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STANDING IN A SLICE of sun from the skylight, Barakiel could not stop reliving every moment he had spent with Zan since the demons attacked her, wondering if he could have done or said something that would have reached her, that would have made her come back to him. He imagined the words that would have led to his mouth on hers, his hands flush to her skin. He obsessed about the incident two days previous when she had left him on the street after he gave her the pages of Covalent history. His desire to touch her had been so overwhelming he neglected to be repentant.
I am sorry, my love. I lost control in wanting you.
She had texted him earlier. She wanted to come and retrieve the rest of her belongings. Some of her band’s equipment was in his garage, she had left all her songs books and they had sets of each other’s keys. She asked that he not be there. For a moment he considered insisting on his presence so he could see her again, but this would only fuel her anger. He told her she could move her things the next day when he was out of town.
Per his request, he was due to fight for Remiel again. Normally, he would have more time between tours, but violence was the only thing that kept his misery at bay. He could fight for his commander again and still fulfill his duties to Osmadiel’s battalion. Barakiel thanked Balance he would be fighting beside warriors who knew him. They would not pester him.
Pellus was there to take him to battle, a fine excuse for him to travel to the Earthly Realm, another reason Barakiel had requested extra duty. At the moment, Pellus worked to prepare the evidence he had collected on the followers, altering the digital photographs so they contained no identifying metadata. Barakiel understood his caution. When they handed this information to Zan, there were no guarantees.
For that matter, there was no guarantee Zan would agree to use them as confidential informants, or to meet with Barakiel at all. The thought of telling her that he had slaughtered nearly thirty men filled him with dread. To him, it was justice. Covalent justice. But Zan had devoted her life to earthly law. He was afraid that when he told her, her heart would harden against him. He would do anything for her, but he could not change his nature. It was beyond his capacity.
Now, even his love for Zan made him want to kill. Lucifer had found a way to take her from him.
He feeds my hatred and I become my father’s son.
“Barakiel, are you all right?” Pellus asked. “You are vibrating like a legion of demons stands before you.”
“Pay me no attention.” He strode to the door and went outside, into the garden, into a thick stand of Montauk daisies. He had planted them with Zan. She thought the blooms would stir happy memories of her childhood in Idaho when she had wandered in fields full of them in the crisp autumn air. Barakiel gently cupped a blossom and his rage deserted him. He remembered loving Zan in that very spot.
He closed his eyes, then realized he was keening. Willing himself to silence, he picked daisies. He had an armful of them by the time Pellus came out of the house.
“Now your battle preparation includes picking flowers, does it?’ he asked. Barakiel did not look at him. He continued to pluck the blooms with great delicacy.
“Zan loves these late-blooming daisies,” he said. “I’m gathering some for her, to put out for her.”
“Barakiel, Zan is not here,” Pellus said in a gentle voice. “She will not be here.”
He thinks I have gone soft in the head.
“She will be. She is coming tomorrow for the rest of her things. She will see the daisies. She will know I am thinking of her.”
“I am sure she knows that already.”
When Barakiel had gathered flowers to his satisfaction, he met his friend’s pale green eyes.
“Do not worry, Pellus. The only thing that makes my heart feel strong is the chance to slaughter my enemies. My hand will be deft in battle.”
Zan walked so quickly down Sixth Street she was almost running. The day was cool and she was trying to work off some nervous energy by hoofing it all the way to Scott’s row house down by Oregon Avenue, next to the Buddhist Temple. She saw the Cambodian monks in their saffron robes sitting quietly on benches in their courtyard. She had a sudden urge to shave her head and join them, so she could spend her days chanting and sweeping and learning how not to think.
The guys in the band were helping Zan retrieve her Marshall stacks from Rainer’s garage before practice. She looked forward to pouring all her pain out through those glorious amplifiers. She needed to look forward to something to get through this.
Mikey and Jason were already at Scott’s. They all crammed into the cab of Scott’s old pickup to drive to Rainer’s compound. They talked about their upcoming gig and about other bands they knew. Her bandmates didn’t ask her a thing about Rainer. She knew they must be curious. They liked Rainer. He had been at many a gig and band practice, even whipping out his electric violin a few times to make some truly evil sounds.
Their way of supporting me, I guess.
When they arrived at the compound, they got the amps from the loft in the garage and loaded them onto the truck. Jason admired Rainer’s Tesla Model S and his classic Indian motorcycle.
