Sins of the Son: The Grigori Legacy (4 page)

Rubbing a hand over his short-cropped, graying head, Hugh sighed. “So we really have no idea whether she was raped or not.”

“Not yet. It would appear you were called prematurely.”

Hugh’s brow furled. “Don’t go shitting on ER over this, Liz. They were only doing their job. Someone even breathes the possibility and they have no choice but to notify us.”

Elizabeth closed Melanie Chiu’s chart with a snap. “I wish you wouldn’t call me that.”

“So you keep telling me.”

“Then why do it?”

He grinned. “Keeps you humble, Dr. Riley.” Nodding at the chart on the counter, he added, “So now what?”

“Now we wait. I’ve left instructions to be called when she wakes. As soon as I have anything, I’ll let you know.”

“That works. You heading to the cabin tomorrow?”

“I’ll see how Melanie is doing first, but probably.”

“Well, the weather is supposed to be fantastic, so you should go if you can. No telling how many more nice weekends we’ll get.” Hugh ambled in the direction of the elevators, wiggling fingers over shoulder. “Talk to you tomorrow,
Liz
.”

W
AS IT SUPPOSED
to hurt this much?

Or had Mittron gone back on his word?

Seth curled into a ball against the force crushing in on him, squeezing until he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move,
couldn’t even blink. Fighting to detach from the pain, he gritted his teeth and swallowed against the nausea, then arched back as a sudden, sharper agony tore through him like a thousand unseen claws shredding body and mind.

It subsided an eternity later, leaving him drifting, hovering at the edge of consciousness, pulsing with aftershock. Remnants of pain jangled along his nerves until, little by little, they subsided and he could reach again for his thoughts, collect them, hold them steady where he could focus on them. Focus on what lay ahead. Mortal life. Alexandra. An end to his part in the struggle between Heaven and Hell.

If he survived.

Another spasm twisted through his belly and Seth curled into himself once more, jaw clenched. Had he been wrong to trust Mittron? The Seraph had appeared willing enough, but maybe Seth had underestimated him. Maybe Mittron’s willingness had hidden his intention to rid himself of a potential problem once and for all. Maybe—

A new agony sliced through him, white-hot, swelling to fill his entire being, deftly excising bits of consciousness, threatening sanity itself. Seth struggled against it, fighting to hold the memory of Alex, to retain his vanishing sense of self. Deep in his mind, fear sparked. Something was seriously wrong. What if this wasn’t Mittron’s doing? What if the One had discovered her son’s betrayal? What if she intervened?

Before Seth could register the consequences inherent in the possibility, agony exploded through his every atom, erasing lucidity in a brutal decimation of all that he was. His life code, his soul, his consciousness, all disappeared into a vortex that swallowed him, rearranged him to fit its immensity, made him one with it…

And then spat him out into nothingness.

T
HE ONE FELT
the shock of her son’s absence like a sudden, vast emptiness. One second he was there, in her consciousness where he had been from the moment of his conception,
and then, simply, he was not. She drew a breath, startled at the change in the state of her own being. The unexpected shift.

Then she shook her head at her own naïveté. After all these millennia, after all that had passed, the most surprising thing about this entire mess was that she could still be surprised.

Setting down the pot of soil, she went to wash her hands. So. Seth was gone, dead at the hands of an angel she had known would kill him. An angel she had
allowed
to kill him. She found little comfort in the fact she hadn’t actually condoned Mittron’s actions, had only permitted the unfolding of the free will he had never given up. Because however she looked at it, she’d known, and the decision to end Seth’s life belonged to no one but her.

A tiny whisper of doubt threaded through her. She closed her eyes, gripping the edge of the sink.

What if I was wrong?

When she had looked into Seth’s soul and seen the potential for betrayal written there, the weakness, what if she had overreacted? Perhaps she had been too quick to judge what she considered a fatal flaw, an unacceptable threat to her agreement with Lucifer. And even if she had been right, even if she had prevented outright annihilation of the human race, this—what she had triggered in its place—would be nearly as bad.

