Star Angel: Dawn of War (Star Angel Book 3)

by David G. McDaniel

  He tried to clear those images from his mind. Disposing of the dead after battle had never been part of a Kazerai’s duties, and while he’d seen plenty of fresh death in his short life he’d never dealt so closely with the results of his power. It wasn’t often he fought unarmed or, especially, unarmored men. Blood, lots of blood, shattered limbs, skulls and faces disfigured beyond recognition, glassy, staring eyes—where eyeballs remained. All of it the result of his gruesome assault. Despite their unusual “powers” the Bok were definitely human and died just as easily. The additional forces they’d been able to manifest in their defense had completely frustrated his efforts—and quickly his desire—to manage his attack. He’d wanted to knock them out, or otherwise incapacitate, mainly since any one of them could’ve been a source for finding out more. None of that worked. When the fight began things degenerated fast, options flew away and he was left with …

  That. He glanced over his shoulder at the giant mound of dirt at the forest edge. The burial pit.

  Out in a little ramshackle shed he’d found a few shovels and hoes, broke them all as he used them well beyond their capacity, switched to his hands and quickly plowed out a massive hole, rounded up all the bodies and parts—including the girl Jess killed in the pond—threw them in and covered the whole thing up. He’d been sure to grab whatever they had on them, wallets, phones, keys, in the event any of it might prove useful. The rest went into the hole.

  He turned and looked at the large barn building, where he’d put the Bok’s personal items, then paused for a moment as he neared the house. He stood in place and turned to face out across the rolling hills, across the vineyard, out to the mountains beyond.

  An inspiring view.

  So tranquil.

  Hard to believe the massacre that occurred there. He inhaled deeply of the fresh mountain air, the tang of old wood and fresh dirt—overlaying it all the amazing smells drifting down from the kitchen. A breeze blew from that direction, lightly, tingling the skin of his back. And he found himself amazed—amazed that he could still be amazed, after all these years—how perceptive were his senses. Able to feel pleasant things like wind, while simultaneously being able to withstand so much. He could feel a tiny bug on his back; tell you when it lifted a leg. No human could do that. He could also take a cannon to his back. No human could do that either. The absolute range of strength, of perceptions, available to him was staggering. The Kazerai truly bordered on the magical. Even the Dominion scientists had never fully understood them, or even tried, letting the mystique of the great warriors slip instead into the realm of Holy Decree. The great Kazerai, Hands of God.

  Zac closed his eyes.

  Before setting about his grisly but, he felt, necessary task he’d pulled on the torn slacks, the one piece of clothing still reasonably intact. For a moment he felt them on his legs, feeling with them all the things that were wrong with the current situation.

  Being there, still being there, doing what they were doing … it made no sense, but he wasn’t sure how to steer Jess back toward action. Spending the day together as they had, as wonderful—as absolutely wonderful—as that was, so completely fulfilling, had cost them valuable time and left them dangerously exposed. At least that time could’ve been used for her to rest. Of course he was entirely complicit, as eager as he also was, as full of the same desires. He loved her. More than any girl he’d ever loved. In truth there had really only been Kitana before her, Zac never had many girlfriends, and though Kitana had been forced on him, an arranged marriage—so young, both of them, to be husband and wife—he had, in fact, loved his bride.

  But not like Jess.

  No one like Jess. There was something about her that was a complete and total lock. A feeling he could never explain. Jess was the one, and Zac truly could not think of a life without her. Which only made it worse. He loved her so much, so incredibly much, wanted her so much … it made it harder. That whole afternoon, such a mashup of unbound hedonistic satisfaction, fulfillment beyond his most fervent hopes, squashed together with a gnawing impatience to keep moving … it had his head spinning.

  She had his head spinning.

  And so he was guilty. A fact which did not make what they were doing any less stupid. It was never too late to change your mind. To get your head on straight. Yet, after giving in to their passion and jeopardizing an entire day, they were now getting ready to have a leisurely dinner. All at her insistence. He knew she needed to eat. Whether a fast bite, something simple or an elegant spread, she was human and hadn’t eaten in a day. He tried to rationalize it that way, all the while realizing those were empty excuses. He could rationalize it all he wanted, the simple truth was they did what they did because she’d decided that was what they were going to do and he, unable to resist her even a little, went along. It had been that way from the beginning. What she wanted to do she did, and so did he. Therefore if he didn’t find a way to get her mind back where it belonged …

  He opened his eyes. Looked out across the spectacular vista, seeing far, into the distant hills, all the way to the mountains which were slowly becoming shrouded in an evening mist. There were no people in that slice of view, no human constructs of any kind. This old abandoned vineyard and winery occupied a remote section of mountain. The narrow road leading to it far down over the next hill had barely any traffic on it. No sounds of humanity, no machines anywhere other than the occasional car or truck passing on the main road much farther below. Peaceful.

  The night would likely bring a sky full of stars.

  She’s probably wondering where I am. The sun was heading for the mountains. He turned from the beautiful view and walked the rest of the way to the house, following the aromas as if they were an invisible finger, beckoning him onward to the tasty finale. He climbed the last of the hill and approached the house.

