The Passion Season

by Libby Doyle

  And they were through into the loamy air, hung with dew. Beneath his feet a thick carpet of green. Above his head a gray canopy that moved by virtue of some force he did not understand. His new home.

  VERNAL EQUINOX

  CHAPTER 1

  Philadelphia, Earthly Year 2014, Age of Lucifer’s Rebellion, Phase 18996

  THE DEMONS SURGED into the Earthly Realm through the axial rift, their yellow eyes gleaming from toothy, half-formed faces. Thick, scabrous limbs jumped with the lust for violence as they locked onto their quarry. As always, Barakiel waited for them, his sword at the ready, a line of blue steel glinting in the sun.

  The axial rifts were the only way Lucifer could send the demons to attack his son. Without fail, Pellus knew precisely where they would appear. When they appeared was a function of their nature.

  Unlike the kinetic rifts, these ruptures in the fabric of existence blinked open only at a solstice or equinox when the elliptical orbit of the Earth caused its axis to shift relative to the sun. This shift would stretch and twist the dimensional fabric to create a network of fissures that enclosed the planet like the branches of a tree. A dozen or so demons would cram into the rift and rocket through a branch to stage their assault.

  Barakiel didn’t know whether they sought to kill him or capture him. They never lived long enough for their goal to become clear. Most often they blitzed, trying to overwhelm him with numbers. Sometimes they would emerge from the rift and run off in different directions, hoping that Barakiel would lose track of one or the other. Sometimes they split into two or more groups, hoping to flank him.

  The demons were easily drawn to abandoned industrial buildings or neglected stretches of the city where Pellus could conceal the skirmish from human perception under a curtain of refracted light.

  As if your idiot beasts could ever defeat me, father. You wait for me to make a mistake. You will be waiting forever.

  This year, the vernal equinox occurred in the middle of the day and Barakiel was nervous. The rift always touched down in an empty space, but the city was the city. Pellus had to work much harder to conceal the battle when humans were close and active. This rift had opened near the Philadelphia Zoo. At least it was a weekday, and a cold one, which meant less human activity.

  The snarling demons rushed Barakiel, who waited in an empty utility yard behind the zoo. They ran over the hard-packed dirt and crumbled cement, streaking past a collapsed chain link fence. He charged to meet them, turning on the speed as he rotated his body to the left and extended his right arm across his chest. He whipped his hips back to the right at the same time he sliced with his sword. Humming with speed, his blade took three heads before the beasts had the chance to register movement.

  As the other scaly monsters watched the heads fly in a spray of brown blood, they called out in their guttural language. They reformed and rushed Barakiel again, their double-sided axes flailing. One beast caught his arm and sliced it open, but this did not stop him from leaping forward and plunging his sword into the chests of two more, one after the other. They were dead before they shut their gaping mouths. He ran past the remaining demons, seeking to lure them deeper into the utility yard, beyond the mess of poles and wires, away from the houses nearby. They all followed him, thoughts of tactics gone as they reacted to the thought that he might escape. Barakiel smiled.

  This will not take long.

  The Cascade Mountains

  The road gleamed faintly in the starlight before curving to disappear between high mountains, looming towers of black streaked by gray where their trees had been felled by the wind. Per Barakiel’s request, Pellus had taken him through a kinetic rift to the base of the Cascade Mountains and left him to find his peace in the cold, clear night. He strode through the pristine air in search of a trailhead.

  Barakiel often wandered after his battles, his way of coping with a persistent feeling of unrest. Sometimes he thought he should stay in the wilderness, but he would miss the city with all its stimuli. He would miss the people.

  For more than fifty years, Barakiel had lived in Germany. When he and Pellus decided it was time for him to move on, he chose to return to Philadelphia. He often went back to places he’d lived before, to learn from the changes. He’d lived in Philadelphia during colonial times, drawn to the city by the philosophy of tolerance on which it was founded. He thought his return would settle him, but that was nine years ago and he’d only grown worse.

