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ZAN SPED BACK to the office. She had a lot to get done if she was going to make it to Rainer’s house with those crime scene photos by 7:00 p.m. She felt like she’d guzzled six cups of coffee. She wondered if she should go home and put on pretty clothes and claim she stopped by on her way to dinner.
Silly girl.
When she made it to the office Mel was assembling records for one of their other cases. Zan couldn’t wait to tell her about this man.
Yes, genuine silly-girl attack.
“Hey, Mel. You know how you’re always saying I should show more interest in men? I just met a good candidate.”
“Who? The weapons guy?”
“Yes. You’ve got to see this guy. He’s beautiful.”
“How so?”
“I can’t even describe him. Just hot. Big, blond, sexy accent, impeccable taste. And his eyes.” Zan looked at the ceiling. “His eyes are so blue it’s like they contain the whole sky.”
“Listen to you, all poetic. Are they bluer than yours?”
“By a long shot.”
“Wow. That’s blue.”
Mel suggested they Google him. Zan spelled his name. The first hit was a newspaper article about a fundraiser for the Philadelphia Orchestra. Evidently, Rainer had bankrolled it. There was a photograph of him in a tuxedo, standing next to the conductor.
“Holy hell, that guy is hot,” Mel said. “And tall. What a specimen.”
“That doesn’t even do him justice.”
“So, did you get his number? Did you ask him out? Did he ask you out?”
“No, but I’m going back tonight to show him a few crime scene photos.”
“Nice maneuver.” Mel nodded. “What did he say about the knives?”
Zan recounted the information, then told Mel about the rest of the visit. She had her partner laughing at the thought of Zan being struck speechless.
“Yeah, I have to lay eyes on this guy.”
“I don’t think I’ll have the nerve to ask him out, Mel.”
“Let your hair down and gaze at him invitingly. Maybe he’ll ask you out.”
“I doubt it. He’s big league.”
“So are you. Besides, you can beat dudes up and play a mean guitar. You know, in case he’s looking for more than a pretty face.”
Barakiel sat at his kitchen table putting rosin on his violin bow. He wondered what Pellus would make of his encounter with the beautiful FBI agent. Neither he nor Pellus had been aware of this latest ritual, but Barakiel had discovered the body from which the spleen had been taken. He found it shortly after the winter solstice, not far from his compound.
The body had been left on display, surrounded by daggers at the four points of the compass, its internal organs removed. Barakiel also found a carved wooden medallion lying on the remains that showed the Earth in the embrace of the branches of a great tree. Although he couldn’t be sure, he feared this was a depiction of an axial rift. He had taken the daggers and the medallion but left the body for the humans to discover.
Both he and Pellus were perplexed by the rituals. The idiot bands of humans who worshipped a cartoon version of Lucifer generally never sacrificed anything beyond chickens, but Barakiel found it hard to believe that his discovery of the body at the winter solstice was a coincidence. Its timing and the medallion suggested it had something to do with the demons.
This latest rite appeared to be some less elaborate version of the solstice ritual. It couldn’t have been demons unless they’d been hiding in the Earthly Realm for months. According to the FBI, the most recent incident had occurred at least eight hours before the axial rift opened. Barakiel didn’t know what to make of it at all.
Thanks to his generous financial support of the Penn Museum, Barakiel had known Professor Carson for several years. He knew the professor consulted with law enforcement about antique weapons. He told him he’d love to serve in the same capacity, that he found the idea exciting. He knew the professor would do everything he could to fulfill the request. Such was the power of money. He and Pellus hoped that, in this way, he would hear if there were more ritual sacrifices.
It worked. When Professor Carson called him about the FBI, Barakiel feigned great enthusiasm. This was a good opportunity to find out what the authorities knew and how they reacted to such things. Neither Covalent was sure the demon incursions went entirely unnoticed. While one ritual could be dismissed as a fluke, a second ritual so close to the vernal equinox demanded attention.
Both of them were confident Barakiel’s false identity was secure enough to withstand the background check required by the consulting agreement. Pellus had advised the warrior to gather as much information from the agent as he could, give her some misinformation about the weapons, and leave it there.
Of course, Barakiel hadn’t exactly followed those instructions. Now, he was impatient for Pellus to return, to get it over with. After a brief knock, the adept came in the front door.
“I was wondering when you were going to come back,” Barakiel said.
