Brighid's Flame by Cate Morgan Read Free Book Online

dead silence.
    Then there were those unmarked, yet clearly delineated pockets of disquiet. They vibrated with the feel of unseen, hungry eyes. The first time Tara’s group crossed such a boundary, they’d been ambushed for their supplies. Young adults, barely more than teenagers and wild with blind desperation, hunting children through the broken streets of New York. It had been absolutely the last shock Tara could take.
    They’d tried to take Stephen out first, to distract and panic the others. They hadn’t counted on the bigger kids running interference like pack of rabid linemen on Super Bowl Sunday. They hadn’t counted on Tara.
    She still carried the scars. But Stephen and the other children had been safe.
    It hadn’t been the last ambush, either—and not all of them had been by what she would term as human aggressors. By the second ambush, she could sense the preliminary tremor. By the third she knew what it meant.
    She sensed it now, felt it crawl over her skin in slow, heavy waves. Felt it reach out and brush against her. She slowed her progress until she stopped altogether, her back against the wall and eyes closed. She switched off her flashlight.
    She was still a good quarter mile away from her destination. This couldn’t be good.
    The dark quiet surrounded her, creeping in like a stalking cat until it caressed her. As Tara waited for her eyes to adjust, she concentrated on steadying her breathing, slowing her heart rate to that Zen-like state she had never quite fully mastered, despite Gwen’s excellent tutelage. The instinct of fight-or-flight was still too ingrained.
    The tiniest sound, a miniscule chink of a pebble losing purchase from its wall, made pond-ripple echoes in the dark. It was followed by a further, definite feeling of not there. Tara stepped carefully, boot heel rolling inch by inch up the sole until her toes pressed into the ground. Her other foot followed without so much a whisper of existence. She had the feeling whomever was in here with her was doing the same—a slow-motion game of chicken.
    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