War between Heaven and Hell. Between her beloved angels and their fallen kin. War that Lucifer would ensure was fought on mortal soil, taking out as much of humanity as he could in the process. Her fingers curled over the cool porcelain.
So many lives…so much grief…and all because I couldn’t trust my own son.

Flicking water from her hands, the One reached for a towel hanging by the sink. Her lips drew as tight as the band around her heart. She had either set the universe on the only possible path to be taken, or she had just made another in a line of monumental errors. Either way, it was too late now to change her mind.

Either way, she would still mourn the first life to be lost in this new conflict—that of her own child.

M
ITTRON STARED AT
the space Seth had occupied, and then at his hands. Hands that should have held the pulsing, living energy of the Appointed’s immortal power but were instead empty—stunningly, impossibly empty. He’d expected it to be difficult, but he’d been confident he could do as Seth asked. Certain. What in Heaven’s name had gone wrong?

He raised his gaze to the Dominion who stood in the doorway. Met the betrayal in her pale blue eyes. The horror.

“What have you done?”

He flinched from Verchiel’s whisper, a sound more harsh than any shout could have been, and returned his gaze to his hands. They trembled now, and a sickness had begun to wind through his chest. Mittron swayed. He needed to sit down before he fell down. But he didn’t have time. All of Heaven would have felt this.
They
would already be on their way. How long did he have? Minutes? Seconds?

“Mittron!”

Verchiel’s voice cut across his thoughts, startling him and then sparking annoyance. Wiping clammy palms against his robe, Mittron met the accusation in the other angel’s eyes. He held himself upright, defying the weakness spreading outward from his core. He was the Highest Seraph; he would not stumble before a Dominion.

He lifted his chin. “Don’t look at me like that. It wasn’t my fault.”

“Not your—” Verchiel’s mouth hung open.

Mittron tried to wave away the Dominion, but his hand lay against his robe as if disconnected from its owner. The tremor reached his belly and continued spreading, an odd weakness following in its wake. He swallowed. He needed to get out of here while he still could—his breath caught. Get out. Is that what he was going to do? What he wanted to do?

Did he have a choice?

Why won’t my hands move?

“I did only what I was told to do,” he said to Verchiel, focusing his entire being on moving just one finger.

Nothing.

“You were to transition the Appointed to infancy and place him among the mortals.”

“That was what the One wanted. Not Seth.”

“Seth—
Seth
asked you to destroy him? But why?”

“Not destroy. Transition as an adult. As a mortal. And I didn’t ask.”

Hadn’t asked because it hadn’t mattered. Not once he’d understood Seth’s proposal and its implications: refuse and face exile; agree and the dominoes he’d set in place might still fall as planned. There might still be a chance the One would call on him to rule at her side in the final conflict.

It seemed so clear, so certain.

Then Seth’s life force had slipped from Mittron’s grasp and he hadn’t been able to catch it back. All his carefully arranged dominoes had randomly, irretrievably scattered, and the accusation in Verchiel’s eyes marked only the beginning of what he would face.

Stiffening, the Dominion looked over his shoulder. Mittron’s gaze tried to follow, but he couldn’t move his head. Was that them? Did she sense their approach? Why didn’t he? He fought to calm himself, to assess his state of being. Shaky. Everything in him felt so shaky. Verchiel’s gaze flicked back to him, softened with pity.

The air around Mittron stilled. Panic clutched at his throat. They were nearly here, and he couldn’t make so much as his little finger twitch. The angel who had once been his soulmate crossed the room and placed a gentle hand beneath his chin, held him so he would meet her eyes.

“Tell me,” she said. “Tell me now—everything—and I will speak to her. Perhaps I can spare you some of what you—” She looked past him and broke off, her face going white. Her head inclined in unhesitating supplication. Her hand dropped to her side.

Mittron heard the rustle of feathers and his bowel filled
with ice water. His heartbeat slowed until it was a bare thread of rhythm.
No.

Verchiel’s gaze met his again, horror behind her expression. Horror not for what he had done this time, but for what she knew was coming. What they all knew was coming.

No.

