days..” She tapped her shoulder.
Alex looked as she pulled aside her the strap of her tank top. “I didn’t realize you had a tattoo.”
“It sort of comes with the territory.” She held the journal in both hands. “But this…I gave it to him that first year we came to Paris. As a thank you.”
“For saving your life?”
She nodded. “Twice. After the war, after I found out what I was, I’d no idea what to do. He gave me training, and a purpose.”
“I know what you mean. Desmond did the same for me.”
She opened the journal and began paging through it. “They were friends, right?”
“From what I gather. The Padre’s been looking for objects of power, too, and for much the same reason. He’s really on the hunt for Michael’s sword.”
Cara blinked at him. "So is...was...Brendan. It's why we came to Paris.”
He nodded. “He’s the great protector, right? Defeated Satan at one point?”
“Yes, only it hasn’t happened yet. It was foretold that he would in Revelations, on the battlefield.”
He looked at her with dubious expression. “Brendan was looking for a sword that hasn’t been used yet?”
“Like I said, time doesn’t work the same for angels as it does for us. Brendan knew that, being the greatest of Champions, Michael is the only one who can turn the tide. And when the forces of Good and Evil take to the field, guess who’s going to be in the middle?”
“Humanity,” he answered, grim.
“He also would have known the time would come when we would begin to evolve. But Michael is slated to lead the armies of Good, so he’ll be what you might call a bit occupied. Brendan’s been looking for anything Michael might have left behind in Biblical times.”
Alex gently took the journal from her hands. “Did he expect you to take up the sword when he found it?”
“Me? Hell, no. I have a sword, and it comes from my own people. He wanted to return it to Michael, maybe even use it to call him to Earth. Naturally, there are those who want it for themselves, to stop the prophecy coming to pass.”
“Where was he looking?” Alex gathered one or two books to him.
“The catacombs. It’s one reason why we we’ve been clearing them out.” Cara stopped. A notion had just smacked her between the eyes, and it so horrified her she lost all ability to speak.
“What is it?” This, as she took hold of his arm. He stood, setting the journal aside. “Cara, talk to me.”
Slowly, her gaze lifted to meet his. “What if he found it?”
Alex looked at her, searching for meaning in her words. She couldn’t bring herself to speak them out loud.
He got there. She knew when he sank back in his seat. “What if he was murdered with it? Murdered for it.”
The thought of it made her nauseous. “Oh, God.”
“We don’t know,” he reminded her, taking her by the shoulders again. “Not yet. Stay with me, now.”
He waited until he saw the panic recede from her face, then he nodded. “We don’t know,” he repeated.
“But we have to find out, don’t we?”
He stood and went to retrieve his coat. “I’m going out for food. Stay here, don’t answer the door.”
She raised a brow.
“Mainly because I don’t want you impaling anyone before I can question them,” he added.
“I’m better trained than that,” she said, grateful for the joke. She waved her hand at him to shoo. “Go. And whatever you get, make mine a double. I’m starving.”
As soon as he was gone, however, Cara’s smile faded. No, they didn’t know what had happened. But she was beginning to get a strong idea.
If Brendan had found Michael’s sword, then it would explain a lot. There would be plenty of people who would find such a sacred object valuable. Even those who shared Brendan’s need to protect humanity might be desperate enough to do something—well, desperate. And altogether stupid.
She went back to paging carefully through Brendan’s journal, losing track of time. That is, until she sensed a sudden presence behind her. She turned, thinking Alex had returned. “That was qui—
She stopped, and stared.
A handful of heartbeats later, she crashed through the window.
She wasn’t alone.
Alex had forced himself to remain calm for Cara’s sake, considering everything she’d been through. But there was no getting around the fact that he was shaken, deeply and irrevocably.
It was a testament to Paris that even now, post-war and pre-apocalypse, it was still a city for food. He loved walking past the still functioning bakeries with their smell of fresh bread. Seeing the tent villages and marketplaces, where you could still get anything and everything. For a price, of course.
One thing about working for the Noble Lady is that Alex never went hungry. And he liked eating more than even sleep or sex. The demon affected his metabolism, so he was fortunate enough to be able to eat pretty much what he liked.
