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IN THE GRAY LIGHT of dawn, Barakiel rolled over in the enormous bed he shared with Zan. She still slept, her beautiful face half-concealed by the snow-white pillow. He kissed her shoulder, unable to resist its smoothness. She didn’t wake. He rested his hand there for a moment, then ran it slowly down her arm, along the curve of her waist, over the rise of her hips. She stirred and opened her eyes. Aroused now, he nudged her onto her back and held himself over her, nuzzling her face and neck.
“Mmmmm, honey,” she murmured.
“Love me, Zan,” he whispered in her ear. “Give me the confidence to convince Remiel that our plan is best.”
Zan pulled him down into a kiss, open and accepting. She arched her back and pushed her body into his, engulfing him in lust. He growled involuntarily. She guided him off her and hopped out of bed.
“As if you need any confidence.” She turned toward the bathroom. “I’ll be right back,” she said over her shoulder.
He sank back into the pillows and thought about her words.
She is right. It is not confidence I need when Remiel comes here later. It is finesse, diplomacy. Remiel is the commander of what is left of the Council Forces. Zan and I will kill Abraxos, but I do not want it to seem like a pronouncement from me.
When Zan came out of the bathroom, she had fluffed her hair. She posed against the doorjamb, her nakedness so lovely his breath caught, her wild, black mane framing her creamy skin, deep blue eyes, pomegranate lips. He almost rose to seize her but made a request instead.
“Teach me to be gentle this morning, my love. To touch you like silk though I’m bursting with steel.”
“I like the sound of that.” She got into bed beside him and played her fingers lightly over his chest. “Gather me under you. Cover me, let me feel your body press every part of me. Kiss me as deeply as you can. Make me feel safe. Make me feel loved.”
In one smooth move, he hovered over her, holding himself on his forearms so that his skin brushed hers. “I will cherish you,” he said, dipping into her requested kiss. As their lips joined and tongues explored, he shifted to caress her breasts with his hand, his movements feather-light. He lowered his head to take her breast in his mouth, amazed, as always, at the velvety feel. He rested his hand on her stomach then slid it down, slowly, to push her legs apart and massage her, to know if she wanted him there, now. He teased her with his fingers. She squirmed and made a small, high noise.
Balance help me, she is adorable.
He rose to kiss her mouth again, stretched above her, lightly pressing. Her response was hungry now and she searched with her hand then guided him inside her, sinking heavily into the bed with a sigh as he ventured in and began to move his hips, gently, with the rhythm of a quiet folk song or a country ballad. He wrapped her completely in his arms, breathing into her neck, feeling immersed in warmth, comfort, stickiness. Deeper he pushed, and felt like he was falling into Zan’s body, which swayed with him, opened to receive him. The delicious impressions he felt when he touched Zan carried him away. Sensations of satin and silk twined about his body as the power came in waves, building and building. He became so sensitive he could feel Zan’s pulse on his cock. He growled, long and low, then growled again. He wanted to pound but held himself back, letting her sway beneath him, his teeth on her neck now, a soft bite, his eyes squeezed shut against his power.
When Zan moved her hips more frenetically, he relaxed his control, just a bit. He went deeper inside her, pushing her into the bed, her hair all he could see of her now, black ropes and threads again the white. With a roll and another push, she came to him, so hot, so good, her scent infusing the air. He bucked, involuntarily, the images of luxurious cloth that waved through his mind transforming into a sheet of crackling energy that burst like smashed particles. He climaxed with another growl and another surge deep into the body of his mate, where he found belonging like nowhere else. He pressed hard against her for a minute before raising himself and putting his lips to her ear once more.
“Was I gentle enough, my love?”
“Oooh, mmmmm, perfect. I love you, Rainer.”
“As I love you.”
Pellus and Remiel passed out of the ultraviolet flash that marked the rift, it having grounded inside Barakiel’s compound for a change. Remiel looked much better than she had when he had seen her last, of course. Her dark blues robes appeared freshly laundered, although Barakiel knew Pellus had most likely worked his magic. Remiel would never use water so frivolously in the Wasteland.
The afternoon had been hot, but the evening brought a pleasant, fresh-smelling breeze. Zan suggested they hold their discussion by the river then headed back to the house with Jeduthan to fix cocktails while the others took their seats by the wide ribbon of water, tinged coppery by the slanted light from the west.
“Commander, it is wonderful to see you looking so well,” Barakiel said.
“The Sylvan Three have been healing nonstop. Truly, they are the most wonderful Covalent to have ever existed.”
“We came to that conclusion some time ago,” Barakiel said, glancing at Pellus. “Is it difficult for them in the Wasteland?”
“They must shroud themselves with healing power to stay sound, but their ability to do this does not seem to be lessening. They disappear sometimes. We do not ask them where they go. Perhaps to visit the chukka beasts.” She smiled.
“The beasts must have energy to spare at the moment,” Pellus said. Barakiel wanted to laugh. He looked across to river to the wall of trees bathed in the persimmon aura of day’s end.