“There’s a letter!”
his mind screamed, but the words remained locked inside him, unable to pass through lips now frozen into the same stillness as the rest of his body. The rustle of feathers grew louder, filling his head with a noise so great the rest of the universe faded into nothingness. Then, silence.

And a new female voice, devoid of expression, devoid of warmth. “Mittron of the Seraphim,” the Archangel Gabriel said, “you have been called to Judgment.”

Please, no…

E
lizabeth lifted her hand from the SUV’s horn and waited as the forest’s nighttime stillness swallowed the blast. Not a creature stirred in response.

Not even the naked man in her high beams.

Well. She exhaled, breath fogging in the chill air from the half-open driver’s window. Well. She studied the figure sprawled across the porch of the cabin. Male, a good twenty years younger than she, well-developed musculature, unmoving, and bare as the day he was born.

Altogether as out of place here as a grizzly would be on her verandah in the city.

She tapped a finger against the leather wheel. Part of her wanted to go to him, to see if he was all right. He hadn’t so much as twitched in the five or so minutes since she’d arrived, and while she couldn’t see any sign of obvious injury, neither could she tell from here whether he even breathed. Another part of her, the consulting-police-psychiatrist side, urged extreme caution. She found it damned difficult to argue with almost thirty years of experience.

Tap, tap, tap.
Cell phone service didn’t exist up here, and while the landline that ran to the cabin might have survived the unpredicted storm, the stranger lay between her and it. Her only other option was to drive back down the mountain to the nearest pay phone, a good hour away. With the road partially washed out in places, help would take another hour to get up the mountain, then they’d have to drive back here…Hell, it would be at least three hours before anyone even put a blanket over the guy. If he hadn’t already succumbed to hypothermia, he certainly would by the time she returned.

Brushing back a strand of hair that had come loose from its customary coil at her nape, Elizabeth went back to studying the form sprawled in front of the cabin door. Where in God’s name had he come from? Hers was the only human habitat for miles, she’d seen no sign of another vehicle on her way in on the former logging road, and he certainly couldn’t have walked far without clothes in this weather. Had someone dropped him in the area? Left him for dead?

She considered the possibilities. Drug related, maybe. Or the Russian mafia, so active in human trafficking along the coast. She grimaced and shook her head at herself. Caution was one thing, an overactive imagination quite another. Opening the door, she slid out from behind the wheel, leaving the headlights on.

The car’s open-door reminder chimed behind her as she walked toward the cabin, feet squelching in the thick, wet carpet of evergreen needles. The forest damp crept through the gaps in her clothing and she shivered, wrapping her cardigan around her. The retreating storm grumbled in the distance.

Still the man didn’t move.

She stopped at the bottom of the stairs and, balancing humanity with common sense, picked up a broom propped nearby. Hefting it, she reached out to poke the figure on the porch. Nothing. She prodded a second time, and then a third, with increasing vigor. The man’s chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, but he displayed no other sign of life.

So. Alive, but out cold and not an immediate danger.
Elizabeth went up the stairs, stepped across the prone form, unlocked the door, and switched on the porch light.

Then, taking a deep breath, she faced the problem of moving a large naked man into the cabin.

T
HE WORLD RETURNED
in millisecond bits.

Cold.

Wet.

Something jabbing into him. A lightening of the darkness. Footsteps, silence, more footsteps. Hands running over his limbs, sliding under his shoulders, lifting him, tugging at him. Movement. Something soft beneath him. Warmth.

With great effort, he forced his eyelids open. Stared at the face looking down at him. Lines appeared above the eyes that stared back. A mouth opened and sounds issued forth. Unintelligible sounds.

Consciousness fractured again.

Faded.

Ended.

E
LIZABETH DIDN’T KNOW
how long she stared down at the man in her arms before her knees, pressed against the floor, began to protest. He’d opened his eyes so unexpectedly. Not a groan, not a murmur, not even a catch in his breath. Just those eyes. Blacker, deeper, and emptier than she’d ever seen. As if they opened onto a void rather than a person.

And then he’d been gone again. She’d spoken one sentence, a single reassurance, and then—nothing. A closing of eyelids as abrupt as their opening had been, and she once more faced the task of caring for an unconscious stranger.