  Pellus had worked his magic, of course, creating a false identity for Barakiel so airtight that even a human schooled in computer forensics couldn’t tell anything was amiss. While Barakiel didn’t fully understand traveler adepts, he knew their minds were beyond the most powerful supercomputers the Earthly Realm could offer. Human information technology was child’s play to Pellus. Even asymmetrical encryption didn’t pose much of a problem for him.

  This made it easy for Barakiel to obtain immigration papers, a birth certificate in Germany, and diplomas from German schools. Pellus could provide anything the warrior may need at any time he may need it. He could scrub any trace of Barakiel’s existence from the Internet whenever he needed to disappear.

  I should be mindful of my good fortune, to have such a friend.

  At last, the trailhead. Barakiel bounded into the tunnel of trees, their bare branches shredding the starlight before it fell in bits to the rocky ground. When the trail began to ascend he leaned into it with relish. Perhaps exertion would calm him, make him feel less like an ingrate. He had growled at Pellus after his battle with the demons. Lashed out because of the static in his mind. He had no right.

  Although the adept had important duties in the Covalent Realm, he always indulged Barakiel’s need to wander. He would take him wherever he wanted to go through the kinetic rifts. It was a kindness.

  Barakiel gained the summit and watched the sun rise over snowcapped peaks. The newborn light kissed the slopes with soft peach, serene and inviting. Yet his agitation remained. These trips had once allowed him to forget the endless wheel of demon attacks. Forget his exile. He couldn’t understand why they no longer brought him peace. Why nothing did. He imagined the cold wind cleansing him.

  Beauty reaches inside me, but all it finds is hunger. Need. My acts as a warrior no longer satisfy. Not completely. I do not even know what I want.

  Philadelphia

  Alexandra O’Gara sat down at her desk in her nondescript office with a giant mug of coffee. She rubbed her eyes, stretched and yawned.

  I have to stop playing weeknight gigs.

  She took a swig of the coffee, pulled her keyboard into her lap and settled down to her least favorite part of the job.

  Fucking reports. It never stops.

  Her boss, James Nguyen, was obsessed with reports, causing no end of grumbling among the agents in the FBI’s Philadelphia field office. At least this report was about an unusual incident. Park rangers found evidence of a strange ritual enacted between the holly bushes next to the Second United States Bank, inside the national historical park. Ornate daggers were arranged like the points of a compass around a pile of ashes. A wooden carving of a jagged tree inside a circle sat on top of the ashes. Whatever had been burned was most likely part of a person, because they found a human spleen in the bushes nearby. The park rangers called the FBI.

  Although city police kept an eye on the area, they had not seen anything unusual. They suspected the ritual had occurred between 3:00 a.m. and 5:00 a.m. when patrols were infrequent. The thick holly had hidden whatever had gone on from the surveillance cameras, but they’d recorded several people wandering around that morning. The FBI was trying to track them down.

  The spleen had been preserved with formaldehyde, a detail Zan found creepier than anything else. Thus far, the matching body had not been located.

  Neither the daggers nor the carving bore any useful fingerprints or trace evidence. The strangeness of the apparent crime left it hard to categorize, so it became a question of who wanted to take it on. Ev
eryone knew Zan had a thing for blades. The file wound up on her desk.

  As she proofread her report, her partner, Melissa Romani, arrived.

  “One of these days I’ll beat you here, Zan.” She took off her knit cap and smoothed her short brown hair.

  “No, you won’t, Mel. Not with a kid to get off to preschool. How is the little sweet pea, anyway?”

  “She’s great. She’s all excited about their science project. They stuck potatoes in glasses of water, you know, using toothpicks to hold them up? She has her very own potato.”

  Zan nodded. “A classic.”

  “Yeah. Let me see here. What’s the agenda?” Mel paused while she opened a file. “We need to lean on the DNA lab for the spleen results and check missing persons. What about those knives?”

