Brighid's Flame (5 page)

Tara sensed the open space yawning around her now, felt the humid air cushion her. She cursed having neglected to switch on the heat signature setting in her mask the moment she sensed the other presence—instinct again. She paused to get her bearings, feet shoulder-width apart and centered. Waited, as the blood pounded and thrummed in her veins, her lungs filled with filtered, recycled air.

She hated waiting.

Instinct made her impatient, let fear and anger take her over in a rush.

It also made her
fast.
Fast, and brutal.

Her arm lashed out, switching on the flashlight to blind her unseen opponent. He gave a gurgle of a scream inside his own mask. She kicked him right in the business with her steel toes. He dropped like a brick from a ten-story building.

Her relief was such she nearly failed to react to the other presence. She jabbed her elbow into a soft gut, spun away, and clocked her second assailant over the head with the flashlight in one smooth motion. For good measure, she whipped her arm in the other direction, upper-cutting the flashlight into his bent, groaning head. She hoped she broke a few teeth.

She stepped away to a safe distance to await the next attack, breathing harsh with adrenaline. This is what she'd been trained for. It surprised her to discover how good she was at it in the field.

A hand grabbed her arm hard from behind, tried to yank her close. The flare of light from her flashlight swung wildly as she turned into the yanker's momentum. Her arm came up and around, taking her attacker's grip with her. She forced him onto his toes until he teetered off balance, at which point Tara dropped to one knee.

Her attacker struggled on his back. She gave his arm a vicious twist that flung him onto his stomach, crushed his face into the ground, and pressed her boot to the back of his neck. Then she stretched his arm back until she heard a telltale, satisfying
crack
and the resultant scream.

It worried her she liked this part a little too much.

“Everyone hold!
Hold,
I said!”

That would be the leader. Tara switched her hands on her hostage's arm so she could sweep the area with her flashlight.

A lean, shadowed figure in a mask appeared, arm raised against her light. A strange sense of familiarity niggled at her.

“Well,” he said, voice muffled by the mask. “It seems we are at an impasse.”

Two other figures dragged a struggling Stephen between them. The fight left Tara in a sudden, heart-crushing flood. She released her hostage and stepped away.

The leader nodded as though this was exactly what he'd expected and proceeded to ignore her as he checked on his people. There was nothing military about his bearing, but everything about him left her in no doubt of his status. She wondered if this was the elusive leader of the Underground. If so, she would need to be careful and compile as much information as possible before she and Stephen escaped.

They would take her earpiece, but that was fine. Even off, it could be used to track her. God help the Underground and all its allies if Gwen found them before Tara could take Stephen and get out. It might even be worth it to stick around to watch.

The leader knelt next to the prone, writhing figure she'd just lately held captive, apparently unconcerned about his close proximity to Tara despite her recent performance.

Instead, he murmured something about a racked shoulder and let her second attacker hoist Dislocated to his feet, whereupon they limped off into the shadows. As the leader regarded her closely, a telling crunch followed by a strangled cry in the dark made the corner of Tara's mouth twitch.

“I don't have to see your face to tell you're amused,” the leader observed.

“Well,” Tara returned in conversational tones, “if you had taught them proper ambush technique, they may not have provided such rich entertainment value instead.”

“We did.” He sighed, disgusted with the lot of them. “The wisdom against attacking one at a time seems to have left them. I think a single opponent, apparently unarmed, made them overconfident.”

“Work on that, will you?”

“I suspect you've served a valuable object lesson, for which I am grateful. Of course, she said you would.” He motioned for Stephen to be brought over.

The niggling in the back of her brain finally clicked into place. “It's you, isn't it? From the Park.” She didn't protest when her hands were clasped behind her and firmly tied.

The leader removed his gas mask with a grin and glasses askew. “Well done.”

“Are you really a history teacher?” she asked, genuinely curious.

“As a matter of fact, I am. And I really need help building a school—everything I told you was true.”

Stephen was tied up next, unnecessarily. Tara could detect his horror at being caught behind his mask. “I'm sorry.”

