The Passion Season

by Libby Doyle

  He will awake none the wiser and a little richer. And now I know these false monks must be killed.

  SUMMER SOLSTICE

  CHAPTER 1

  THE SUN HAD RISEN engulfed in haze, and the solstice was coming too late in the morning for Barakiel’s peace of mind. The hour approached 7:00 a.m., and though it was Saturday, the streets were more active than he would like.

  Pellus will have his work cut out for him to conceal my battle today. A daylight battle is never a good thing.

  The adept, who stood somewhere nearby, had told him the branch of the axial rift would open in the middle of Broad Street in South Philadelphia. Barakiel waited on the edge of the adjacent FDR Park. When the rift opened with a sound somewhere between the ripping of fabric and the shattering of glass, Barakiel faced it, poised to assess the demons’ tactics. This time no demons emerged.

  The Corrupted.

  Since Barakiel’s exile, the Corrupted had never stopped trying to use the axial rifts. Pellus could usually block them because they had been Covalent once, and unlike the demons, were composed of the same elements. Nonetheless, Barakiel had cautioned himself that one day they might appear. He was ready. He took a few steps toward them.

  “Looking for me?”

  The Corrupted snapped their polluted eyes to him and charged. There were five, clad in black armor, and they moved with frightening speed. Barakiel turned and ran, his goal to lead them to the skate park under the elevated highway, a somewhat hidden space of curved concrete walls covered with fat, bold, graffiti. The skate park would almost certainly be empty so early in the morning.

  Wherever you are, Pellus, I hope you realize this will not be our usual fight.

  The Corrupted did as Barakiel expected. They pursued him, giving Barakiel the chance to assess their velocity. When he reached the skate park, he turned to face them. The Corrupted stopped and fanned out in a line.

  “Barakiel,” said the largest. “Your father sends his love.”

  “How sad that you won’t get the chance to send him mine, because you will be dead.”

  “Five against a single Covalent? You have no warriors here to help you, wayward son. You are alone.” The Corrupted tilted his head and hissed. The others cackled and moved to encircle Barakiel, who stood his ground, smiling.

  “I have lived here for an age,” he said. “The power of the sun burns in me. I can feel the oceans hold the lands in their embrace and hear the wind as it is born. You cannot defeat me here.”

  “No? This realm is filled with Destruction, wayward son. These creatures? We can feel them dying. We take the power of their decay.”

  Barakiel snorted. “You think I cannot feel death? But I also feel the life that springs from the soil. That grows in their wombs. You cannot defeat me here.”

  The Corrupted completed their circle. They screeched in unison as they attacked. Barakiel moved faster than he had before, faster than they knew he could, leaping in the air and flipping backward until he stood behind the largest among them. He sliced off the dark warrior’s head before he had the chance to turn.

  The rest rushed Barakiel, who thrust his right elbow back to strike the Corrupted behind him in the face with the pommel of his sword. In a span of time barely measurable, he surged forward, plunging his blade through the armor and into the chest of the Corrupted facing him. With his dagger, he stabbed at the third Corrupted, who rushed him from the left, while he rotated, ducked and raised his blade to evade the blow delivered from the right by the fourth remaining attacker. The blow did not connect with Barakiel’s neck, but with his sword, its end still in the chest of the other Corrupted. At the same time, the enemy on his left landed a blow that he could not evade. It sliced through his armor, severely wounding his left arm. Scarlet blood flowed onto his sleeve and gauntlet.

  I must extricate myself from this situation.

  Rotating his sword to increase the damage as he withdrew it from the Corrupted’s chest, Barakiel crouched and flung himself backward at the legs of the dark warrior whose face he had struck, who had recovered enough to resume her attack. Surprised, she staggered backward, but not before she managed to connect her blade with the side of Barakiel’s thigh, slicing through his armor and splitting the hard muscle. He winced in pain. Willing himself to rise and run to the convex cement wall, he leaped against it and pushed off, sailing over the heads of the Corrupted to land on the other side.