  “They look old. I’ll ask the Art Crimes Division to call Professor Carson. Maybe he’ll know something about them.”

  “Is that the guy from the Penn Museum? The one who helped us with that antique gun last year?”

  “That’s him.”

  “Okay, good.” Mel continued to peer at her computer, engaging in a flurry of clicks. “We have a meeting with Nguyen in ten minutes.”

  “Yep. I just printed out the report.” Zan walked over to the printer as Mel shuffled papers and glanced at her.

  “Emmett and I had dinner last night with one of his colleagues from Temple University,” Mel said. “He’s cute. And single.”

  “For Christ’s sake, no.”

  “Hear me out!”

  “I’m done letting you fix me up.” Zan gave her partner a pointed look. “It never works.”

  “What does it cost you?” Mel asked. “You go out on a date with a decent guy. Listen to him tell you you’re beautiful. It would be nice.”

  “I don’t find most men all that interesting.”

  “This one is,” Mel said with a curt twist of her head. “He’s a philosophy professor. Super smart. He’s also tall and built. I think he does some weird sport like lacrosse or Frisbee lacrosse or something.”

  Zan rolled her eyes. “I also hate the setup. Both people feel so much pressure, as well as vaguely pathetic.”

  “No man feels pathetic about a setup after he sees those pretty blue eyes and that silky black hair, dear. Instead, he’s thanking Jesus for good friends.”

  “Thanks, Mel, but no thanks.”

  “You’re a workaholic. You need something else in your life.” Mel adopted her do-as-I-say stance. Zan knew it well. It didn’t work on her.

  “I play guitar in a band. I write songs. I have outside interests.”

  “That’s what I mean,” Mel said. “I think you stay so busy just to avoid feeling lonely.”

  “And what’s the matter with that?” Zan spread her hands. “It means I don’t feel lonely. We’ve had this conversation before, Mel. Maybe it’s the damage I inflicted on myself in my drinking days, but I’m not looking for a man, at least not right now.” She glanced into the hallway to make sure no one was there. When she spoke again her voice was low. “It’s for the best. You know how messed up I was. The shit I did. Better to keep to myself.”

  Mel regarded her with a pained expression. “As I’ve said before, shame can go fuck itself.”

  “I tell myself that all the time. Doesn’t mean I want to talk about it.”

  “So keep things casual. Don’t you get horny?”

  “Yes. So I have sex, and it stinks because most men are lousy in bed,” Zan said. “And then it gets messy and complicated. Remember that guy you set me up with who wouldn’t leave me alone?”

  “Yeah. He was a nice guy. I don’t know why you didn’t like him.”

  “He was boring as hell.”

  “See that?” Mel pointed a finger at her. “You’re too damn picky.”

  “Easy for you to say. Your man has poetry in his soul.”

  “He’s a poet, Zan,” Mel said in a flat tone.

  “Well, you should know what I mean then.” Zan laughed. Her partner would never stop trying to set her up. It was their own little ritual. “We better head to Nguyen’s office,” she said.

  CHAPTER 2

  THE ANTIQUE WEAPONS COLLECTOR recommended by Professor Carson owned several acres along the Delaware River in the Bridesburg section of Philadelphia, slightly north of the Betsy Ross Bridge. Zan pulled over on Richmond Street to go over the background check the clerk had included with her copy of the consulting agreement.

  Rainer Barakiel, 33, had immigrated to the United States from Germany nine years previous. The owner of several offshore companies, he was known for his philanthropy, especially his support of the Philadelphia Orchestra. The man spent a lot of money on violins as well, the kind that had names. More to the point, he collected antique bladed weapons. Her information did not include a picture. Zan wondered what a guy who collected violins and weapons would look like.

  Probably nerdy.