  At the back door he announced himself:

  “It’s me.”

  Jess called from the kitchen. “In here.”

  He went inside and found her at the stove, stirring three pots, all kinds of other things spread out on the counters around her. It was a major production. She turned and smiled as he entered, continuing to stir.

  “Almost done.” She tasted a spoonful of one pot, decided it needed a little more of something and reached for a shaker. “Wanna set the table?”

  He did. He wanted to do anything she asked. Everything.

  And that was part of the problem.

  May have been the problem.

  Why am I so infatuated?

  He was utterly hers.

  He paused a moment, taken with her, lost in her image, then went over and stepped up behind her, pushed her fragrant hair from the back of her neck and kissed the soft skin at the nape. She shivered. He let her hair fall back, closed his eyes and breathed in her heavenly scent. The old farm shirt had a definite odor of its own but hers—her distinct, incredible aroma—thoroughly displaced it. So strong was it, to him, that he barely smelled the shirt at all. For him it was only her and the amazing food.

  He cleared his head and opened his eyes. Asked:

  “Plates? Forks and knives and things?”

  She nodded. “Rinse them first. Everything is dusty.” She reached for a glass on the counter and took a drink. He noticed she’d opened a bottle of wine. He looked more closely around the kitchen. It was like she was trying to put everything out of her mind. Refusing to let anything ruin this special moment she was determined to create. “The food is actually fresh,” she said as she stirred, “Not much here, but there was bread and stuff, and meat and cheese and even fresh vegetables. Someone keeps the place stocked, though it doesn’t look like anyone has eaten here in a while. All the pots and things are dusty. They must throw food away if they don’t use it. Weird.”

  Zac rummaged around in the cabinets. He found plates, selected two of the prettiest, largest ones, rinsed them in the sink and placed them on the table, then went looking for glasses.

  Jess pointed, glancing between him a
nd what she was doing. “Wine glasses are up there. You want wine? There’s plenty.”

  Zac got down two, then remembered she had one, put the other back and set his on the table. He checked drawers for silverware, found what he needed, rinsed and put them by the plates.

  “It smells amazing.”

  “I hope you like it.”

  She put down the stirring spoon, reached for the open bottle of wine, gathered up her own glass and turned to him with a gleam in her eye. With deliberate steps she moved from the counter, bottle and glass in hand, walking with a sort of swagger on the balls of her feet, over to the table to stand beside him. There she put down her glass, reached and picked up his and held it as she poured from the bottle—a deep, clear, red wine—rolling the tip expertly as she finished. She handed it to him, set down the bottle, got her own glass and held it up.

  “To us,” she said. They clinked a toast and took a drink. She smiled up at him over the rim and he could see she wanted a kiss. He bent to her, savoring the soft tenderness of her lips, the taste of wine on her breath.

  “To us,” he held close, words quiet, sincere, and she blushed. He kissed her again, lingered, then she kissed him once more and went back to the stove. As she did he stood straight and turned his gaze to the kitchen’s large flowerbox window. Outside was the rolling green yard, shadows in the orange sunset. The beauty, the vast distances. Everything so wonderful, so refreshing. Jess working so hard to craft that special moment …

  All of it a mirage.

  “It’ll be ready soon,” she informed him. He turned his attention to her. To her back, where she stood cooking. Beautiful hair, soft waves, tangled and falling to a point just below her shoulder blades. Posture perfect, hair hanging a little bit away from her back as she stood working at the stove. Without meaning to his eyes locked to the curve of her figure, tracing her perfect waist beneath the farmer’s shirt, her hips, all the way to the backs of her bare legs where they appeared beneath the edge, along her calves and down as they curved just as perfectly to her ankles, her heels, one slightly off the floor as she bent that leg forward, putting her weight on the other. All of it tantalizing shades of brown in the fading sunlight. Hair, shirt, skin. Much to his consternation he found himself fighting the urge to take her, right there, right then, knowing she would welcome it. Knowing he had to be strong for them both. He wanted to enjoy this little fantasy too, this little slice of heaven, yet was unsure how to do it while the idea of even standing there in the kitchen—contemplating any of it—flew so hard in the face of reason.

  “Good,” he found his voice. “I can’t wait to eat.”

  “You can never wait to eat.” She looked over her shoulder and smiled. Then she turned off the stove and began putting the meal together.

  Of course he could handle anything that came up. Maybe he’d killed most of the Bok. Could that have been all of them? And maybe, now that Lorenzo got away and he and Jess had no more clues, maybe it was best to just sit there and wait till the Bok came back anyway. Nab them and see what they could find from there. But he didn’t really think so. And in fact Jess hadn’t suggested that. She hadn’t suggested anything. So far she was simply refusing to face the reality of their situation. Or seemed to be. Almost like she was trying to enforce her own reality. Her own little world. And that was what gave him pause.

  He wanted to support her. But soon the real world would come crashing in. He was surprised it hadn’t already.

