The Passion Season

by Libby Doyle

  At the start of the second song, Barakiel moved closer to the stage. He wasn’t quite conscious of what he was doing. Zan caught sight of him and whipped her guitar around. She sauntered back across the stage and flashed him a smile just before delivering a perfect pinch harmonic.

  Mmmmm, I want her. It’s been a long time since I wanted someone.

  The whole band was good. The bass player was as precise as Zan and she would face him at times, move in unison with him. They were feeding off each other’s energy. Barakiel envied him. The other band members offered strong counterpoints to Zan’s velvety, powerful voice in songs that were angry at times, always exuberant, always complex. By the third song, sweat rose on Zan’s skin. Barakiel’s pulse quickened.

  I want to lick it off.

  The crowd was raucous and the people in the front crushed up against the stage. During the last song, Zan stilled herself near the mic, singing in a quiet falsetto before exploding into a yell, her muscular arms flung back away from her guitar. The band left the stage and the crowd hooted and stomped until they came back on. Some yelled song titles.

  Zan walked up to the mic. “So, you might notice these people yelling White Water and wonder what that’s about. Well, we wrote this completely demented instrumental that we played at a festival last summer. It’s way out there, and not the kind of music we usually play. Why did we do that song, Scott?”

  “Because we could, Zan.”

  “Yeah, because we could. And we had kind of a moment. Am I right?” Shouts of agreement erupted from the crowd. “So, yeah, we had a moment, and we’ve been reluctant to do it again, because, you know, these things don’t happen twice. But we’re feeling it tonight. Are we feeling it, Scott?”

  “Oh, we’re feeling it, Zan.”

  “So yeah, you asked for it. Here it is. White Water.”

  The song began with a set of drum and bass trade-offs, and then Zan kicked in, repeating a rising and falling pattern, intricate and fast. Barakiel understood how difficult it was.

  After some pounding drums, the band tore into the main part of the song, the tempo slowing down and speeding up, with Zan and the rhythm guitarist trading off waves of distorted sound. When the tempo had ramped up to an impossible speed, they all stopped playing and howled in unison, grinning at each other. A beat later, they resumed playing and Zan laid a lead over the pounding rhythm with such gleeful abandon that Barakiel did not understand how she could concentrate enough to play something so difficult while moving in such a fashion. Her eyes were closed and her head swayed and she bounced back and forth to the heavy thump of the bass drum, all the while raising, lowering and rotating her guitar, making the strings deliver squeal after squeal as she bent the notes to her will. A low sound rumbled from Barakiel’s chest, an entirely involuntary reaction.

  I will make her mine.

  At the end, everyone in the band stopped playing on a dime and shrieked like banshees, followed by a final, scorching riff. They finished in perfect sync, and the crowd let out a roar. Zan said something into the mic but no one could hear it.

  When the lights came up, Zan put her guitar on the stand and jumped down from the stage. Barakiel hoped she was looking for him, but she got waylaid by fans. He fixed his eyes on her and walked slowly over. When he had closed about half the distance, she saw him. They stared at each other as he approached.

  Don’t talk to them. Talk to me.

  “Hello, Zan.”

  “Hello, Rainer. Thanks for coming.”

  “I’m glad I did. You’re an amazing guitar player.”

  “Thank you.” Zan’s face still glowed with exertion. “I wasn’t sure you liked this kind of music.”

  “I love any music that’s well done, and this was extremely well done. Your whole band is excellent. You feed off each other’s energy. It was—exciting.” Barakiel imagined whispering this last word into her ear. Her pupils dilated.

  “Um, would you like to have a drink with me?” she asked.

  “Yes, I would.”

  “Great! Oh, wait.” She frowned. “I forgot I have to pack up some equipment. It won’t take long if you don’t mind waiting for a few minutes.”

  “I’ll help you.”

  “No, that’s okay. There are four of us and we have the process down.”

  “All right. I’ll wait at the bar.”