  When she arrived at the address she paused to take it in. The place could withstand a siege. It was ringed by a high stone wall in front of a line of thick hedges and black alders, with a stand of cherry trees at the western boundary. It sat behind some kind of disused industrial facility, with a few small businesses along its southern side. The northern boundary was the old course of the Frankford Creek, with the river to the east.

  Zan drove through the open gateway to find a modern building made of glass and mismatched wood that extended almost all the way to the river. Two small outbuildings sat beside it. She figured living on a former industrial site was a small price to pay for all that space and privacy, and those beautiful cherry trees just beginning to bloom.

  The front of the main building had a set of double wooden doors and a smaller entrance to the side with the bell. She rang.

  When the door opened, Zan forgot she was supposed to speak. He was gigantic, she guessed nearly seven feet, with broad shoulders and a lithe, athletic build. High cheekbones framed a fine patrician nose. Full lips complemented a strong jaw. A few strands of unruly blond hair fell over eyes that seemed to be several shades of blue at once. They drew her in with more than their beauty, as if they hid something primeval, just barely restrained. He smiled. Her face felt hot.

  What the hell. Don’t be such a fool.

  “Um, hello, I’m Special Agent Alexandra O’Gara of the FBI.” She stuck out her hand. “My office made an appointment.”

  “Yes. I’m Rainer Barakiel. A pleasure to meet you.”

  His voice was deep and rich. He spoke with a slight accent. When he shook her hand, she held it too long. She still felt flushed.

  “I, um, I appreciate you taking the time for this, Mr. Barakiel.”

  “I’m happy to help.”

  God, so lame. He must have to deal with swooning women all the time, but I doubt he expected it from an FBI agent.

  Turning gracefully, he showed her through the door. Zan tried not to stare at the way his jeans fit his hips or the contours of his muscles beneath his gray cashmere sweater. Gripped by a strong urge to run her hands all over him, she was lucky his place was filled with fascinating things to distract her. Antiques and art were arranged tastefully in the open space, among brown leather couches and chairs and colorful woven rugs. Pale sun from high skylights glinted off a sunburst mosaic above the mantle of a concrete fireplace. Zan tried to concentrate on her surroundings, at least until her pulse slowed down.

  “What a fantastic place.”

  “Thank you.” He dipped his head in an old-fashioned display of manners that she found charming.

  “This whole property is great. What was it used for, before you lived here?”

  “The land was part of the old Rohm and Haas Chemical plant you can still see as you enter. The facility was shut down in 2010. Dow owns it now.”

  “I wish more people would reclaim these abandoned places by the river. Most of it just goes to waste. Meanwhile, they’re developing Chester County farmland.”

  “Yes.” He looked at her intensely. �
�I felt good about redeveloping a brownfield. I had to do a lot of remediation, but now it’s an excellent place to live.”

  “All you need now is for the city to buy the front parcel and turn it into a park.” Zan gave him her best sunny smile, with an openness she knew made people trust her.

  “That would be ideal,” he replied, “but I’m not holding my breath.” He returned her smile.

  My god, you’re beautiful. How are you that beautiful? Why am I here? The knives.

  “Um, I assume Professor Carson told you about the knives.” Zan held up the case. “Daggers, I think. Did he explain where we found them?”

  “Superficially, yes.”

  “Well, someone conducted some kind of ritual in Independence National Historical Park. We wouldn’t be that concerned with weird people doing weird things at night, but we found a human spleen. We tested the DNA and ran it through the database and discovered that the spleen came from a body found this past winter by the Philadelphia police. All its internal organs had been removed. The police called us because they thought it might involve organ trafficking, but we never found evidence of it, so we weren’t much help. No one ever filed a missing persons report on this man. Philly PD was never able to identify the corpse, let alone solve the crime.”

  “Disturbing,” he said.

  “Very. We thought if you could tell us something about the knives it might give us some insight into what the whole thing was about, maybe generate a lead. They look old, and Professor Carson said you are an expert in antique bladed weapons.”

  “Yes. I collect them. I’ve learned a lot over the years.”