Tara's mask was removed by one of the teacher's men, roughly. As suspected, her ear piece was taken and handed over. “How should I address you? Granted, a few ideas come to mind…”

He examined her earpiece closely, turning it over and over in his hands. “And we were being so civilized. Well, never mind.” He dropped the earpiece and crushed it underfoot.

She nearly swore. Instead, she turned to Stephen, finally finding that Zen-like calm she'd been searching for. “Are you all right?”

He nodded, interrupted mid-nod when his mask was removed as well.

“Wait!” They all stopped and stared at her. “Give him back his mask—his lungs…he'll get sick and there's no need.” Tara had been given the same training as Vincent's private security force, so she could withstand a certain amount of tainted air. Stephen was another matter entirely.

The leader shook his head. “The air is clear down here. We've worked very hard to make it so. The masks merely serve the purpose of disguise when we don't need them in the usual way.”

Her wrists strained against her bindings. “If you're lying…”

“I haven't yet, believe it or not. You'll simply have to take my word for it. I won't bother to blindfold you—I know very well it won't do any good. Come, Ms. Fitzpatrick. You're in for a treat.”

“Am I?”

Another boyish grin. “Indeed. You're about to find out who the Underground leader is.”

“The agents were supposed to stop you at Columbus Circle,” Tara told Stephen as they walked along, trying not to sound accusatory.

“I never reached it,” Stephen told her, voice soft.

They left the main tunnels, turning into the maze of maintenance tunnels between routes. They saw one or two trains, stopped mid-route for evacuation during the war.

Another of these trains, deep under the Square, turned out to be their destination. The Times Square station had been repurposed into a crowded, lively community. A newsstand without much going for it had been turned into a small library with basic sundries on offer. A disused, crumbling staircase provided a perch for an impromptu string quartet, their audience sitting cross-legged on the dusty ground. A former fast-food restaurant was now a cafeteria, deep recesses against the walls sleeping quarters.

As they approached the train, two guards slid open one of the doors with a makeshift lever. Tara and Stephen were marched in, to the interest to everyone watching. Mass whispering bounced along the walls.

“Is that her?” someone called out, right before the door slammed shut behind her.

“What's going on?” Tara asked. They were taken to the back car, trapped in the tunnel. Camp lights cast a sickly, yellow-green pall over everything. The cabin had been gutted to make way for a very basic living space. A row of benches had converted into a cot, a line of crates providing table space between benches on either side of the narrow tube. The plywood board laid across the crates was awash with books and papers.

“It's not for me to say.” The teacher motioned to his men, who unlashed Tara and retied her to the pole in the back of the car. Stephen was relegated to a bench, where his hands were tied to the rail.

“History teacher, huh?”

The man smiled. “Who better to teach others past mistakes?”

He had a point.

He should also have left guards in the cabin before leaving them alone. Of course, she would have taken them out. But it would have looked better for him.

Stephen smiled as Tara slid her hands down the pole, bending her knees as far as she could get without actually sitting. “Getting comfortable?”

“Something like that.” She wiggled and twisted, testing her bonds. “How's your breathing?”

“Fine.”

“Sure?”

“Tara, what are you up to?”

“Because we're going to have to run.”

He watched her in silence for a time, admiration warring exasperation. “I've run with you before, Tara. There's a treadmill in my office.”

“I've always wondered why.”

“In case we have to run again.” He crossed his legs and continued to smile at her. “I'm not ever leaving you, and I know we have to be prepared for anything. That's my job.”

She blinked at him. “Why did you come after me, Stephen?”

“To keep you safe.” She took another pointed look at their surroundings, and he had the good grace to blush as she raised her eyebrows. “We've always kept each other safe. That's what we
do.
Part of that is being prepared to run with you.” He watched her test the pole, and her maneuverability. “What are you thinking?”

“I'm thinking they should have left my hands tied in back.”

Tara wiggled her hands around in her bonds until she could grasp the pole between them and slide them over her head. Then she kicked her legs up, tucking a finger in her boot and hooking it in the loop of her knife. She pulled the weapon out and let it swing down on her curled knuckle. She cradled the knife's spine in her hand as she lowered her legs once more. She sliced open her bindings, then freed Stephen.