“How did it go with the FBI agent?”
“Very well. I learned they found a preserved human spleen at the scene of the latest ritual. DNA testing revealed that it came from the body I discovered at the solstice.”
“Did she say anything else about the body?”
“The city police were never able to identify the man, even with the help of the FBI. The crime remains unsolved.”
“Good, good. I thought you might learn something useful. Anything else?”
“The daggers are human blades, the same type we recovered at the solstice.” Barakiel showed Pellus the photographs he’d taken. “I told the FBI agent they are French ceremonial daggers, which is true, but I did not tell her they are copies, or that their use would be religious.”
“Why would you even tell her the country of origin?”
“That they are French might be clear to any number of people, including Professor Carson.”
“I see. Anything else?”
“She is coming back with crime scene photos.”
Pellus frowned. “What is that about?”
“I told her I might be able to tell her something about the ritual, and the provenance of the knives,” Barakiel said.
“You were supposed to find out what they know, give her misinformation about the daggers and be done with it, not advance to the next stage.”
“I know what I was supposed to do, but then this woman showed up at my door, and she is, uh, disarming.”
“What do you mean, disarming?”
“She carries herself like a warrior. She is clever, tall and strong.” Barakiel looked off toward the window, a mist of a smile on his face. “Her skin is flawless and touched with soft color, like mountain snow at dawn.”
“Oh no, no, no,” Pellus said. “Wait, how do you know she is strong?”
He thinks I coupled with her. I suppose I should confess.
“She executed a thrust with my Covalent sword.”
“What?” Pellus hissed. “You showed her your Covalent sword? She picked it up? What in all the realms is the matter with you?”
“I do not know. It gave me a thrill, I suppose.”
“That is just wonderful,” Pellus said, his black robes swaying as he paced. “How did you get yourself in that situation?”
As Barakiel told Pellus about his visit with the FBI agent, he looked gloomier by the second. “Just get rid of her when she comes back, please. Stop flirting.”
“All right.”
If you met her you would see that it is not so easy.
The skylights and the windows flooded Barakiel’s home with the golden light of sunset as he played a mournful piece on his violin. His concentration was disrupted by the doorbell. The beautiful FBI agent. She greeted him professionally, but with a gleam of expectation in her eye. He wanted to match her energy, but he merely smiled politely.
“Please, come in.”
Zan stepped inside as Barakiel put his violin back in its case. “So that was you I heard,” she said. “A beautiful piece wonderfully played.”
“Thank you.” He looked down, trying to hide his pleasure at the compliment.
“Was that baroque?” Zan asked. “I don’t know much about it, but I’ve always loved the way the patterns intertwine.”
Barakiel tried and failed to tamp down his smile. “Yes. I love the tonality.”
“I play, too, you know.”
“You do?” He swallowed hard.
“Yes, the guitar. I mean, not like that. Not baroque or classical. I’m in a rock-n-roll band and I play with some bluegrass musicians.”
“You’re—” He swallowed his words, locking his eyes on the floor.
“I’m what?” Zan asked.
Barakiel gave up his efforts to maintain a bland expression as he raised his head to look at her.
“You’re an interesting woman.”
“You’re an interesting man.”
They stood there in the warm light staring at each other. Zan did not seem self-conscious in the least. She basked in the heat between them. If they touched, the heat would ignite.
A conflagration. Demon take you, Pellus.
Considering the rituals of sacrifice, Barakiel had to admit that Pellus was right. He should stay away from this woman. He shook his head to break the spell and forced his face into blankness, but Zan was not easily deterred.
“My band Sawtooth is playing Century Lounge this Friday,” she said. “You should come to see us. I guarantee it will be an interesting time. We’re lively. Think raging punk rock with an artsy twist.”
“Maybe I will,” he said.
“If you can make it, we’re headlining, so we won’t go on until 11:00 or so. I know it’s late.”
“I hope I can make it.” He drained his voice of sincerity, left it graciously hollow. Zan’s face grew red.
“I’m sorry,” she muttered. “I’m wasting your time. Let’s get to these crime scene photos.”
I have embarrassed her. Demon take you, Pellus. Demon take you.
“No, no, Zan. I’m the one who’s sorry,” Barakiel said hastily. “I’m out of sorts. I had a testy meeting with my business manager shortly before you arrived. I apologize.”