  Zan bounded up onto the stage. The others had already taken some instruments into the back. She grabbed three mic stands at once and dragged them off. When she got to the back she coiled up cords as the others hauled amps down the stairs. They all congratulated each other on a great show. Mel walked up.

  “Mel, he loved the show! He said I was an amazing guitar player!”

  “Yeah, I was watching him. I could tell from the look on his face he was pretty into it.”

  “Get this. I somehow found the nerve to ask that man to have a drink with me. Must be the adrenaline.” Zan placed the mic stands in their cases.

  “I don’t think you should go anywhere with that guy. I don’t like the way he was looking at you.”

  “How was he looking at me?”

  “Like he wants to bend you over the hood of a car and fuck you until you scream.”

  “Well, I kind of want him to do that, so it works for me.”

  “Are you crazy?” Mel said. “You don’t know him.”

  “Don’t you listen to her, Zan,” Mikey piped in as he walked by with his cymbals. “You let that man screw you and then tell me all about it, because that is the most gorgeous piece of man flesh I have ever seen.”

  “I don’t kiss and tell, Mikey.”

  “You cruel bitch.” The two of them cracked up. “Get out there,” Mikey said. “We’ll take care of the rest of it.”

  “You rock, Mikey,” she said. “And Mel, don’t worry about it. I have no intention of letting him bend me over a car hood tonight. It’s been years since I acted like that.”

  After grabbing her jacket and bag, Zan rushed to find Rainer. He was leaning on the bar, completely at ease. He asked her what she wanted to drink then ordered her a club soda with lime.

  “Do you play here often?” he asked.

  Before she could answer, a well-wishing fan came up, followed by another. Zan was polite, but she could see that Rainer was annoyed. When a third fan approached, Rainer raised his chin and skewered the young man with a look that made him turn around and walk away.

  Now that’s what I call an excellent death stare.

  Zan thought it might happen again if they stayed in the club, and she wanted to be alone with him. She suggested they go elsewhere.

  “The cherry trees are in bloom over by the Japanese House,” Rainer offered. “And there’s a full moon tonight.”

  “Sounds good. Let’s go.”

  They went to his car, a dark blue Tesla.

  “Beautiful car. It’s completely electric, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, thank you. Further evidence of my green streak.” They drove west on Girard Avenue.

  “It’s good to get out of the club,” Zan said. “Even without the interruptions, it was too noisy in that place.”

  “That’s a good place, though. I’d never been there before.”

  “Yes, I like it. The people are easy to deal with.” She glanced at Rainer’s perfect profile as he drove. “I was wondering, do you ever perform? From what I heard the other day, you sound like a professional.”

  “I used to perform. Not anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  “My business affairs started to take up more of my time. It’s not easy to be a professional violinist. It would require sacrifices I’m not willing to make.”

  “I get that. I know I’m holding my bandmates back. I have to skip practice a lot because of my job. We’ve even had to cancel gigs, but I don’t want to give anything up.”

  “Who would give up a gun and a badge and all that ordering of people around?” They both laughed and watched the streets roll by for a few seconds.
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  “So, you’re a businessman?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.” Rainer seemed amused at the thought. “I have business interests. I inherited them. I don’t really do much to sustain them. My business manager takes care of everything. At times he actually dreads me weighing in.”

  “Why?”

  “We do angel investing, venture capital. I want to feel good about it. I want to invest ethically, which is virtually impossible.”

  “I can imagine. Every company seems to have blood on its hands, whether people’s blood or the Earth’s blood.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I like that, ‘the Earth’s blood.’” Zan glanced at him again.

  And I like that you care about these things.

  “I’m really not good at it,” Rainer said. “A few years ago, I insisted we form a fund that invests only in sustainable energy technologies. Thus far, it has lost money like water through a sieve.”

  “You just need to hang in there.”

  “I will.” He grinned. “At any rate, since beginning what Pellus calls my expensive hobby, I’ve become a bit more involved. I fly off to show my face and sign things.”

