I’m wagering almost everyone
loves the springtime. I’m Libby Doyle, author of the urban fantasy The Passion
Season, Book I of the Covalent Series.
I say this about spring because the days are longer, the weather warmer,
our energy levels higher. Spring gets our blood pumping and our juices flowing.
Spring is the season of passion.
All that holds true in the world of my novel. Rainer
Barakiel (pronounced Ry-ner Ba-rack-ee-el) is a superhuman warrior from another
dimension, exiled to Earth for the sins of his father. When he meets the strong
and talented FBI agent Zan O’Gara, blood pumps and juices flow. The season
lives up to its name with an added twist. On the vernal equinox, the day that spring
begins, monstrous demons shoot through a rift in the fabric of existence to
attack Barakiel. Massive, drooling beasts with an endless thirst for violence,
the demons are sent by Barakiel’s father to kill him.
I released The Passion Season on March 20, 2016, because the
vernal equinox occurred at 12:30 a.m. on that date. Chapter 1 begins with the
demon attack, shortly before Barakiel meets Zan. We learn in the prologue that
Barakiel has been fighting demons for centuries. He is Covalent, a race of
ancient beings who use their great power to bring stability to the cosmos.
Barakiel was exiled after his father, the once great warrior Lucifer, led a
rebellion against the rulers of the Covalent Realm. As Barakiel grew up, the
rulers of his world came to mistrust his power. They feared he was his father’s
son, so when he reached adolescence, they banished him to the Earthly Realm.
Their fear was misplaced. Far from being his father’s sleeper
agent, Barakiel refused to become his father’s slave. As a result. Lucifer
never stops trying to kill him, sending demons against him at every change of
season: the vernal equinox, the summer solstice, the autumnal equinox and the winter
solstice.
Why only the changes of season, you ask? Because the kind of
inter-dimensional rift used by the demons opens only at that moment when the
Earth’s axis shifts position relative to the sun, the moment of a solstice or
an equinox. During the brief time the rift is open, demons cram inside to
rocket through and attack Barakiel.
As you can see in image #1, in the autumn and winter the
northern part of the Earth is tilted away from the Sun. Spring comes to the
northern hemisphere when the Earth has traveled far enough along its orbit for
the northern part of our planet to once again tilt toward the heat of the fiery
star.
The rift opens because the Earth stretches the fabric of
existence when it reaches one of the far points of its elliptical orbit.
Imagine the Sun sitting at the center of a vast vibrating cloth, as in image #2.
The Earth travels along the surface of same cloth, following
the same furrow in the fabric over and over again, held in that groove by the
gravitational pull of the Sun. At the far points, when the Earth’s axis shifts
relative the Sun, small tears appear in the fabric that almost immediately
repair themselves. But the tears are open long enough for the demons to enter.
The beasts rush through to set upon Barakiel, seeking to satisfy their blood
lust and please their master, Lucifer, by ripping apart his son.
The axial rifts, as these tears in the fabric of existence
are called, look something like enormous trees, their branches embracing the Earth.
Zan and Barakiel are brought together by a murder evidenced
by macabre ritual that happens shortly before the vernal equinox. Fearing the
gruesome crime has something to do with the demons, Barakiel offers to consult
for the FBI because he has expertise in antique daggers like those found at the
scene. His goal is information, but after Zan shows up at his door to question
him about the knives, he finds he can’t get her out of his mind. And so begins
Barakiel’s passion, a season of more happiness than he has ever known, with
more at stake than he has ever had to lose.
Book I of the Covalent Series
Libby Doyle
Genre: urban fantasy/paranormal romance
Publisher: Fairhill Publishing LLC
Date of Publication: March 20, 2016
ISBN: 978-0-9972985-0-5
ASIN: B01CCE4U8E
Number of pages: 600 in ePub
Word Count: 117,259
Cover Artist: Damonza
Book Description:
In loving him, she overcomes her pain, but to discover his true identity would shred the reality she thought she knew.