  “Let’s light candles,” she decided as she made preparations, positioning food items on trays, getting out various utensils with which to serve, moving back and forth across the kitchen in a deliberation of activity. She dug through a drawer, producing what had to be a lighter of some sort. She held it like a gun, clicked the trigger and a small flame burst from the tip. She let the trigger go and the flame went away. Handed it to him.

  “I think I saw some over there,” she showed him a section of cabinets and went back to plating food. Zac went to them. The old kitchen was large, lots of cabinet space, both high and low; stained wood, sturdy and well-made.

  “This isn’t my best work,” she said as he found the candles. “I don’t have everything I need. If we were back at my place I could make you an amazing meal.”

  “If it tastes anything like it smells it will be amazing, trust me.” He placed silver holders around the center of the table and stuck the tall, red, stick candles in them.

  Jess began bringing over serving trays of steaming food, arranging them on the table. “I know you’ll like it,” she said. “It’s just, this is the first time I’ve cooked for you and I want it to be special.”

  She went back to get the rest as he used the lighter to light the candles, each tiny flame bringing new life to the gloom of the gathering night. Soon he was holding her chair as she sat with her glass of wine, then he walked around and sat at the corner directly across from her.

  She raised her glass. “To a new beginning,” she said. “To the start of a better life.”

  He clinked with her and took a drink. She took a longer pull, closed her eyes to savor it, then set down the glass and began serving. He watched as she put noodles and bread and vegetables and a meat of some kind on his plate, piling it high. There was a sauce to cover things, butter and garlic to spread, spices to shake and plenty to eat. He found himself licking his lips, waiting as she finished and served herself, then she was saying “Bon appetite” and it was time to dig in.

  The flavors were, indeed, every bit as good as they smelled.

  Better.

  “Wow,” he paused long enough to compliment her, to make a face as he savored the first bites of each item. She ate her own eagerly—she had to be starving—apparently satisfied with the way things turned out. He chewed and shoveled, watching as she in turn watched him with what could only be admiration—and an unconcealed happiness with his quite obvious enjoyment of what she’d prepared. She was so beautiful, even more so in the light of the flickering candles. He didn’t think she could be more perfect.

  “Try some of this,” she handed him another dish. “It’s called caprese. Tomatoes and cheese. Normally you’d eat it first as a kind of appetizer, or even a meal, but I figured we’re too hungry for courses.”

  He took the plate and tried it. Red vegetables covered with thick white cheese and a dark sauce, a leaf on top of each. He ate half of one, leaf and all. It was delicious.

  “Mmm. So good.”

  “Balsamic vinegar. It’s the best.” She went back to her own plate and continued eating. Of them both she was the one who needed the food. For him it was simply a pleasure.

  So good.

  For a while they fell into a sort of earnest quiet, no sounds but the gentle clink of silverware and hungry mouths chewing. For Zac it was a little slice of heaven. He tried not to think of anything else.

  After a long stretch of that wonderful silence Jess broke the spell.

  “Does fire burn?”

  Zac looked up as she finished what she had in her mouth and took another drink of wine. Her glass was nearly empty.

  He chewed and swallowed. “What do you mean?”

  “When you touch fire. Does it burn?”

  “You mean does it hurt?”

  “Yeah.” She took another drink. “I saw you reach across one of the candles when you were lighting them. I don’t think you noticed, but the flame touched your arm. A normal person would’ve jerked away. I mean, I know you can take it. I’ve seen you get shot by a plasma cannon that can vaporize a car, for crying out loud. So I know fire, especially a candle, doesn’t do you any harm. I’m just wondering if it burns. Do you feel it?”

  He shrugged a little. “Pain isn’t the same as it used to be.” It was a good question, and one for which he didn’t have a great answer. More of the Kazerai magic. “Fire doesn’t hurt, but I can tell it’s hot. It’s hard to explain. It takes a lot to feel pain like I remember it. Kang hurt me. That was painful.” He lapsed into the recollection of th
at.

  She nodded. No further questions. Took a long drink, put the glass down but didn’t resume eating. He could see her drifting. Fading in and out as she struggled to keep up the façade. Conversation, dinner, being together, pretending not to have a care in the world. This was all fantasy. One he could see she was, perhaps finally, having a hard time keeping up.

  Then her gaze drifted back to the present and she smiled and said: “Your beard is growing.” Small talk. Then, curious: “How do Kazerai shave?”

  “Shave?”

  “Yeah. What do you use to cut your beard? I’m assuming a razor wouldn’t do it.”

  He wasn’t sure. Again, a good question.

  She persisted. “Fancy laser? Do they have a special Kazerai shaver?” Gentle laughter, then, as she held up a gun finger and made little pew!pew! sounds, pretending to wield some tiny device that shot off beard hair. Zac laughed with her, polite, but also a little sad.

  “Fact is,” he shook his head, “after the conversion our hair doesn’t grow. The process in the Crucible kind of freezes us. Everything just sticks the way it is. Most Kazerai are retired before anything has a chance to change. Guess I’ve been going on long enough for things to evolve. Now my hair is growing.”

  She zeroed in on one word: “Retired?”