  Good. I have bought some time.

  The Corrupted who had taken Blue Fire in his chest now lay crumpled on the ground. Barakiel had also wounded a dark warrior with his dagger, but the two others were intact. They approached while their wounded comrade crept behind. Barakiel listened to the flow of Philadelphia’s two rivers, which converged nearby. The smaller Schuylkill River did not push its way into the mighty Delaware, but rather spread out and let itself be taken, the power of the greater river serving to strengthen the flow of the lesser.

  I must become the river.

  He waited for the attack. The two uninjured Corrupted ran toward him as one made a mid-level sweep with her sword. Barakiel met the sweep. He altered its trajectory yet followed the direction of its energy, spinning between his two adversaries, strafing the left-hand Corrupted in the neck with his blade. The dark warrior grabbed the wound, collapsing as his black blood pumped strongly out and down his shoulder.

  Barakiel continued his circle, but dropped his sword from its original level just as he was about to make contact with his foe’s blade, raised to block his assault. His movement was so quick and deft the Corrupted could not adjust. Barakiel sliced open her side near the hip, her armor no match for the perfect angle of his weapon. She staggered back, just as the third remaining Corrupted charged him from behind. Barakiel could not turn quickly enough to evade the thrust. He felt hard steel pierce his lower back through the seam of his armor, mere inches from his spine. A shock of pain tore through him, and a susurration of fear.

  I cannot die. I will return to Zan.

  With an angry shout, Barakiel surged forward to remove the sword from his back. He wheeled as the Corrupted resumed his attack and caught the advancing blade against his hilt guard. He met force with force for a hair of a second before flowing backward, falling to the ground, causing his attacker to fall forward as well, unable to stop his own momentum. Placing his legs on his foe’s abdomen, Barakiel launched him into the other dark warrior, who was approaching again despite the open wound in her side. Both Corrupted fell to the ground and Barakiel was on them, plunging his blue singing sword into their chests. They were unable to rise. It was a simple matter then, for Barakiel to take their heads. When it was done he collapsed onto the dusty concrete, breathing heavily, fighting for consciousness.

  My red blood mixes with the cocoa dirt. Pretty.

  Pellus emerged from wherever he had been stationed, his face leaden, his eyes revealing something that Barakiel had never seen in them before.

  “Barakiel. The Corrupted. I failed you.”

  “Eh, Pellus, no matter,” Barakiel rasped. “It is done. Do what you do to their corpses and take me to the healers.”

  Covalent City

  Pellus had barely passed through the kinetic rift with the wounded Barakiel when he shouted for some lower-order warriors to help him. At first, the louts just stared without budging from the stone wall where they sat. A terse, “Now, you fools,” got them moving.

  In the Earthly Realm, Pellus had taken a few moments to locate Barakiel’s wounds and thicken his blood so it would not pour out of him at such an alarming rate. Surprising himself, he had managed to drag the huge warrior to the rift. He thanked Balance to have some assistance now, to carry his barely conscious friend to the healers.

  The adept’s body shook with anxiety. Wounds could be beyond help, and the puncture in Barakiel’s back was the worst injury he had ever suffered. Pellus reminded himself that healers were Covalent of immense power. He thanked Balance that as an adept, he could access the oldest and most mast
erful healers in the Realm, the Sylvan Three.

  Healers were always born in threes. As such, they were rare. Adding to this rarity, not all sets of triplets succeeded in their purpose. Like travelers, they devoted themselves to long study, but they also had to be willing to join their minds. Only the collective power of three could produce enough energy for true healing.

  These particular healers were legendary. The Sylvan Three. Their name alone provoked wonder among the citizens.