He is Barakiel. Warrior. Exile. Hopeless romantic. Barakiel is Covalent, a race of ancient beings who use their great power to keep the elemental forces of Creation and Destruction in Balance. The Covalent Council exiled Barakiel to the Earthly Realm as the price of the treachery of his father, Lucifer, who wages perpetual war against it. Lucifer also relentlessly pursues his son. The Council thinks Lucifer views his son’s power as a threat, but Barakiel knows his father seeks to destroy even the memory of love.
She is Alexandra “Zan” O'Gara. FBI Agent. Army veteran. Recovering drunk. Zan’s troubled past left her with little interest in men, but she had never encountered anyone like the stunning Rainer Barakiel. Zan believes Rainer is a wealthy businessman with expertise in edged weapons who can help her with a case. From the moment she meets him she wants him more than she’s ever wanted anything, but her intense attraction is as frightening as it is thrilling.
This is their love story. As Zan’s deepening feelings for Rainer lead her to confront her emotional damage, he struggles to meet the demands of his home world so he will be free to love her, and to reveal his true nature. Through the gruesome crime that first brought Zan to his door, Barakiel learns that his presence in the Earthly Realm has placed some of its most vulnerable citizens in danger. Compelled to protect them, he undertakes a series of duties he may not survive, even as Zan rescues him from centuries of a deadened heart.
The Passion Season©
by Libby Doyle
The Meet
From part one,
Vernal Equinox,
Chapter 1
T
|
he antique weapons collector to
whom Professor Carson had referred Zan owned several acres along the Delaware
River in the Bridesburg section of Philadelphia, slightly north of the Betsy
Ross Bridge. She pulled over on Richmond Street for a minute or two to go over
the background check the clerk had included with her copy of the consulting
agreement.
Rainer Barakiel, 33, had immigrated to the United States
from Germany nine years previous. The owner of several offshore companies, he
was known for his philanthropy, especially his support of the Philadelphia
Orchestra and environmental organizations. He was also known for his avid
pursuit of antique bladed weapons, no matter the cost. The man spent a lot of
money on violins as well, the kind that had names. Her information did not
include a picture. Zan wondered what a guy who collected weapons and violins
would look like.
Probably nerdy.
She paused to gape for a moment when she arrived at the
address. The place could withstand a siege. It was ringed by a high stone wall
in front of an even higher line of thick hedges and black alders, with a stand
of cherry trees at the west side. It sat behind some kind of disused industrial
facility. An elevated pipeline ran along the southern side to the river, next
to a few small businesses. The northern boundary was the old course of the Frankford
Creek, with the river to the east.
Zan drove through the open gateway to find a huge building
made of glass and mismatched wood that extended almost all the way to the
river, with two small outbuildings beside it. She figured living on a former
industrial site was a small price to pay for all that space and privacy, and
those beautiful cherry trees just beginning to bloom.
The front of the main building had a set of massive wooden
double doors and a smaller heavy wooden door to the side with the bell. She
rang, and when the door opened she forgot she was supposed to speak. He was
gigantic, at least six foot eight, with broad shoulders and a lithe, athletic
build. A few strands of unruly, mid-length blond hair fell over eyes that
seemed to be several shades of blue at once. They drew her in with more than
their beauty, as if something primeval was hidden in their depths, just barely
restrained. He faintly smiled. She knew her face was getting red.
What the hell. Don’t be such a fool.
“Um, hello, I’m Special Agent Alexandra O’Gara of the FBI.”
She stuck out her hand. “My office made an appointment.”
“Yes. I’m Rainer Barakiel. A pleasure to meet you.” His
voice was rich and deep and he spoke with a slight accent. When he shook her
hand, she held it too long. She still felt flushed.
“I, um, I appreciate you taking the time for this, Mr.
Barakiel.”
“I’m happy to help.”
God, so lame. He must have to deal with swooning women
all the time, but I doubt he expected it from an FBI agent.