  “Pellus. Is he your business manager? Is everything all right with him?”

  “Yes, everything is fine. I’m sorry about the other day. I was an ass.”

  “You made it up to me by coming to my show.”

  “I still have to make it up to you. I consider myself privileged to have seen you play.”

  Hmmmm, you are dangerously charming.

  “So, here we are,” Rainer said, pulling up next to a grassy expanse in Fairmount Park. “We need to walk a bit to reach the cherry trees.”

  “You can actually enjoy the full moon here,” Zan said. “So pretty.” The night was breezy, warm for April, and the elm trees swayed slightly against the silvery grass. Rainer and Zan walked until they reached the cherry trees, glowing white in the moonlight. The breeze stirred their branches and loosened the blossoms, which floated about slowly, little points of luminosity.

  “This is really something to see,” Zan said.

  “Yes. I thought it might look like this.” They walked down the long corridor of trees. Zan savored the sight and the fact that they were alone. When they had gone some way down the other side, she reached out to touch a falling blossom.

  “It really is beautiful,” she said.

  “Not half as beautiful as you.” Rainer’s voice hummed like a cello. He placed his fingers lightly on her cheek and trailed them down beneath her chin to tip her face towards his. He kissed her softly, lips closed. When he withdrew, she could feel his breath. She stayed with her face tipped toward him.

  “More,” she said.

  When Rainer kissed her again his lips were parted and the tip of his tongue touched hers. He slid his hand to her neck. Her skin came alive. She knew she was standing there like a supplicant, waiting for him to put his arms around her. She couldn’t help it.

  Soon enough, he slid his hand slowly down her arm and around until it rested in the small of her back. He brought her against him, tilting her back slightly to cover her mouth with his, gently probing while he pressed her against him. Zan let out a small noise. She could feel his body, the power in it.

  Rainer clasped her tighter, deepening the kiss. Electric lust surged through her. The blood pulsed between her legs, her skin felt hot and she realized if she kissed this man for one more second, she wouldn’t be able to stop. She didn’t want to have sex with him yet, despite the urgency of her blood. She didn’t want to act like she had in her drinking days so she put her hand on his chest and pushed away. Rainer leaned toward her, his eyes lit with hunger. With intoxication. He stopped a moment later, puzzled.

  “I, I think we should slow down,” Zan said.

  “All right. I got carried away.”

  “So did I.”

  Zan had never been so acutely aware of someone’s presence. She didn’t want to tempt her resolve. “You know, it’s getting late. I should get home.”

  “All right, beautiful guitar goddess.” Rainer frowned with deliberate exaggeration. “I will take you home under protest.” He held out his arm.

  Zan laughed and waved her hands. “No, no. No more touching tonight. My reservoir of self-discipline is entirely depleted. Don’t say anything charming to me either, like calling me a beautiful guitar goddess.”

  Rainer gave her an appraising look. “You are forthright. I like it.”

  As they walked to the car they talked about the cherry trees and the Japanese House and other things they loved about the park. After such a passionate kiss that she’d so abruptly halted, she was happy to find no awkwardness. It turned out Rainer liked to talk. At the door to her building, he asked if he could take her to dinner that Tuesday. Zan had no idea what she had going on that night, but it didn’t matter. His openness was refreshing.

  “I would very much like to have dinner with you.”

  With a dazzling smile, he asked for her number. He looked likely to kiss her again, but she headed him off.

  “Remember, reservoir depleted,” she said. He squinted at her and grabbed her hand, pressed it to his lips.

  You seducer.

  “Goodnight, Rainer.”

  “Goodnight, Zan.” She hurried to her door, afraid that if she looked back she’d grab him and haul him up the stairs. When she got inside she collapsed on the couch and touched herself.

  Oh that man, his mouth on mine, mmmmmmmm.

  Despite the fact that Pellus had no reason to see Barakiel that morning, he went to his home, his anxiety about the warrior’s night out exceeded only by his curiosity. Barakiel was not at the kitchen table as he often was in the morning. Pellus found him on his back balcony, staring out at the river. He leaned against the railing to peer up at Barakiel’s face.