The sound of hands clapping swung their attention around. The history teacher was back. “Not bad,” he said, grinning. “Now take a seat, please.”

It'd gone quiet outside, the curious murmur softening to nothing.

The historian turned as another someone else entered the cabin, stepping through the missing doorway. Tara's heart stopped when the dim lights illuminated their—her—face. Stephen's hand gripped Tara's wrist.

It was Gwen.

Chapter Five

Julien strode through Vincent's office door, his chest twinging slightly with the pull of injured muscle. “We need to talk.”

Vincent looked up from where he studied the latest plans on the Lady Liberty restoration. “We're almost there,” Vincent said with satisfaction evident in his tone. “I gather the torch gave Stephen some trouble, but he wouldn't be the first.”

Julien paused a few feet from Vincent's desk, hands in his pockets. He wasn't here to discuss Vincent's pet project. He wanted one thing only. “Where's Tara, Vincent?”

Vincent scrolled through image after image on his desktop video frame. “Haven't the foggiest,” he said cheerfully.

Julien's mouth curled on one side, just the polite side of a sneer. “I really think I have the right to know.”

“I'm certain you do, son. But I honestly don't know. You know our girl when she's on the hunt.”

“Carson tells me Stephen left in a hurry,” Julien tried. “And in something of a panic, apparently. Tell me she's not in trouble.” He paused for effect. “You know our girl.”

“Indeed I do.”

Another pause, as Julien considered his next move. “Gwen's missing as well.”

“Is she?”

“I suppose you have no idea where
she
is.”

“Not a clue.” Vincent flipped through a few more images, until Stephen's detailed blueprint of the torch turned up. “But Gwen hardly consults me in every aspect of her job. In fact, she rarely does—a magician's tricks, and all that.”

“And so I'm to expect the same from Tara?” Surely Vincent must be joking.

Vincent leaned back, head cocked. “I'm not sure what you expect from her.”

“My relationship with Tara is…progressing.”

“That's unfortunate. I do hope you get over it. I'm sure she will.” Vincent went back to work.

This time, when Julien paused, it was due to abject shock. “Excuse me?”

“While it's true I've no idea where Tara is at the moment, I do happen to know who she's with, and what her activities are.”

“And that would be?”

“With the Underground.” Vincent checked his watch. “Learning what she is.”

It was the first time Julien had ever heard Vincent refer openly to Tara's identity. He knew damned well Vincent and Gwen were in on the secret, when not even Tara herself was. He also knew they would tell her when her training was deemed complete. When she was ready, Vincent and Gwen would let them in on the plan that had, so far, remained unspoken. Tara trusted them enough to wait, possibly with the entirety of her otherwise limited patience. Julien wasn't sold.

“What do you mean, ‘what she is'? And what in hell is she doing with those crazies in the Underground?”

“Best place for her. After all, it's what we trained her for.”

Julien went very still, all the better to experience his world falling apart over his head. “You trained her for me,” he insisted, despite the evidence. “To protect
me
. To see to my interests. I was shot, Vincent.”

“Not very well, if you ask me.” Vincent cocked an eyebrow at him. “Did you really think we wouldn't find out?”

“She mine. She's
always
been mine.”

“I hate to break it to you, dear boy, but she's meant to protect this city. To see to
its
interests.”

The blood in his veins froze solid. “What?”

“Isn't it obvious?” Vincent grinned. “We trained her to beat you.”

Tara sat down hard on the nearest bench. Stephen followed her, lowering himself more slowly.

“Gwen?” Tara whispered, as though a louder tone would make her mentor suddenly dissipate in dreaming mist. “
You're
the Underground leader?”

Gwen sat on the bench across from her, while the teacher sat off to the side, respectful and avid. “I'm sorry we kept all this from you, but it was necessary. Julien is a traitor.”

Tara couldn't move, couldn't breathe. Her hands shook violently, until Stephen took one and laced his fingers gently through hers. “Maybe you should start at the beginning,” he said, voice husky-calm.

“Julien was shot,” Gwen began, “because he paid to have himself shot.”

Tara's mind reeled and spun until the room went with it and she feared she might be sick. She swallowed the queasiness from her throat. “That makes no sense.”

