Brighid's Flame by Cate Morgan Page A

through a glass display case. Glass erupted musically around her, pricking and slicing into her bare skin, a discordant note in her graceful dance. Before she could free herself, Julien’s hand descended and hauled her out by the collar of her shirt as though bringing to heel a recalcitrant puppy.
    He threw her to the floor, where she rolled out of reach to catch her breath. “What’s the matter, Tara mine? No righteous, witty little comebacks? Gwen will be so disappointed when she hears.”
    Tara struggled to her feet. “I’m not—
    Yours , she never got to say, as his fist smashed into the side of her face. Beyond the stunning pain lay the realization he was still holding back. He backhanded her the other direction, picked her up, and threw her with great force against the nearest wall.
    She slammed into brick and landed on the floor in a limp heap. Leveraging herself on hands and shaking arms, she spat out blood and shards of molar. His rapid footstep grew louder as he came after her.
    Mistake. She turned and lashed out her foot again, catching him in a most unfortunate juncture. He doubled over and she executed a snap kick from her prone position to his perfect face. He staggered back, and she had room to pull herself up using the brick and mortar of the wall behind her, and slipped her knives from her boots on the sly. She leaned against the wall, breathing hard.
    Julien roared after her. Her arm slashed up, slicing open his arm. Fine droplets of blood splashed upward in a long, thin, curving arc.
    Rage finally got the better of him. While Tara struggled with every fiber of her being to maintain control, Julien utterly lost it.
    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.
    â€œShe’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?”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œIndeed 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