  Their origins had been lost in time and they preferred to keep it to themselves. Undoubtedly, they were ancient. Though healers were rarely born, they fell victim less often to the events that killed other Covalent. Their duty did not call for them to fight or travel into the unknown. Those that learned to be accomplished healers were less susceptible to the malaise that led others to meet the Stream or destroy themselves with haze or dire essence, powerful narcotics that claimed many lives.

  The only danger to healers in the history of the Realm had been when one faction or another had sought to imprison them—to prevent them from practicing their healing arts—so enemies would have no recourse after being bloodied on the field of battle.

  When they reached the Sylvan Three’s chambers, the lesser warriors deposited the delirious Barakiel in the reception area, an intricate structure of polished white stone carved in sinuous folds around a central agate fountain, its stripes of pale blue seeming to quiver beneath the flowing water. The room always made Pellus feel like he had walked inside a flower made of purity.

  Pellus thanked the warriors for their help. He assured them he would put a good word in with their commander, then sent them on their way. The healers appeared a few pulses later.

  “Give him to us,” they said in soothing unison as they glided to Barakiel. They were delicate creatures with glistening black hair and silver eyes that glowed like bright moons. Pellus bowed. He thanked them for being willing to heal his friend, who in his lightheaded state did nothing but stare.

  “No need to thank us, adept. We know who he is.”

  They laid their hands on Barakiel and took him to the back chamber. Pellus did not understand how the waifish females could carry the huge warrior so easily. They removed his armor and his undergarments, taking care to jostle his wounded limbs as little as possible. They laid him on a hovering bed of pale green light and gently rubbed their hands along his body. One rested her hands on his back wound, her eyes closed and her head bowed.

  “You will sleep now, warrior,” the Sylvan Three sang to him. “Balance willing, when you wake you will be healed. We will do everything in our power to make you flawless once again.”

  As he watched from the threshold, Pellus smiled at the way they treated Barakiel.

  His reputation precedes him.

  Barakiel opened his eyes to find the Sylvan Three gazing down on him serenely. They informed him that they had repaired his wounds and more seamlessly healed his older injuries. They made faces of distaste at what they obviously considered to be the subpar work of the battalion healers.

  “Do not ever submit to their healing again, warrior. We are here for you,” they said.

  “Thank you, Sylvan Three. Not many warriors are so fortunate. If you ever need me, I am at your disposal.”

  “Our disposal,” they said, before taking his hands to indicate he should rise from his luminous bed. “You will feel good now, warrior. We cleared blockages in your energy flow that were interfering with the advantages of Balance. You will function effortlessly.”

  They ran their soft hands over his naked frame once more as he stretched his arms and arched his back. He did indeed feel like he could fill the whole Realm.

  “You will be intoxicated with strength,” the Three said.

  “Is that a good or a bad thing?”

  “It is Balance. You may feel at a loss to express it. We can help you release some of that energy if you like,” they said in unison, as one healer ran her hand down his back and rested it on his ass. Barakiel was mortified.

  “You are exquisite, healers, and I am honored that you would be willing to do that for me, but I have an urgent duty to which I must attend. I am sorry.”

  “Another time, fine warrior.”

  Barakiel bowed low in respect, but he worried that he had insulted them.

  I cannot tell them I belong to another.

  When he emerged from the Three’s chambers, Pellus was waiting for him.

  “How do you feel, Barakiel?”

  “As if I could smash Lucifer like an earthly mosquito.”

  “The Sylvan Three are masters,” Pellus said, a reverent look on his face. “They have returned me to Balance as well. I was afraid they would not be able to help me because killing that monk was against my purpose, but they said the price I paid was high enough. Now I feel wonderful.”

  “We should take advantage of this strength and attend to the false monks’ followers in Philadelphia. Let us get this done quickly. I want nothing so much as to see Zan.”

  They moved off down the stone path toward the kinetic rift. Barakiel stared up at the firmament as he walked. His senses were heightened so that the faint beats of the Stream were transformed into vigorous throbs. The billions of stars that bathed the Realm in a soft, perpetual light were clarion points to his eyes. He felt as if he could see and understand every star at once.