Turning gracefully, he showed her through the door. Zan
tried not to stare at the way his jeans fit his hips, or the contours of his
muscles beneath his gray cashmere sweater. Gripped by a strong urge to run her
hands all over him, she was lucky his place was filled with fascinating things
to distract her. Antiques and art were arranged tastefully in the open space,
among brown leather couches and chairs and colorful woven rugs. Pale sun from
high skylights glinted off a sunburst mosaic above the mantle of a huge
concrete fireplace. Zan tried to concentrate on her surroundings, at least
until her pulse slowed down.
“What a fantastic place.”
“Thank you.” He dipped his head toward her in an
old-fashioned display of manners that she found charming.
“This whole property is great. What was it used for, before
you lived here?”
“This land was part of the old Rohm and Haas Chemical plant
you can still see as you enter. The facility was shut down in 2010.”
“I wish more people would reclaim these abandoned places by
the river. Most of it just goes to waste, and meanwhile they’re developing
Chester County farmland.”
“Yes.” He looked at her intensely. “I felt good about
redeveloping a brownfield. I had to do a lot of remediation, but now it’s an
excellent place to live.”
“All you need now is for the city to buy the front parcel
and turn it into a park.” Zan gave him her best sunny smile, with an openness
she knew made people trust her.
“That would be ideal,” he replied, “but I’m not holding my
breath.” He returned her smile.
My god, you’re beautiful. How are you that beautiful?
Why am I here? The knives.
“Um, in the interest of not taking up any more of your time
than necessary, these are the knives in question.” Zan held up the case.
“Daggers, I think. Did Professor Carson explain where we found them?”
“Superficially, yes.”
“Well, someone conducted some kind of ritual in
Independence National Historical Park. We wouldn’t be that concerned with weird
people doing weird things at night, but we found a human spleen. We tested the
DNA and ran it through the database and discovered that the spleen came from a
body found this past winter by the Philadelphia police. All its internal organs
had been removed. The police called us because they suspected organ
trafficking, but we never found any evidence of it, so we weren’t much help. No
one ever filed a missing persons report on this man, and Philly PD was never
able to identify the corpse, let alone solve the crime.”
“Disturbing,” he said.
“Very. We thought if you could tell us something about the
knives it might give us some insight into what this whole thing was about,
maybe generate some sort of lead. They look old, and Professor Carson said you
are an expert in antique bladed weapons.”
“Yes. I collect them. I’ve learned a lot over the years.”
“Let’s take a look,” Zan said. He led her to a massive
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.
She felt the heat rise to her face again. He raised an
eyebrow.
“You can use the glove like a handkerchief and just 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. 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 have been used for ceremonies, like the opening or closing of a formal
meeting. They are valuable as antiques but they are not real weapons.”
“We haven’t really explored the evidence in terms of the
ritual yet, because we’ve been concentrating on the spleen.” Zan shook her
head. “That sounds odd, doesn’t it?”
“It’s an odd situation.”
“If I showed you some crime scene photos, do you think you
would have any insight?”
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’m leaving town for a few days tomorrow. Can you come
back this evening?”
“Yes, I think so.” She paused to consider for a moment. “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 extremely helpful. Just don’t reveal that
they were involved in a crime.” He nodded and began to snap pictures of the
knives with his phone.
“I have to say, Professor Carson was right,” Zan said. “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?”
“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.
They moved to the left, 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 huge 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 at the 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 is 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 before, 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. It’s a superlative weapon.
Would you like to take a closer look?” 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 gargantuan 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,” he replied in a low voice. 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.
About
the Author:
Libby Doyle is an attorney
and former journalist who took a walk around the corporate world and didn’t
like it. She escapes the mundane by writing extravagant yarns, filled with sex
and violence. She loves absurd humor, travel, punk rock, and her husband.
Mailing List: http://eepurl.com/bWvolH
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5 comments:
Hello! Feel free to ask me questions about the book, or anything else for that matter.
Be aware that The Passion Season contains foul language, violence, explicit sex and descriptions of sexual violence. Adults only, please!
Thank you for running giveaway x
You're welcome!
Many thanks to Roxanne Rhoads for hosting me on her rockin' blog! Peace!
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