“We were lucky he came to the Underground to find his shooter. He's under the impression we are Vincent's enemy.”

“Aren't you?”

Gwen shook her head with a smile. “Quite the opposite. So when he came looking for a shooter, Paul here outsourced to a likely candidate.”

The history teacher smiled. “There was always the possibility Nick would actually kill Julien purely by accident, but alas.”

“But
why
?”

To Tara's everlasting surprise, it was Stephen who answered. “Because he's in love with you.” Stephen's smile was wry as she boggled at him. “At least, as close as he can come to it. You're supposed to be his Gwen. His, and no one else's.”

Tara switched her confusion to Gwen. “But aren't I? I mean, isn't that what you trained me for? Julien is Vincent's successor, and I'm yours, right?”

Gwen shook her head. “It may have ended up that way, but Julien is impatient for power and influence, and Vincent had other ideas. When Paul sent me word regarding Julien's plan, we knew it was time you knew. I didn't train you to protect Julien, my love. I trained you to protect this city. From Julien, as it turned out.”

Tara's voice shrunk to that of a lost little girl, trapped and alone. “I really don't understand. What am I that's so important?”

Gwen leaned forward. “The anger inside you, the anger you feel may escape your control if you're not careful—it's not anger. It's light. Righteous fury, if you will. It is what makes you special. At the right time, if you're willing to make the necessary sacrifice, it
will
overrun you, and you will become what you are meant to be. What this city, these people,
need
you to be, if we are to survive the coming days.”

“The war isn't over,” Paul added. “It was only a skirmish in a far greater battle.”

“I can't.” Panic washed through Tara like an electric current. If it hadn't been for Stephen tethering her in place, anchoring her, she would have bolted and damn the lot of them. “I can't fight like that anymore. I don't have it in me, after…after.”

Gwen switched to her other side, her arms cradling her. Lavender and freesia flooded Tara's senses, offering her a modicum of comfort. “My poor, brave girl. You are capable of so much more than you realize. Why do you think I pushed you so hard? I had to make sure you were ready. I won't abandon you, I promise.”

“Me either,” Stephen promised. “I didn't come all this way with you to give up now.”

And that was Stephen, at his very core. Here she was, reeling, struggling to come to terms with being told she was…what, exactly? Gwen made it sound as though Tara was something of a hero, something other than human. Yet Stephen's first response was a firm show of support. The hand holding hers was steady, his soft voice calm.

“Vincent and I worked hard to get you here—sending you to the Park to confront Nick, intercepting Stephen when he came after you, getting you underground to a point where you couldn't be tracked. By now, Julien will know he's been caught, and that you know. This city won't be safe if he comes to power. You'll have to stop him.”

The idea numbed her. Just that morning, she'd woken in his arms, warm and comfortable. She blushed to think what might have happened had he not been injured, that they might have—

“I don't know if I can. You taught me much, I might be able to hold my own for a while, but I've sparred with him, Gwen.”

“All you have to do is try, and trust,” Gwen assured her. “The rest will take care of itself. Don't worry, you won't be alone.”

“Paying to have himself shot was his way of tying you to him, to ensure your unquestioning loyalty to him when he finally turned on Vincent,” Paul added. “He's dangerous, to Vincent and to us. You're the only one who can stop him. Even if you…even if you lose, there's still a chance it may be enough.”

Tara shook her head. “How could he possibly think I would ever turn on Vincent?”

“He is corrupt,” Stephen explained. “Therefore everyone is corruptible.”

It occurred to Tara that Stephen had seen Julien far more clearly than she ever had. Stephen certainly seemed to understand Vincent's heir more than she. And yet, best friend that he was, he'd never come to Tara with his concerns. She wondered why.

“Liberty Island,” Gwen told her, interrupting Tara's tumbling rush of thoughts. “We can get you as far as that. Paul's right. Even if you lose against Julien, it may still be enough to unite the city.” Her mentor leaned still closer, her eyes shining with the need to make Tara understand. “If Julien gains control of Vincent's empire, there will be no more Dante Foundation, no aid getting to the people who so desperately need it. Julien will bleed what's left of this city's resources until there won't be anything left. He will, in essence, build a new Dreamtech.”