“That’s okay. I hope everything works out for you. Here are the photos,” Zan said, completely recovering her composure behind a mien of authority that Barakiel assumed was her usual demeanor while working.
She took a risk, the way she looked at me. All she got from me was playacting.
Zan spread the photos on the table. He examined them for a minute and said it didn’t look like the ritual had anything to do with the daggers’ original purpose. He said he had never seen a carving like the wooden medallion shown in the photograph, and that he regretted he couldn’t be of more help. Thus far, his contacts hadn’t discovered anything about the daggers, but he would let her know if that changed.
“Well, it was a long shot anyway,” Zan said. “We probably wouldn’t have pursued this avenue if not for my interests. And I got to see all your cool swords, so I’m happy.”
Barakiel nodded. He felt as melancholy as the piece he’d been playing earlier.
“Thank you for your time, Rainer. If we ever find more old blades, I’m sure we’ll ask for your help again.”
“It would be my pleasure.”
He showed her to the door. For a moment as she turned from him, he saw disappointment on her face. He wanted to tell her that he was disappointed, too. He wanted to tell her how much this surprised him.
“Have a good evening,” Zan said. He wished her the same. She got in her car and drove away.
Her tail lights had been gone for some time when Barakiel finally turned from the door. He sat in his winged leather chair and wondered at himself, more conscious of his solitude than he’d been since his earliest days in the Earthly Realm.
Saxony, Earthly Year 804, Phase 8509
Barakiel stood on the low hill observing the battle on the plain to the north. He watched his adopted clan and its allies be gutted by the Frankish hordes. The flags bearing the proud emblem of the tribes of Saxony could no longer be seen. The men who had welcomed him as a brother had fought and defeated the Christian tyrants before, but this time their numbers were too great and their weaponry was forged with the wealth and power of the Church.
He wiped the tears from his face. He could step onto that plain and slaughter hundreds of Franks, mow them down with a power beyond their understanding. Perhaps it wouldn’t be enough, but it would be in the service of his heart. For eighty years he’d moved among these fiercely loyal and brave people.
Now I can only watch them die.
At first, he’d observed them as Pellus suggested. The language was an easy matter for a Covalent, but the Saxons mistrusted strangers. He found his way into his latest clan by saving the life of a chieftain during battle, concocting a story of how his whole family was exterminated by the Franks, who enslaved him until he was able to escape. He proved his worth by bringing them more game than they had ever seen, and wielding his sword with such speed and skill that marauding clans fled before him. His clan grew in number and influence and its warriors gained allies. They looked to the south, hungry for land and chattel. They became as aggressive as the marauders he had once slaughtered in their defense.
To continue in that way was a perversion of his purpose. He could not fight on one side or the other of internecine human battles. If he continued to slaughter the weak as he grew older and more powerful, he would lose Balance. He would become weak himself.
Balance was the wellspring of Covalent power, the equilibrium of Creation and Destruction, order and entropy, attraction and repulsion, love and hate. Balance allowed Barakiel to gather any energy he encountered, to bring it inside himself and transform it into unassailable strength and speed. His enemies fell before a hatred so strong and pure it guaranteed the sureness of his blade. His Saxon family enjoyed his love and loyalty, equally strong, equally pure.
Barakiel was born to slaughter the demons his father sent to kill him, but humans were not worthy adversaries. The time had come for him to choose. Leave his Saxon family or abandon Balance to live as a crippled warrior, good enough for the Earthly Realm, but a mere shadow of what he was meant to be. Abandon Balance and risk dying at the hands of Lucifer’s slaves.
As a Warrior of the Rising, Barakiel’s power called to him as surely as he knew the world through his senses. He did not want to betray his nature. He’d chosen to leave.
The death rattles of his Saxon brothers hung over the plain. The sound haunted his decision, as did the words of the fine woman with whom he’d shared his bed. In the gray dawn, she’d condemned him.
“You coward!” she spat. “We accepted you, a stranger! And you will leave us now, in our greatest need?”
“I am sorry, Eadgyth.”
“I do not understand. I gave myself to you. I could have had any man.” She busied herself rearranging the skins on the bed in their hut before she jerked herself around to glare at him. “Do you not care for me? For my clan?”
“I do.” He cupped her lovely face within its wild mane of reddish-blonde hair. “I wish I could explain.” A visceral temptation curled in his chest to tell her everything.