Should I find that funny? After all, some of the warriors consumed by the chukka beasts were only following orders. Were they culpable for merely failing to rebel?
Remiel quieted his thoughts by bringing them to the purpose of her visit.
“So, Barakiel, Pellus told me of your intentions. Are you certain you do not want us to mount some sort of incursion? At least until you penetrate the Keep?”
“Your warriors have done enough.”
“Indeed. They deserve every honor we can give them, and yes, they are more depleted than before. I am glad of your plan. I do not think I could mount a force anywhere near sufficient to take the city, even with the better-rested warriors we liberated from the dungeons. Even if the warriors who insincerely pledged loyalty to Abraxos were to rise and fight by our side. The city’s defenses are too strong. We inflicted high casualties during the raid and Abraxos must send warriors into the Turning to manage the demons, but I suspect he can field two full battalions, unbloodied.”
“Your warriors deserve to rest in comfort rather than in the cold, hard arms of the Wasteland. We must take the city, but I think we need only to cut off the heads of the Hydra.”
“The what?”
“A gigantic, many-headed creature from human mythology.”
Remiel swatted bugs away from her face and scrutinized him. “Does this mean you want to kill Abraxos’ commanders as well?”
“Yes. I think the rank and file will lay down their arms if the leadership is gone.”
“What if they do not? Every commander designates a successor in case of death on the battlefield. Any commander loyal to Abraxos is likely to have chosen a successor with the same misguided fealty.”
Barakiel almost blurted, “Then I will kill them, too,” but he remembered his vow to act with finesse. He shuffled his feet along the scorched late summer grass.
I must learn to moderate myself. I never again want to disrespect Remiel the way I did when I so impulsively told her I would no longer take her orders.
“Do you have any suggestions, commander? Perhaps it would be efficacious to identify the warriors who would place their loyalty to the usurper above loyalty to the Council and the Realm.”
Remiel leaned back with her eyebrows raised. She glanced at Pellus. “‘Efficacious to identify the warriors?’ Has the adept here at long last had an effect on you?”
Pellus could not stifle a laugh. Barakiel smiled. “Pellus and his mate, yes. I told Jeduthan I have grown up. I have been thinking about it ever since I said it, about what it should mean. And about Ravellen, what we have lost in her. A good place to start giving those words meaning is to refrain from voicing my thoughts without reflection.”
“I am sure we all think about what we have lost in Ravellen,” Remiel said, lowering her eyes.
Their reverie of grief was broken by Zan and Jeduthan’s emergence from the house with drinks. When the two had joined them, they all sat sipping their cocktails. “Well,” Remiel said, brightening her expression and tone, “I have come to like this concoction. When we retake the city I will have to teach an artisan to make me a—what is this again, Zan?”
“A vodka gimlet. You will have to send a traveler to procure lime juice and vodka.”
Remiel chortled at what an odd request that would be, then brought Zan and Jeduthan up to speed on the discussion.
“You have me curious, Barakiel,” Remiel said when she’d finished. “I saw your effort to temper your first thought about the problematic successor commanders. What was it?”
“My first thought was that if they do not lay down their arms, I will kill them as well.”
“Hmmmph. I do not think even you can fight them all, especially if they catch you out with their warriors.”
“With the Realm’s greatest adept at my disposal I can. And Zan with her fearsome weapon. At any rate, will they want to take the chance that I will get to them before they can use their numbers to get to me? Will they be so wedded to the overthrow of the Council when their lord is absent his head?”
“I could shield Barakiel if they were to swarm him,” Pellus said. “It would not be a violation of my nonaggressive purpose. If Thanis helps me, I do not think the adepts in league with Abraxos would be a match for us. Eventually, Barakiel could eliminate all of the usurper’s loyalists.”
“You may be right,” Remiel said, “but Covalent society’s number of skilled warriors is seriously depleted. The whole warrior class is seriously depleted. We need to save these successor commanders. Remember, the demons still flow relentlessly into the Turning. Perhaps we should save all the commanders. Killing Abraxos might be enough.”
Barakiel opened his mouth to speak but took a sip of his scotch instead.
This holding my tongue business is proving difficult.
“Please speak freely, Barakiel,” Remiel said.
“I do not want to save them.” He gripped his tumbler so tightly the thick glass of its base cracked. He locked eyes with Remiel. “Without Lucifer, the demons are a joke. I could clear a sector single-handedly. We do not need these commanders. They followed a treacherous warlord and left the warriors who defeated the Corrupted to suffer. They will die.”
Remiel put her elbow on the arm of her chair, her chin in her hand, and stared back at him. Everyone stared at him.
“Before the offensive against Lucifer commenced,” Remiel began, “do you remember how murderous you felt toward those members of the Council and High Command who supported the policy of fighting your father to the status quo? And you were barely able to contain your anger at those who acquiesced to the policy against their better judgment, like Osmadiel and Ravellen. Do you feel the same way now?”