Fresh fruit was difficult to come by these days, the land not having fully recovered from the war. The weather hadn't provided enough rain to wash the toxins away. Wheat, however, was still able to be brought in, now the biosphere was down.
He was even able to find a couple dusty bottles of wine. There was also bread, cheese, and even a few promising jarred goods—olives, and the like. He paid with government credits, still good even after the fall of Dreamtech. Other than military vouchers it was the only currency beyond the re-established barter system.
So Brendan had been looking for Michael's sword down in the catacombs. Cara made it sound like he was scrambling all over, picking up anything he could. But Alex doubted that. He suspected the angel had been very deliberate in his choices. That he’d had a plan. It couldn’t be a coincidence he just happened to be near when Cara Ascended the first time.
If Cara was right and time didn’t exist for angels, then Brendan may have known precisely where to find her, and when. He may have traced her bloodline down the centuries. Waited for her to be ready.
If he’d found Michael’s sword, then it made sense for Brendan to return it to its owner. It would also make sense for the other side to come looking for it. If it was the sword that would effectively end the apocalypse, then it would also be the sword to save humanity.
He tried to recollect everything he knew—rather, everything he thought he knew—about angelic swords. It wasn’t much.
He knew for a human to wield them would have a devastating effect on them. An everyday person would not be able to withstand the power. Someone like him, with a demon living inside him, couldn’t go anywhere near one. It would either destroy the demon and kill his human self along with it, or destroy his humanity altogether. Leaving nothing but the demon behind. Someone like Cara—who knew? An angelic sword was a living, breathing, divine thing. The acts it was used for would determine the path its power would take.
Murdering an angel, for instance, was like killing a unicorn—the ultimate corrupting force. If Brendan had found it, been killed with it...
Alex shook his head. One way for their enemies to negate the sword’s destiny would be to use it for evil deeds. Evil enough, then Lucifer might be able to turn the tables on Michael and sway victory in his favor.
His head was beginning to hurt. He also wasn’t certain how he’d gotten as far as the river in his absent-minded meanderings. Anyone could have come upon him without him realizing. Even the demon seemed restful for once. There had been a time when he’d drunk himself into a stupor, just so he could sleep. But he’d stopped after the dreams, which were worse than not sleeping at all.
Eventually he’d learned meditation techniques. Proximity to consecrated ground helped. Desmond had given him a sanctified cross to wear around his neck, and the rosary of silver and obsidian he wrapped around his left wrist. But having a purpose did more to keep the nightmares at
bay than anything.
When he got to his street, he called the Padre. It was Johnson who answered.
“He’s still working on the autopsy,” the young man answered in response to Alex’s inquiry. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” Alex said. “I just need to know if Brendan ever told him if he found Michael’s sword.”
Stunned silence on the other end. “Michael? As in…?”
“The archangel, yes. I’ve got a working theory, but it could use some work.”
“I’ll ask him, as soon as he’s out of the lab.” Pause. “You’re…you’re sure?”
Alex bit back a smile. “No, which is why I need to talk to him as soon as possible.”
“O-okay. I’ll let him know.”
“Have you sealed the counting house yet?”
“Getting the items together now.”
Alex hung up with a sigh. The kid was in way over his head. Why he’d been assigned to Alex, he’d never know. Johnson would never be able to take him out if the demon got out of control. He’d only stand there and gape until it was too late. But, innocent as he was, there was no denying his superiority as a ritual binder.
That gave him an idea.
Cara had been trained by an angel to use that sword of hers, and against demons no less. She, he could count on to put him down if it came to it. She probably wouldn’t even hesitate.
Which begged the question—why wasn’t the demon in him more worried by the prospect?
He turned the corner and headed down an empty street, his building just ahead at the end of the block. His apartment was on the top floor, for easy roof access. He could see the light in his window from here.
That’s when two figures burst through it in a shower of glittering glass, fighting all the way down.
CHAPTER FIVE
Alex dropped the bag of food and took off running, his gaze riveted to the gracefully arching, battling pair. They flitted fitfully in and out of sight, by which he guessed they were so intensely engaged they moved through space and time through sheer ferocity of will.