The Passion Season

by Libby Doyle

  Almost a month had passed since Grenat, the FBI’s legal attaché, had sent the dagger south. Zan had exchanged numerous telephone calls and emails with Joselet. The day before, she had finally received the anxiously awaited message. Joselet had something to tell her.

  When the doors opened on her floor, Zan bolted to her office. Mel was already there.

  “Slow down. You’ll spill your coffee.”

  “I’m all excited this morning.”

  “Ah, yes. The mysterious Madame Joselet and her cryptic email. Good luck.”

  A few minutes later, Zan greeted Joselet through her computer screen. Her curly black hair and dark eyes were complemented by perfectly applied coral lipstick.

  “Nice to see you, Agent O’Gara.”

  “Nice to see you as well. How are things in the South of France?”

  “Very well, thank you.”

  “I can’t tell you enough how much I appreciate your efforts on our behalf. I know it’s not your job.”

  “It’s our pleasure. My colleagues in Paris know Monsieur Grenat. They like him very much,” Joselet said with a faint smile. “I think you’ll be happy with our results. We have questioned Archibaud. He told us he thinks the men who bought the daggers live not far from the city of Arles, in the Camargue near an old abbaye. He described the men, but they paid cash, so he doesn’t know if they gave their real names. They bought sixteen of those daggers. Archibaud said the price was more than €20,000. Who pays that much in cash?”

  “Criminals.”

  “I would say so.”

  “Do you think Archibaud is involved?”

  “No. I think he only did this work for them.” Joselet reached for a folder and held it up. “We checked his background. No trouble with the law. He is religious and he, er, goes to Church functions. Helps with them. What would you call it?”

  “He’s active in his Church?”

  “Yes, active. In his Church, in his town. Even so, he wasn’t happy to speak to us. At first, he seemed afraid. When he found out we were police, he was relieved.”

  “Do you think he’s in danger?”

  Joselet shrugged. “Who can say? We have asked the district police to watch his shop and his home.”

  “That’s good.” Zan took a sip of her coffee, nervous because she had no way of knowing whether a trip to the Camargue was a huge pain in the ass. “So, will you go to the Camargue? Or ask the local police?”

  “I will go. A visit to the Camargue will be nice. Something different. It’s not far.” Joselet told Zan that she would enlist the help of the local police as well. The marsh was mostly empty, so if they were there, Joselet was confident she would find them.

  “And then, Agent O’Gara, we will see what they have to say for themselves.”

  Barakiel surveyed the place settings. They looked imbalanced in the corner of the huge table, but he liked the flowers he had bought for Zan. Ivory blush roses.

  Soft and inviting, like her skin.

  For the first time, he’d cooked Zan dinner. He hoped it tasted as good as it smelled. When she came in, she hugged and kissed him so exuberantly that he grabbed her shoulders and looked at her with a question in his eyes.

  “Remember I told you that the legal attaché said the auction house in Paris had identified the man who made the daggers?” she asked.

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “Well, the police in Aix en Provence questioned him. He told them where they can find the men who commissioned the daggers.” Zan danced around, rubbing her hands together. “They bought sixteen blades and paid in cash. Definitely up to no good. This is it. We’re going to find these fuckers.”

  Before he could get a handle on his expression, Zan asked what was wrong. He looked down and said the only thing that came to mind.

  “You didn’t even notice that I made dinner.”

  “Oh, honey,” Zan said with a tender-hearted laugh. “I’m sorry. I’m just so excited. And it’s thanks to you. All because of you.” She pulled him down, covering his face with greedy kisses. The feel of her velvet lips and her intoxicating scent threatened to make him hard. He quashed it. He needed to find out what else Archibaud had said.

  I should not be so nervous. If he had told the police about us, she would not be acting like this.

  “You would have found them on your own, my love.” Barakiel hoped he appeared enthusiastic. He had to be careful. Every day, he grew less able to hide his emotions from her. “I’m so happy for you,” he continued. “Did he give you any other useful information?”

