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  AIKA

  Keepers of the Flame: Origins 1

  By Cate Morgan

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgments

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Epilogue

  Thank You!

  Brighid’s Cross Excerpt

  Other Books

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2014 by Cate Morgan. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events or locales is purely coincidental. Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.

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  Dedication

  This one is for my readers. There were questions left unanswered in Brighid’s Cross due to the word count constraints of the END OF DAYS anthology, and my own well-intentioned, if amateurish efforts, that resulted in over-editing. I hope this goes a long way toward answering those questions.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Aika urged her father’s 1968 Triumph Bonneville through the soft Irish rain, the motorbike’s roar joining with the thunder overhead. If she hurried, she would make it to Jamie’s cottage before the full storm hit. Gray-black clouds boiled behind her even now, closing the gap every moment.

  She punched the Triumph into high gear, twisted the throttle, and shot forward with a little thrill of adrenaline racing through her. The bike shook as its velocity carried her over a hill in honor of the machine’s vaunted name.

  He heard her coming; he always did. Jamie stepped out of the little white cottage on its remote heath just as she careened around a turn in the road. He tucked his hands in his jean pockets and leaned against the door frame as she stopped, spraying gravel with her back tire.

  She grinned back as she dismounted. “Made it.”

  “Just,” he observed.

  She paused in the act of throwing a blue tarpaulin over the cooling bike to gauge the storm’s progress. “No contest.”

  He pushed his shoulder from the door frame to come greet her. His shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbow, his mussed brown hair curling above blue, blue eyes. “You could have waited until the weather cleared.”

  But he was already reaching for her, cradling the back of her neck amid her tumbled auburn locks and drawing her into his arms for a heated kiss. They never felt the wind and rain.

  Later, as the storm beat overhead, Aika sifted awake in the dim light to the sound of a ringing pop. Something skittered across the bare wood floor, causing Jamie to mutter a curse as he went in search for whatever object had escaped him. The soft murmur of the ever-running radio provided a barely audible hum beneath the lashing rain.

  Aika blinked first one eye open, then the other. Framed black and white photos neatly stacked in leaning rows against one wall and more than one covered easel swam into view. Jamie exited the kitchen clad only in his faded jeans, a champagne bottle grasped in one hand, two coffee mugs clamped in the other.

  She sat up. “What’s this?”

  He gave her a crooked smile. “You didn’t give me a chance to tell you.”

  “I didn’t--!” She heaved a pillow at him.

  He ducked, laughing. “Careful, you’ll make me spill.”

  She made a long arm for his discarded shirt, drawing it over her nakedness. Chemicals, cigarette smoke, and a hint of male sweat washed over her. “Are you going to tell me, or are you just going to stand there smiling at me in the most annoying way possible?”

  “Annoying?” He set the mugs on the bedside table and poured the champagne. “I happen to have it on good authority—namely you—that I am well-nigh irresistible.”

  Aika raised a brow as he sat on the edge of the bed, handing her one of the cups. “Was I drinking at the time?”

  “Only enough to find me well-nigh irresistible.”

  “Ah. So I killed the bottle, then.”

  “Once again, I have it on good authority that particular bottle of whiskey was an excellent vintage well worth the money I paid for it.” He raised his glass to her. “You are one tough customer, Aikaterina mine. Greek stubbornness from your Da, Irish fire from your Mum—I never worked so hard. Until now, that is.”

  She loved the sound of her full name on his lips, especially when he chanted it over and over in bed like a love song. “What do you mean?”

  He turned to face her, more smug than ever. “You and I are celebrating, my love. Your talented and altogether ingenious man has garnered himself a primo gallery showing.” He clinked his cup against hers.

  She straightened, nearly spilling her champagne. “Where? Dublin?”

  He shook his head, grin widening. “London.”

  Aika had to catch her breath. “Really?”

  He drank deep and refilled his mug. “Got an email from the agent of some London bigwig in business or government, I can’t recall which. Anyway, this bigwig wants a gallery exhibit to feature who he thinks are up and coming photo journalists. He liked my coverage of the Paris riots, so he offered me a contract.”

  Aika’s ribs nearly cracked with the force of her pride. “Oh, Jamie. It’s unbelievable.”

  “Signed and delivered this morning.” He set his empty cup on the table and lounged across the bed, head propped on one hand. The other he smoothed up her bare shin. “This is what I’ve been working toward so long. For us.”

  Didn’t she know it—his long absences only got longer, their time together painfully exquisite. “What happens next?”

  “I go to London to take some photos, set up my exhibit, and make some connections at the opening. Do some shopping—I need…a new suit.” His hand hooked behind her knee, which he leaned forward to press a kiss to.

  “And a haircut.” She brushed his curling hair back from his forehead. “Do you want me to come with you?”

  He murmured assent against her skin, clearly getting distracted. He came to with a snap, remembering something. “We’ll make a weekend of it—see the sights, posh hotel, the works. Come up the day before the opening.” He looked up at her. “By train, if you please. The idea of you riding that beast of yours all the way to London makes my hair curl.”

  The rain softened, so she could now hear the news report on the radio. Something about New York, a great deal of panic and death in Times Square. She stretched to switch it off. “I don’t know why you listen to that so much. Music, I could understand.”

  He crawled over her, removing the mug from her hand before pressing her back against the pillows. “I need to hear it, so I know where I’m needed.” He pulled his shirt from her shoulders and settled against her.

  She murmured as he traced his lips down the curve of her neck. “I don’t want it to make your art angry.”

  He buried one hand in her hair, anchoring her in place for his kiss. “Not to worry, my sweet whiskey slayer. You may set my heart on fire, but my soul you keep at peace.”

  CHAPTER TWO