  “Feeling contemplative this morning?”

  “I am trying to quiet my mind.”

  “Any particular reason it needs quieting?”

  “Look, Pellus, we both know why you are here. Ask me what you want to ask me.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what I want to know?”

  Barakiel considered this. “I intend to see her again.” He gazed out at the sky. “You should see her on the stage, Pellus. She is a force of nature, one of the best guitarists I have ever seen. After the show, so many people wanted to be near her, but she wanted to be near me. To kiss her was intoxicating. I cannot stop thinking about it.”

  The adept could see the energy sizzling through Barakiel’s limbs. He did not like it. “You kissed her? I am surprised she is not still here.”

  “She resisted me.”

  “What? Ha ha! You must be losing your touch, Barakiel.”

  “I am not losing my touch,” Barakiel said with a smirk. “She is just self-disciplined. Perhaps a bit wary of me, but she wants to see me again. We are going to dinner on Tuesday.”

  “You are courting her now?” Pellus rubbed his forehead wearily.

  “I don’t think people here say ‘courting,’ Pellus.”

  “My point is, you are pursuing her,” he snapped. “You know I think it is a bad idea.”

  “Yes, I know, but I like her. I feel good when I am near her. She is talented and beautiful and funny and straightforward.” Barakiel seemed to be talking to the river and the trees more than to Pellus. “I will take my time with her. I will wait for her to come to me, and when she does, it will be all the sweeter. She may have stopped me last night, but I learned what I need to know. She will invite me to touch her.”

  Anxiety surged through Pellus. Barakiel had never spoken like this about a woman before.

  “Of course she will! Most women want you to touch them, but you cannot.”

  “Why not? It’s been centuries since I was a monk.”

  “Need I remind you of your lothario phase? Have you forgotten how all those women got obsessed with you and all the trouble it caused us? Accosted by distressed women on the street who wondered why yo
u had disappeared for three days? Coming home from battle covered with demon blood, only to find a naked woman in your bed incensed that you had not coupled with her all week?” Pellus moved to face the warrior more squarely. “And let us not forget the woman who set your house on fire because she was not prepared to share you.”

  Barakiel’s face reddened. “That is when I realized I was hurting them.”

  “Yes. I do not think it was good for you either.”

  “I could not control myself, what I did to them. I am different now. Women are different. I have seen women since then. Those relationships were superficial, but typical I think.”

  “In the end, you had to be rude to them as well. It made you unhappy. Is it worth it? For some mediocre sex and inane conversation?”

  “Sex with Zan will not be mediocre, and I have never enjoyed talking to a woman so much,” Barakiel announced. “Do not worry. She will not get obsessed with me. She is too self-possessed.”

  “I do not want you to get hurt,” Pellus said, switching tactics. “You know human entanglements make it harder when you must leave a place. Think of the Saxons. You suffered for years after you left them, all because of that woman.”

  “Do not be ridiculous. It is impossible to compare the two situations. At any rate, I do not care.”

  “I do not think this will end well,” Pellus muttered.

  Barakiel stared out over the river again. “Easy for you to tell me I must always be alone. You have a mate.”

  This gave Pellus pause.

  I am being too hard on him.

  “Well, perhaps we should pair you with a female Covalent. They are strong and beautiful.”

  “Oh, yes. That is rich. ‘Here you are, fine Covalent. We offer you this warrior who lives in exile. His father, who just happens to be Lucifer, Lord of Destruction, perpetually seeks his death. Wouldn’t you just love to build a life with him?’”

  “Surely, you must know,” Pellus said, not without pride. “Since you have been fighting in the Turning you have gained a reputation that transcends your unfortunate lineage. The quickeners have dubbed your sword Blue Fire. Young warriors hear stories of your fearlessness and skill. Covalent of all stripes swoon over your beauty. To say they would be open to spending time with you is an understatement.”