“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised he has cool toys,” Jason said. “His garage is nicer than my house.”
“You and me both,” Scott said. Zan said they hadn’t seen the half of it.
Now for the hard part.
They entered the main building. The only reason she set foot in the place again was to leave the keys and get her keys and songbooks. As long as she was there she figured she would retrieve her kitchen stuff, and the pricey products she’d left in the bathroom. The boys in the band were dumbstruck by the place. As she put her songbooks in a box, they wandered around gawking at all the antiques and the art.
“Holy shit, Zan,” Mikey said, pointing to a large painting featuring swaths of vibrant yellow and blue that seemed to float off the back wall. “Is that a Rothko?”
“Yep.”
“The last time a Rothko went up for auction, it sold for like $80 million.”
“Well, Rainer said that painting has been his family since before Rothko was Rothko, if you know what I mean.”
“Still, that’s some serious art.”
Scott made a beeline for the Steinway grand piano, its mahogany glowing in the sun from the window. He played part of an etude. “This piano is amazing,” he said.
“If you think the piano is nice, you should see his violins,” Zan replied.
“You’re a better person than I am, Zan.” Mikey looked up at the skylights. “If my boyfriend had a place like this I wouldn’t leave him unless he turned out to be a serial killer.”
Zan tried to laugh but didn’t succeed. She took the box to the kitchen area. That’s when she noticed the daisies next to her keys. She froze and closed her eyes, assaulted by the memory of the day they had planted them in the garden. The simple task had made her feel so close to him, so tender, their hands together in the soil. Halfway through, the sight of Rainer’s sweaty arms had been too much for Zan. She pulled off his shirt and invited him to screw her in the dirt. The memory was so vivid. The hot sun, the garden scent, the grit sticking to their sweaty skin, and Rainer moving inside her with the force that causes the oceans to swell with the tides. Even though she knew now why he could make her feel that way, she didn’t miss him any less.
Oh, Rainer.
“Zan, are you all right?” Mikey asked. She barely nodded.
“Yeah, yeah. This is just kind of hard, you know?”
“I know, Zan, honey,” Mikey said. He put his arm around her.
Remiel watched as Barakiel flicked the black blood of the Corrupted from his sword, completely unfazed by the swollen, oozing slice in his thigh. He glanced around, no doubt seeking more traitors to slaughter after he had run alone into a handful of Corrupted and taken every one of their heads. Remiel could not understand why he had put himself at risk. The battalion’s ruse had been successful. The warriors allowed a breach in their line into which demons had flooded, followed hard upon by the Corrupted who hoped to exploit the confusion. Remiel brought her squad in then, as Barakiel and his squad had rushed in from the other flank. They surrounded many of the traitors, but that was not enough for her wrath-filled warrior who pursued the others as they fled. Remiel worried at the darkness expressed by his power this turn.
Something has changed. Something razor sharp has grown within him.
Shouts of warriors off to the left called attention to a few Corrupted who had managed to escape. Barakiel gave chase, but their lead was too great. He pursued them out beyond the crowd of warriors. Remiel feared he would leave himself exposed once again, but he slowed and emitted a howl of rage as they fled.
The demons followed the Corrupted as the warriors worked to slaughter any that remained within reach of their blades. When the sector had been cleared, the warriors began to form a column to return to the city as they congratulated each other on a battle well fought. Barakiel stood apart, saying nothing. The others often glanced at him, but they left him alone. They were worried about him, too.
As they marched back to the city, Remiel motioned for Barakiel to join her at the head of the column. He walked beside her, silent and grim.
The battalion marched through the Turning’s pulsing boundary and approached the city gates, their polished amber surfaces faintly reflecting the movements of the warriors. The Realm’s Watch played a pure high tone from the ramparts when it caught sight of them, and the herald marching next to Remiel sounded the reply. The great gates swung open and the battalion passed through. Happy faces as they moved toward the Great Plaza told the citizens the warriors had done well that day, and congratulations filled the air. Barakiel barely acknowledged the gratitude of the citizens who praised him as he marched, another behavior that was unlike him.
As the battalion dispersed on the plaza after the roll call, Remiel pulled Barakiel aside before he went off to the healers. “Are you all right, Barakiel?” she asked. “Does your wound need immediate attention?”
