The Passion Season

by Libby Doyle

  “Let’s take a look,” Zan said. He led her to a heavy carved table to the left near the kitchen area. She opened the case and laid the daggers out on a cloth. After he leaned down to scrutinize them, he said they were ceremonial daggers and asked if he could pick them up. Zan told him that because they were evidence, he would need to wear latex gloves. She handed him a pair. He tried to put one on for a minute, then frowned at her.

  “I’m sorry. It’s too small.”

  Zan stared at his hands. They were huge, but not meaty. They looked like they could crush a man’s skull, but also assemble a fine Swiss watch.

  Or maybe gently touch me.

  The heat rose to her face again. He lifted an eyebrow.

  “You can use the glove like a handkerchief and pick it up that way,” she said, fixing her gaze on the floor.

  Picking up a dagger, he held it level with his eyes. When he had done the same to all four and they were back in the case, he motioned Zan closer and directed her to lean down. He showed her the intricate motifs and the manner in which the blades were joined to the hilts. He explained that from these features, he could determine that the blades were ceremonial, made in France in the late 19th century. She struggled to listen to what he was saying. That impossible face was so close, and she could smell him. He smelled like a pristine forest in the spring.

  “What kind of ritual was it?” he asked. “These daggers would’ve been used for a variety of civil ceremonies. They’re valuable as antiques, but they’re not real weapons.”

  “We haven’t really explored the ritual yet. We’ve been concentrating on the spleen.” Zan shook her head. “That sounds odd, doesn’t it?”

  “It’s an odd situation.”

  “Would it help if I showed you some crime scene photos?”

  He rubbed his chin. “I might be able to say whether the daggers were related to the ritual.”

  “That could be helpful. May I bring them by?” Zan asked, failing to disguise her pleasure at the idea.

  “I leave for a business trip tomorrow morning. Can you come back later today?”

  “Yes, I think so.” She paused to consider. “I need to remind you that you can’t discuss anything about this with anyone. Did you read the agreement?”

  “Yes. I understand that I’ve agreed to keep all this confidential.”

  “Good. I should be able to come back around 7:00.”

  “I’ll be here. In the meantime, if I may take some photos of these daggers, I can send a few emails. My contacts may be able to discover their provenance.”

  “That would be fantastic, but don’t reveal they were used in a crime,” Zan said. He nodded and began to snap pictures of the knives with his phone.

  “I have to say, Professor Carson was right,” Zan added. “I’m amazed you were able to identify a time period and a use for those in just a few minutes. I would love to have that kind of expertise. I know a lot about guns because it comes with the job, but I love edged weapons. They’re so elegant.”

  “Yes.” He looked at her intensely again. “Would you like to see my collection? I rarely get to show it off.”

  “It’s here?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’d love to.”

  Just great, O’Gara. One handsome face and you toss your professionalism right out the window.

  He led her behind the open kitchen to an ultra-modern staircase of black and silver and honey-toned wood leading to a mezzanine lined with bookshelves. Zan enjoyed following him up the stairs.

  Look at that ass. That ass is perfect.

  They walked along the mezzanine to a big sunny room at the back. Zan stood gaping when they entered. Save for several large windows, every square foot of the stucco walls was hung with bladed weapons: axes, pikes, halberds, and swords, mostly swords, in more styles and sizes than Zan knew existed. Wood and glass cases filled with daggers and other small blades sat at the far ends, with an island of leather couches and chairs left of center, rimmed around a thick Persian rug in velvety red.

  “This is the coolest room I have ever seen,” she said. He chuckled and thanked her.

  That was adorable. God. Get ahold of yourself.

  “So, um, Mr. Barakiel, what kind of time span do these weapons represent?” she asked.

  “Please, call me Rainer.”

  Zan flushed and looked up at him. He still had that adorable look on his face, like a little boy showing someone his secret clubhouse. Before she gave a thought to what she was doing, she had asked him to call her Zan.

  “All right, Zan.” He uttered her name in a tone so resonant she wished she could hear him say it over and over. “In answer to your query, my earliest dates from the 8th century, a Saxon sword that I keep in an airtight case.” He gestured toward the left-hand wall. “My most recent, this here, was delivered just last month from Watanabe Korehiro, one of the last master sword makers in Japan.”

  “A work of art.” Zan surveyed the sword from different angles. “Do you have favorites?”

  “The swords. My favorites are always changing. I loan them to museums on occasion. When they come back I usually become interested in them again.”

  “Any favorites at the moment?”

  “A few. Here’s my perennial favorite.”

  Rainer walked several steps to the right and pointed to a simple, heavy broadsword hanging about six feet up the wall, a huge blade of bluish metal that gleamed dully, like platinum.

  “I’ve never seen a sword that big, or metal like that. When was it made?”

  “The 15th century. The sword maker was ahead of his time. This steel alloy is immensely strong. Would you like to take a closer look? It’s a superlative weapon.” Rainer reached to take the sword off the wall. He held it out to her.

  “Can I touch it without gloves? It must be so expensive.”

  “You can’t harm it.”

  Zan took the blade with both hands and did a simple block stance, then a thrust. Rainer raised both his eyebrows.

  “I’m surprised you can lift that to shoulder level.”

  “I’m a strong woman.”

  “I can see that.” The way he looked at her made Zan almost drop the sword. She adjusted her grip.

  “This sword is unbelievably well-balanced.”

  “Exactly.”

  Did I just impress him? God, I hope so.

  “Ah, see now,” Zan said. “My arms are getting tired, so you weren’t far from right. I could never actually use this sword.” She pivoted and held it out to him with a slight bow. “Your sword, sir.”

  Rainer smiled as he took it. Zan realized he hadn’t been smiling before, not a real smile. This time it was like strong sunlight falling on a person who’d been trapped in the bitter cold.

  “You’re trained?” he asked.

  “A little. I used to study kendo in college, Japanese sword fighting, but I don’t have the time now. For the job, we’re mostly trained in firearms, but we get a decent amount of training in hand-to-hand, some other weapons. How about you? Is your interest more than aesthetic?”

  “Yes. I’ve studied the fighting arts since I was a child.”

  “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.”

  Rainer tilted his head and regarded her, his lips pressed together.

  He doesn’t know what to make of me. I don’t know what to make of him either, but oh, those lips. I better get away from this man. I’m on duty.

  CHAPTER 3

  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 a
lways 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.