“The two situations are hardly analogous,” Barakiel said, holding back a scoff. “The Council’s policy toward Lucifer was stupid, dishonest, manipulative, and arrogant in the extreme, but it became a disaster because of a mistake—their erroneous belief that my father would not grow in power. The actions of Abraxos and all those loyal to him are a direct bid for control, a betrayal of the form of rule that has existed in our Realm since the Age of the Civil Wars. Not only did they fail to support the fight in the Destructive Realm, they imprisoned the healers, left our wounded warriors to fester and die, and extracted loyalty pledges with threats to harm the innocent. They laid their hands on the Sylvan Three and locked them in their chambers. The Sylvan Three! They tortured, then murdered, Hagith and Kalaziel.”
“Kalaziel,” Remiel murmured, gazing off at the river. “Will the head of Abraxos alone sate my need to avenge you?”
“Should it?” Zan asked. “Do not forget that Abraxos and his allies also tried to murder one of the greatest heroes in the history of your Realm,” Zan said, straightening in her seat. “The warrior who defeated Lucifer.”
Rich with pride, his mate’s voice sent a surge of energy up Barakiel’s spine. His bloodlust exploded into his conviction. “Any in league with the usurper will die,” he repeated. Remiel straightened much as Zan had. She contemplated one and then the other of the bonded mates, then glanced at Pellus and Jeduthan.
“Well, I must say, Barakiel,” she finally said. “When you get like this it makes me want to throw aside all reason and follow you into the bowels of the Void.”
“You flatter me, commander.”
“No, she does not,” Pellus said.
“No, she does not,” echoed Jeduthan.
Barakiel wanted to shout his power to the violet sky. The confidence they placed in him made his heart swell with purpose, with the hunger for justice and the desire to kill, inseparable. He felt like he had when the Stream came to take Ravellen home. He reached for Zan’s hand and took a few deep breaths. He concentrated on the river, black now that the sun had set, sparkling here and there with city lights.
We are planning, not heading into battle. I need to calm down. What else must we address?
“I am glad of your faith in me. It is not misplaced,” he said. “Remiel, earlier you mentioned the commanders who were insincere in their pledge of loyalty to Abraxos. Would it be possible for Thanis or Donoreth to contact them clandestinely to ascertain whether they would help us if Abraxos’ rank-and-file warriors refuse to lay down their arms even after he and his leadership are dead?”
“I do not think it is a question of whether they would help. I think it is only a matter of telling them what is going to happen. Besides myself, Larethael is the only battalion commander still alive from the original force that marched into the Destructive Realm. If I know him, he is preparing to fight as we speak. His mate will also assist us. She is an adept.”
“Yes, Jabrel. I know her,” Pellus said. “Thanis should contact Larethael first because Jabrel is talented at concealment. She could move secretly about the city with almost as much confidence as Thanis.”
Remiel nodded. “Good. Good. I know the warrior who would have assumed command of Kalaziel’s battalion. He will burn with hatred for those who dared lay a hand on his commander. I cannot imagine Hagith’s successor commander will react any differently. If any of their warriors remain hidden in the city, hopefully, word will spread and they will be ready when Barakiel begins his campaign.”
“Commander, do you have any intact warriors?” Jeduthan asked. “If a few were to enter the city at the right moment, with Derisen, they could foment rebellion among the citizens. Imagine every sturdy artisan wielding an ax on the Great Plaza. We would not want them to actually come to blows, but the sight could be persuasive, a potent symbol for all the citizens. Scholars, quickeners. And travelers! Imagine if all the adepts so scrupulously clinging to their neutrality suddenly grew ashamed of their cowardice?”
“Jeduthan, you have voiced what I did not dare to say.” Remiel cast a worried look at Pellus, but he seemed to agree with his mate, so she went on. “None of my warriors are intact, but we have the Sylvan Three. I will ask them to concentrate on a small squad who will enter the city with me. So, Barakiel, have you given any thought as to how you will infiltrate the Keep to reach Abraxos?”
“I had planned to slaughter my way in.”
“While I am sure you could accomplish this, especially with Zan and her weapon to help you, would it not be better for Pellus to cloak you? That way, when the time came for the warriors to rise up, Abraxos would already be dead. You could throw his corpse off a terrace into the middle of the Great Plaza for all to see.”
“What an excellent idea, to hurl his corpse off a terrace. I think I will do that.”
“And the cloak?” Remiel asked with a wry smile.
“Unfortunately, a cloak would take time,” Pellus answered. “Barakiel’s energy is far-reaching, and not something I have experienced before.”
“I was afraid of that,” Remiel said. “We should not delay. We want to strike while the citizens are still excited by tales of the raid on the dungeons.”
“Slaughter it is then.” Barakiel held his glass of scotch high. “To the torrent of traitorous blood I will send flowing down the polished marble corridors of the Keep.”
Remiel raised her gimlet, though only a few nubs of ice remained. “To you, Barakiel.”