“No. It is fine. Triage was enough. I can wait for Pellus to take me to the Sylvan Three.”
“Are you sure? You seem troubled. I would think you would be in high spirits after such a battle.”
“I am sorry to be sour, commander. I have a lot on my mind.”
“Anything I can help you with?”
“No, commander.”
“Stop calling me commander!” Remiel said. “I am your friend. Your actions were reckless in that battle. You have never behaved like that before and I would like to know what is bothering you.”
“Nothing, Remiel. Please, leave me be.”
“Are events in the Earthly Realm threatening your Balance?”
“My Balance is not in jeopardy. You need not be concerned. I will fight and fight well.”
“All right, but I do not like to see you so unhappy. Please tell me what is wrong.”
“Nothing!” Barakiel said. “There is Pellus. I must go to the healers. Excuse me.” He walked away.
I did not give him leave to go. What is wrong with him?
Pellus gasped at Barakiel’s wound as the warrior approached. Barakiel reassured the adept that it looked worse than it was. They headed off to the rift, which would deliver them quickly to the chambers of the Sylvan Three.
He is just walking along as if it were nothing.
When they reached their destination, the servant who received them ran off to get the healers after sizing up the warrior’s bloody leg. When the Sylvan Three entered the room they smiled at Pellus, but their faces abruptly fell when their gaze came to rest on Barakiel.
I knew it. The wound is worse than he said.
The Three approached the warrior, scanning him intensely with their silver eyes. Pellus was confused. They were looking at his face, not his leg.
“Something is wrong, Barakiel,” the Three said. “You are not shining as you were when you left us last.” Barakiel stared at them, but a moment later he hung his head and exhaled.
“I am in pain.”
Will he confide in them? I did not know they had become such fast friends.
“A pain that has nothing to do with battle,” the Three said.
“No.”
They still gazed at him, searching. After a time they paused and seemed to focus inward, touching each other. They put their hands on him and asked, “Has something happened to your mate?”
They know about Zan?
“She left me, Three,” he said as he returned their touch. “I did not tell you before, but she is human. I lied to her. I let her believe I was human, too. She knows what I am now. She does not want me.”
“We do not understand, Barakiel. We felt your love. Something so strong and pure cannot end.”
“No, Three. My love will not end.”
“How is it that she has left you?”
“I do not know,” Barakiel said, his voice barely audible.
“We do not understand the human mind.”
“I know, Three.”
Their beautiful eyes brimming with tears, the Three put their arms around Barakiel, who leaned on them.
“We cannot help you.”
“You have already helped me, Three,” Barakiel said, his voice soft and trusting. “I felt so alone, but your touch soothes me.”
“You are strong and true, warrior. Pain cannot withstand you.”
The half-full bottle of Scotch sitting on the table glowed golden brown in the end-of-day light that slanted through Barakiel’s windows. He sipped the whiskey from a tumbler. He wished it could get him drunk.
I could lose myself in haze, but I’m never left alone in the Covalent Realm long enough to acquire it.
He picked up his phone and stared at it like he was waiting for it to tell him what to do. He had to request a meeting with Zan, to tell her about the false monks. He was afraid to do it. Afraid she would refuse to meet him. Afraid she would think he was a monster for what he had done.
Will she think I am capable of hurting her? I cannot bear the thought.
With a groan, he held the device to his mouth and dictated a text.
► Hello Zan. I hope you are well. Please believe that this message is necessary. I have important information regarding your case. You will want to hear it. I can meet you at any time in the next few days. Tell me when and where.
She should be home from work by now. Or she would be soon. He waited, staring at his scotch until the room grew dark. Finally, he heard the ding of a text message.
► Send it to me in writing.
► I can’t. I need to see you. It’s complicated.
► I’m sure you’re capable of putting something complicated in writing. Or call me. If cell phones make you nervous, call my landline at work. I won’t meet you.
Barakiel downed the rest of his scotch and poured another. He didn’t think he could convince her. The next day, he would text again, and the day after that. If she would not agree, he would go to see her. Maybe she would meet him if only to put a stop to his efforts. He knew her band was playing at Goathead Tavern on Friday because he’d stared at the listing every hour since he got the newspaper. He forcefully exhaled and dropped his face into his hands, elbows on the table.
I am ridiculous. I would have gone to see her band whether I had an excuse or not.