  “Yes, lots of great stuff,” Zan said. “He thinks they live near some old monastery. He physically described them and said they call themselves monks, but they’re not like any monks he’s ever heard of. He’s afraid of them.”

  Without thinking, Barakiel loudly exhaled. Zan squinted at him. He saw his mistake.

  “Good, ah, even better. Anything else?” he asked.

  “What’s up with you?” Zan tilted her head, still squinting. “You look like you just found out the tumor is benign.”

  “I’m glad I didn’t fail you.”

  “My sweet, sensitive soul, even if your information had gone nowhere, you wouldn’t have failed me. I told you before, none of this is your responsibility.” She reached up to push a piece of hair away from his face. “You’re not depressed again, are you?”

  “No, I’m not depressed.”

  “Good. Then tell me why you’ve been acting so wacky. You and Pellus. When he was here last week he stared at me like I have six heads. It’s been bothering me ever since.”

  “I wasn’t aware my behavior has been strange. As for Pellus, his behavior is always strange.”

  “Right.” Zan took a few steps away from him. She looked over at the fireplace. “Why did he come here last week?”

  Anxiety lit up Barakiel’s brain. All his set excuses deserted him. He stood there stupidly. Zan wheeled to face him.

  “Are you going to answer me?”

  “I’m thinking.”

  “Jesus Christ. What is there to think about? Just answer the goddamn question.”

  He couldn’t lie anymore. If he tried she would know it, but his silence fed her fury.

  “I am so sick of this!” she said. “You are hiding something from me. Maybe a lot of things. You go on these business trips. Why can’t I talk to you on the phone at night when you’re in the hotel? I just get these weird texts and emails. They don’t sound like you. Do you even write them? Where the hell do you go? I can tell you one thing, they’re not fucking business trips. Not legitimate business, anyway.”

  Thoughts crashed through Barakiel’s mind like wild horses.

  I have to tell her. Balance help me, it cannot be now. I need Pellus as my traveler. I must fight the demons at the equinox. If she leaves me, I will be a mess.

  “You have nothing to say? Unbelievable!” Zan paced. When she got back to where he was standing, she stepped in close and peered up at him.

  “Are you a criminal?”

  “No, I’m not a criminal!”

  “No?” Zan walked behind the kitchen counter. She noticed the pots and turned off the gas burners. “What is it then? You passed our background check. Someone is helping you. Witness protection? Foreign intelligence? Alien race?”

  Her desperate humor at the end was like a rope around his throat. He kept his eyes on the floor and took the long way around the counter to get to her. He reached for her hand. She let him hold it as she gazed at him, unblinking.

  “I am hiding things from you, Zan. Many things.”

  “Yeah. Tell me something I don’t know.” She hung her head. “I tried so hard to convince myself I was wrong,” she mumbled, withdrawing her hand from his and pressing it to her mouth.

  “Remember when I told you about Patrick?” she asked, sounding like a little girl. “And you said you tried to save someone, too? You said you weren’t ready then, to tell me that story. But you never told me. I waited and waited, but yo
u never told me.”

  Pain and guilt speared his chest. He’d been so unfair to her.

  “Be patient with me, my love. I will tell you everything. I want to, more than anything, but I need a little time.” Anger crept into her eyes. He cupped her face, desperate to forestall it. “I love you, Zan. You know this is true. Please give me a little time. I’m in a difficult situation right now, but I’ll make it right. Less than two weeks. That’s all I need.”

  Zan expelled a weary sigh and pushed his hands from her face. “You expect me to go on for the next two weeks like nothing has happened? Like we never had this conversation?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because you love me.”

  An extraordinary look crossed Zan’s face, some potent mix of anger, tenderness and resignation. “Christ,” she said, casting her eyes to the ceiling. “For a man with secrets, could you have picked a worse girlfriend?”

  They looked at each other, then burst out laughing. They laughed for a good, long time. When they had exhausted their frantic mirth, Barakiel kissed her hot face and took her hands.