Tara tried to imagine it, and shuddered. At the outset, the government conglomerate had used the Seven-Year War to extort lucrative defense contracts from those cities that could afford it. Next thing anyone knew, Dreamtech and their cronies
were
the government: in addition to the biospheres that shielded cities from further bombardment that never came, there were the birth chips, the centralized financial system that tracked everything from payroll and taxes to utility usage to the purchase of a pack of gum.

Those suffering from the post-math of the war were either grateful for the biospheres protecting their cities, or wanted one over their own city. New York had been one of the first cities hit in the war. No one could get into or out of the city once the biosphere was in place—and that was exactly how Dreamtech had wanted it, according to Vincent. Only Dreamtech had known the truth of what lay outside the city's borders once the war was over.

Tara hadn't been the only one astonished when the biospheres had disappeared, and Dreamtech with it. But it was precisely the opportunity Vincent had been waiting for. Somehow, Gwen had known not only that the conglomerate was going to go down, but
when.

Now it seemed Julien wanted to take New York back to the big, bad good old days. And Tara knew all too well what it was like living under a yoke such as that. She'd been there, in the Shanties. Under the so-called protection of Dreamtech and the biosphere, when Stephen couldn't get the medicine he'd so desperately needed.

“Sleep here,” Paul offered. “We'll bring you something to eat. No one will disturb you. If you need anything just ask the guards.”

Gwen got to her feet, apropos to following the teacher out. Tara stopped her. “Wait. Why didn't you at least tell me the Underground was on our side? Why would they unite for me?”

Her mentor's smile didn't waver, though it took on a sad quality. “Haven't you guessed? I'm not the Underground leader. You are.”

Tara's veins ran with ice instead of blood. She huddled under a thin blanket on the narrow floor of the subway car, her back to Stephen, hands clasped beneath her chin like a child. She curled in on herself, knees bent, tears burning her eyes like acid.

She wouldn't cry. Julien had absolutely no right to make her cry.

“Tara?” Stephen's sleep-roughened voice whispered to her in the dark. His hand alighted on her shoulder, more tentative than he had ever been. “You're shaking.”

Silent, desperate need turned her onto her other side into him. His breath caught, his arms slipping around her with instinctive care. The air exited his lungs all in a rush. Then he pulled half of his blanket over her and tried to curl himself around her.

Her hands twisted into his sweater. “How did you know?” she asked, voice muffled. “About Julien?”

“That's he's in love with you?” She nodded against his chest. “I knew, because…” He smoothed her hair once, hesitated. “Because I know what it looks like.”

She stilled. Not the implacable chill of stone, but the anticipatory quiet of a pond, before a dropped pebble disturbed the surface. “Stephen?”

His warm hand slid over the back of her bare neck, her hair no longer protection from the cold. “I won't ask anything of you. But I won't leave you, either. Not ever.” He rested his chin atop her head, to tuck her safely away against his heart. “I want to be the one person you can count on.”

Thick silence stretched between them, despite their close proximity. “You always have been,” she finally said.

“Well, thank God,” he said with enough fervor to make her smile despite it all.

“Everything's changing,” she said. “I don't want to lose it all again.”

“We won't,” he assured her. “This time, we're ahead of the game.”

Tara's breath shook as she let it out in a stream. “I'm scared.”

“I know.” His arms tightened around her. “But you'll beat him. You'll kick his ass from here to Doomsday and back again. He won't know what hit him.”

Tara choked on a surprised laugh. She'd never, in all their years together, heard him swear. “Really?”

“You fought an entire city to get us to safety when you were little more than a child. Julien Dante doesn't have an inch on you.”

She almost believed him. Not at peace—she doubted she would ever be that again—she warmed herself in Stephen's regard and was finally able to sleep.

Early morning arrived encased in silence and concrete ice. The train door slamming open reverberated too loud in Tara's ears, making her head ache after her restless, chill night. She wrapped her hands around a chipped mug of steaming coffee brewed just the way she liked it—badly, hot enough to hide the astringent bitterness of overused grounds. Stephen dipped a teabag into his cup with slightly more dignity.