  I want to touch Zan. I want to hold her against me so I can feel her blood rush through her body at the urging of her heart.

  Pellus emitted one of his worried sighs. Barakiel gave him a sharp look.

  “Do not start sighing about Zan. I do not want to hear it.”

  “I did not sigh about Zan. I sighed because I failed you.”

  “I already told you, it does not matter. I killed them. And now, thanks to you, the Realm’s greatest healers have made me feel like I am the origin of the Creative Force itself.”

  “I think they like you.”

  “Yes.”

  They walked in silence until Pellus asked Barakiel if he had any theory as to Lucifer’s goals for the fiendish monks.

  “Who knows?” Barakiel said. “Do not underestimate my father’s lust for death and power. He may have done it for the amusement of having them murder in his name.”

  “I do not think so,” Pellus said with a grimace. “I have not had the chance to tell you in detail about the engravings or show you the photos. Those plates took considerable effort to produce. I am assuming they took considerable effort to deliver. He must have goals in mind beyond the satisfaction of his ego.”

  Barakiel frowned and kicked a rock along the path.

  He is right. If my father were not devious, the commanders would not be worried that he will gain the city gates.

  “Well then, his goal is most likely information,” Barakiel said. “The false monks could not possibly do anything else for him. He may think they can provide insight into the Earthly Realm, some scrap of intelligence that would force me into a mistake. Something to help his demons defeat me. Or the Corrupted, as the case may be.”

  Pellus worried his robe as he walked. “I think the whole gambit with the monks may have been meant to accomplish just what it did—to interfere with my abilities. We fell right into his trap.”

  “You need to let go of this shame, Pellus. Lucifer could not predict that you would be the first among us to kill a false monk. You are a traveler. Killing is not your purpose. Death-dealing is my job, and I should be the one to bear the consequences.”

  A horrified look spread over Pellus’ face. He stopped walking and stared up at Barakiel. “Guardian save me, that must be his game.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Lucifer knows that you will kill the false monks now that you have discovered their depravity. You will lose Balance and render yourself vulnerable.”

  Barakiel held his friend’s eyes for a moment before he looked up at the stars.

  Clever, father, but I have so much to live for now. I will pr
evail.

  “You could be right, Pellus,” he said. “That is probably right, but it makes no difference. I must kill the monks and their followers. They slaughter the most helpless people in the Earthly Realm. They torture and murder women for sexual pleasure and money. How can I let them live? The blood they shed is on my hands. To kill them is my duty.”

  “A warrior’s duty is to protect the Realm, not humans!” Pellus walked quickly in a circle in a rare display of agitation. “It is too dangerous for you to kill the predator monks. Balance help me, it is so obvious to me now! That first body at the winter solstice was deliberately left near your compound.”

  “Yes, that does make sense.”

  “Please listen to me, Barakiel. You must not kill them. Covalent Law forbids the Sylvan Three to help you if you lose Balance through killing the weak. And there are so many of them. Perhaps we should just alert the human authorities.”

  “The human authorities? You surprise me, Pellus. What would we tell them? What would the false monks tell them?”

  After he had killed the head monk, Pellus had trailed the others but was forced to leave to conceal the solstice battle. The two from the Camargue were no doubt back in France by now. Barakiel doubted the French would arrest a group of seemingly pious men for crimes committed on American soil with no proof beyond the claims of strangers. The FBI might reach out to its French counterpart if he told Zan what he knew about the origin of the daggers, but there was no telling how long the ensuing process could take, even if it went their way. In the meantime, more innocents would die.

  “No, Pellus, I appreciate your concern and it is valid, but it cannot be helped. I must stop them,” Barakiel said. “You say it is not my duty, but it certainly is my responsibility. This is not violence created by human conflict, as when I was among the Saxons. These criminal monks would not exist if not for me.”