  “Do you love me?”

  “Yes, I love you.”

  “Do you trust me?”

  “I trust you.”

  “Enough to give me time? Enough to believe that I have good reasons for my secrets?”

  “I shouldn’t,” she said. “But what can I do? I’m weak-in-the-knees in love with you.”

  Relief washed through him. He filled his kiss with all the longing and admiration he felt for her. When they parted lips, Zan couldn’t speak for a second or two.

  “Your dinner,” she finally said. “I think it’s ruined.”

  “Ah, who cares?” He kissed her again.

  CHAPTER 14

  Covalent City

  THE COMMANDERS SAT at the massive table in the black and emerald Nexus staring at Barakiel as if they didn’t know quite what to do with him. He had fought in back-to-back battles for Remiel and Osmadiel, two battles in which the Corrupted had not appeared. This made it easy for him. He’d slaughtered demons with such inspired ferocity that it surprised even the ancient High Command.

  Everyone at that table knew a warrior like Barakiel would normally be given his own battalion, but this was impossible. And perhaps the reason they regarded him with such perplexed expressions.

  “Well, Barakiel,” Osmadiel said. “Once again, my warriors were honored to have fought beside you. I have not seen such a mound of stinking demon flesh in an age.”

  “The honor is mine, high commander. I am learning how to work with your warriors. Our battlefield communication is improving. I think that was the key to the success of our plan.”

  “Yes, it does take time,” Camael said. “And because Barakiel cannot be in every battalion at once, I would like to discuss how other units may be able to implement the same plan. You described it before as a ‘curling wedge,’ warrior. Could you explain that?”

  “The warriors form a wedge with the strongest among them at the tip,” Barakiel said. “The wedge cleaves the horde in two, then begins to spread outward and curl up at the ends as lines surge inward from the flanks. When the different lines converge, the demons are bottled up. They must flee the way they have come, or be surrounded. Communication is crucial because the timing is different for each battle. If executed poorly, the tactic can leave warriors surrounded.”

  “I understand,” Camael said. “High risk and high reward.”

  “I do not think this would work at all with the Corrupted,” Galizur said. Barakiel tamped down the dirty look that fought to get onto his face.

  I hate to admit when you are right, Galizur, because you are such an asshole.

  “This is true,” Barakiel said. “I am sure Lucifer has tried to school his demons to avoid this trap, but they are too stupid to listen. The Corrupted fell before this tactic once. I do not think it will work a second time.”

  “We will need ever-changing patterns to throw at them,” Camael said. “Barakiel, you seem to have a talent for it. Going forward, you will attend each meeting of the commanders to discuss such things.”

  So this was the origin of the earlier perplexed looks? Barakiel almost laughed at the absurdity.

  They want me to act like a commander, but without warriors. They want me here more and more but dare not end my exile.

  With the danger of laughter over, Barakiel delivered the required words. “I do not know what to say, high commanders. You honor me.”

  “We may also need to add another battalion to the list of those with whom you fight,” Osmadiel said. “Our forces still suffer heavy casualties and you have become much more than a potent sword. Your defiance of your father has become a source of hope that helps the warriors in their grief.”

  “I will do whatever you need me to do.”

  “With all respect, high commander, how much can we expect from him?” Remiel said. “No other warrior is required to shoulder back-to-back tours in the Turning or to switch from battalion to battalion. Fatigue and unfamiliarity could undermine his effectiveness.”

  Osmadiel nodded, but from the look she gave Remiel she did not expect further protest.

  “Barring some unforeseen circumstance, we will not require Barakiel to fight back to back again, but he will rotate into your battalion less often. He will fight more than other warriors, but nothing unreasonable. We will give him time to rest, and to meet his tactical responsibilities.”

  “Given all this, the Council should end Barakiel’s exile,” Remiel said.

  “That is not going to happen,” Galizur said. Barakiel kept his expression carefully neutral, but for once he was happy to hear the fool.

