Brighid's Flame by Cate Morgan

Author:Cate Morgan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: New York;NYC;apocalypse;futuristic;action & adventure;Irish myth
Publisher: Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
Published: 2015-03-16T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Six

Nearly Nick Santos swayed drunkenly in a dented metal folding chair, remaining upright only because he was tied viciously in place, the rope cutting deep into the soft tissue of his limbs. He no longer had any perception of day or night. His meals arrived at irregular intervals, and just when he finally stepped on the brink of sleep, floodlights filled his cement cell with their unholy light, burning his retinas even with his eyes clamped shut. It felt like days since he’d last had a sip of the fetid quarry water they’d been feeding him.

He was a dead man. He knew it, accepted it. Now he just wanted it over with.

The door rolled open, the sound prompting his head to snap painfully upright. Blood rushed from his brain, making him dizzy and nauseous. He startled like a wounded animal when a single light flickered on, the door slamming shut once more.

“Hello, Nicholas.”

Nick peered through the careful cracks of his eyelids, lashes creating little screen doors over his vision. He cracked them open a fraction more.

The tallest, coolest drink of water he’d ever seen greeted his parchment-dry eyes. She wore a trim, navy pinstriped skirt an inch or so above the knee, a crisp white Oxford men’s dress shirt tailored for a woman, and killer navy stilettos with a series of thin buckled straps up the ankle. Silver cufflinks—Tiffany, if he were any judge—winked at her wrists as she unscrewed the cap off a bottle of water. Her auburn hair was pinned up, leaving wisps of hair to frame her face. “Thirsty, are we?”

He could barely dredge enough air from his lungs to force the words past his enflamed throat. “Don’t want nothin’ from you,” he growled.

The woman appeared not to hear as she skimmed a drop of water from the bottle neck and flicked it in his direction. He could almost feel it, if he imagined hard enough. “Now, Nicholas. Is that any way to speak to the one person in a hundred-mile radius willing to spare your sorry self?”

“If you’re going to kill me,” he croaked, “just do it.”

She clucked, as though disappointed in his performance. “You’ve put up a decent fight so far. Why give up now? Especially when I can make everything better.”

He tried to spit, and failed, instead erupting in a coughing fit. “Is this about the bitch who put me here? ’Cause I want nothing to do with her.”

She regarded him with bright blue eyes, clear as a summer sky. Then she lifted the bottle to her generous mouth, apparently changed her mind and lowered it again. Nick focused on the bottle, mouth slightly agape. “Do you know who I am, Nicholas?”

He opened his mouth to tell her he didn’t give a demon’s fart in Hell, and stopped. His mind, sluggish with trauma, suddenly made the connection. The necessary synapses fired, but only managed to confuse him. “Yes.” His bloated tongue, still registering the bottle of water in her hand, had difficulty forming the words.

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