Would she come with me? Would she leave her family?
He already knew the answer. For a moment he thought she might cry, but she knocked his hand away.
“Go then, coward.”
The battle would not be long, now. Already the Franks were rounding up the women to enslave them in the name of the Holy Roman Emperor. Even from that distance, Barakiel’s sharp eyes could see his clansmen falling bloody to the dirt. His sensitive ears heard their grunts and screams and the wails of the women who tried to reach them, to fight for them or die by their side.
I will save her. Maybe her sisters. I will take them to the nuns. They will show mercy.
Barakiel sped down the hill into the battle, so fast his movement could barely be detected, like leaves blown by a strong wind at the edge of vision.
Philadelphia, Earthly Year 2014, Phase 18997
The next morning, Pellus emerged from the kinetic rift in a flash of ultraviolet light far beyond the visual spectrum of humans. He sauntered across Barakiel’s yard, enjoying the much prettier light of a sunny earthly morning. When he entered the house, Barakiel gave him a curt greeting and then ignored him, sitting at his kitchen table drinking coffee, his sword beside him, staring into space.
“What is the matter with you?” Pellus asked.
“Nothing. We can leave as soon as I have finished my coffee.” Barakiel had the blank look on his face he got when he was trying to keep his temper.
“All right, out with it,” Pellus huffed. “I do not think you should venture into a two-turn battle with something unpleasant on your mind.”
The warrior’s eyes blazed momentarily before he settled into a scowl.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Pellus asked.
“I acted like a cretin towards that FBI agent last night and it is your fault.”
“My fault? Why is it my fault?”
“You told me to stop flirting. You told me to get rid of her. I must have seemed like an ass.” He spoke more and more quickly. “But you know what? I like her. She is interesting and beautiful and I like her, and now I regret listening to you. I usually listen to you, Pellus, because I am grateful to you for many things, but you do not know what it is like to be me.”
“Barakiel, I—”
“Do you know she plays the guitar? She invited me to go see her play. I said something noncommittal and bland and she felt foolish. I made her feel foolish and that annoys me. It seriously annoys me.”
“Barakiel, I—”
“I am going. I am going to see her band. I do not care what you think.”
The two Covalent eyed each other.
“May I speak?” Pellus asked. Barakiel turned his hand, palm up.
“I know you do not have to listen to me and you think this would be harmless, but I am afraid it would create problems. Especially because this woman is some sort of authority figure.”
“What difference does that make?”
“You said this FBI, it investigates things. What if she investigates you? Looks beyond that cursory background check? We cannot have that. Do you want the FBI sniffing around your companies and their preternatural ability to make money? Do you want them to scrutinize me? How can you say such a thing would not happen?”
“For the sake of Balance, Pellus.” Barakiel abruptly stood and slid his sword into its sheath on his back. “The FBI investigates crime. I am a law-abiding citizen. She is not going to investigate me.”
“You are not exactly a law-abiding citizen.”
“As far as she knows I am. As far as she knows, my existence is not possible. Do not conjure problems where there are none.”
Barakiel ran his hand through his hair and forcibly exhaled. When he spoke again it was in a much softer voice. “I like her, Pellus. I want to spend time with her. Is it so wrong for me to enjoy a little companionship?”
Pellus almost winced at the ocean of pain suddenly visible in Barakiel’s eyes. He usually kept it hidden. Though it made Pellus feel small, he was relieved when the warrior locked his pain away once again.
Guardian save me, I do not know how to help him. I wish I did, but a human woman is not the answer.
“We are not going to resolve this today,” Pellus said. “You have a battle to deal with. If you are distracted, I will worry like a fool.”
“I will be fine. Battle always clears my mind.” Barakiel gulped the last of his coffee. “We should go.”
The two Covalent went outside and walked the fifty yards or so to the rift, where they slipped into the whirring stream of pure, dark energy. Pellus was relieved. Going home would ease his mind. He held the memory of the curves and waves of the fabric of existence within him, and for all the times he had passed to and from the dimension of the Earthly Realm with Barakiel, he still relished the task. The journey was like riding along the petal of an intricate flower to find the point it joined with other petals, their surfaces quivering with energy. He felt the vibration of the Covalent Realm and needed but to follow that sense, inevitable as gravity.