  My exile is now my happiness.

  “We understand we are asking a lot of your warrior, Remiel,” Osmadiel said, as Camael nodded in agreement. “Is there anything we can do to make your duties less burdensome, Barakiel?”

  “Yes, there is, in fact. Allow me to have Pellus as my traveler again.”

  “Absolutely not,” Galizur said. “Pellus does whatever he wants. We need someone who obeys Covalent Law to serve as your traveler.”

  “Pellus is the only traveler who can cloak me. Right now, I am nearly at the end of the time I am permitted to remain in the Covalent Realm without his assistance,” Barakiel said. “More important, the autumnal equinox is approaching in the Earthly Realm. For many earthly centuries, Pellus has concealed my battles with the demons there. The complexity of modern human society makes it anything but a simple proposition. Do we really want another traveler attempting this? Does the Council relish the humans detecting a Covalent engaged in a fight to the death with a dozen demons in the middle of a city?”

  “That would not be good,” Camael said, frowning.

  “An adept can handle it,” Galizur said. “Pellus is not the only talented traveler we have.”

  “But Pellus is the only traveler with experience performing this particular task,” Osmadiel said. “I am willing to ask the Council on your behalf, Barakiel.”

  Camael said he was willing as well. Galizur was outvoted.

  “Thank you, high commanders. I will be of most use to you with Pellus as my traveler.”

  The commanders discussed the logistics of this request, and decided sooner was better than later, considering the Council was in session above them as they spoke.

  “Barakiel, go inform Pellus and wait with him at his chambers. We will notify you through the Conduit,” Remiel said. “He can cloak you while you wait.”

  “Yes, commander.” Barakiel rose, bowed, and took his leave.

  As he ascended the stone steps to the chambers where Pellus lived with Jeduthan, Barakiel tried to clear his agitated mind. Mates tell each other everything, which meant Jeduthan knew what Barakiel had said about her, that she was subservient and would betray Pellus if pressed, a terrible insult. Barakiel was not sure she would permit him to remain in her home.

  What’s m
ore, he could no longer avoid telling Pellus about Archibaud and the French police. Barakiel tried to distract himself with the beautiful installations of light and color the quickeners had placed among the structures piled upon the hill, but he could not stop his thoughts.

  He knocked when he reached their heavy door. Pellus opened it and invited him inside with no trace of nervousness.

  But then again, no one can ever tell when Pellus is nervous.

  Jeduthan came out of the inner chamber shortly afterward. She greeted Barakiel civilly, which surprised him. At the site of her, he blurted out a frenetic apology. He told her about his terrible fear that something would happen to the woman he loved. How he grew angry and it made him stupid and unreasonable. And certainly, he did not mean what he’d said. It had nothing to do with her at all. He was trying to hurt Pellus. He’d wanted to hurt Pellus.

  “I know, Barakiel.” Jeduthan smiled, perfectly calm. “I am happy that you apologized, and I accept. Pellus did not behave in his usual self-controlled manner, either.” Jeduthan grasped his hand. “Your situation is so difficult. The least we can do is offer you understanding. We are your friends.”

  Blinking back tears, Barakiel kissed Jeduthan’s hand.

  “I am the luckiest among Covalent, to have such friends,” he said. “Without Pellus I would be dead, and I am not only referring to the Corrupted. I would have met the Stream long ago without him. You are him and he is you. I am devoted to you both.”

  “We know, Barakiel.” She squeezed his hand.

  “I am glad you have come here,” Pellus said. “Now, everything is right between us. Do I need to cloak you?”

  “Yes, Pellus. And as good as it was to offer that much-needed apology, there is another reason for my visit. I have persuaded the High Command to ask the Council to return you to your duties as my traveler. They will summon us when the Council has made its decision.”

  “Excellent! Nothing persuades in the Covalent Realm like a mighty sword,” Pellus said.

  “And few are more persuasive than yours,” Jeduthan said.