Sins of the Lost (16 page)

Chapter 42

Alex slid her gun’s lockbox back onto the closet shelf and, with the same care that had guided all her movements since she’d left the bed, quietly closed the door. Just her coat to put on now and she could leave, be gone before—

“Stay.”

She jumped. Closed her eyes. Gathered herself. Then she reached for the coat she’d laid across the hall table. “You know I can’t,” she told Seth.

“I know you choose not to.” His voice was flat. “I heard your supervisor tell you not to come in today.”

She shrugged into the gray wool coat. “I have work to do.”

“With your soulmate.”

“Damn it, Seth, can we please get past this ridiculous jealousy? For the last time, I chose
you
, remember?” The cell phone at her waist vibrated. She glanced down, saw Jen’s name on the display, and hit
Ignore
. One fight at a time was enough.

Buttoning her coat, she scowled at Seth. “Look, I’m sorry I need protection from a Fallen One I’ve never even met, and I’m sorry Aramael is the one who has to protect me. Hell, I’m sorry any of this is happening. Armageddon, your mother, the Nephilim—I’m sorry about it all. But I can’t change it and I can’t make it go away, and sooner or later we’re just going to have to deal with it.
You
are going to have to deal with it.”

“The way you’re dealing with it?” he snapped, his expression turning as dark as his eyes. “You spend your days with the one being I
know
you still have feelings for, and even when you’re with me we’re not a real couple. Every time I touch you, you pull back. I know here”
—
he tapped his head for emphasis—“that it’s because of Lucifer. But here?” His hand dropped to cover his heart. “Here, I know how strong the connection between you and Aramael is, and yes, I doubt. I chose you, too, Alex. But I sure as Hell didn’t choose all of this.”

Hot tears spilled over onto her cheeks, burning the tiny cuts inflicted by Aramael’s wings the day before. She dashed them away with one hand and reached for the doorknob with the other.

“Neither did I,” she told him.

***

Samael sprawled on the park bench beside Mittron, arms extended along the back, legs outstretched across the sidewalk so that pedestrians had to go around him. He sent a sidelong glance at the Seraph, who sat with hands wrapped around a Styrofoam cup of coffee. Eyes closed, Mittron inhaled deeply. He brought the mug to his lips and sipped at the scalding liquid. The tremble in his hands was half what it had been scant minutes before.

Mittron looked over. “Whatever you gave me, it’s good.”

“You expected otherwise?”

“I haven’t been thinking clearly enough to expect much of anything lately. This makes a nice change.” Mittron took another sip of coffee. “So. You want to take over Hell, do you?”

“I’d like there to
be
a Hell when all this”—Samael waggled the fingers of one hand—“is over.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Lucifer isn’t what he used to be, Seraph. The idea of wiping mortals from the planet consumes him to the exclusion of all else, including the survival of his followers.”

“And this has changed how?” Mittron asked dryly.

Samael grunted. “Maybe you’re right. Now that he’s this close to achieving his goal, however, I’d rather like to know I’ll survive.”

“He’s close? How close?”

In a few clipped words, Samael brought Heaven’s former executive administrator up to date on what had happened in his drug-induced absence: Seth’s choice of the Naphil, the Nephilim army waiting to be born, Lucifer’s obsession with fathering a child to lead that army—and his complete lack of interest in whether any of them, including himself, survived the war yet to come.

Mittron was silent when he finished. Then, “Former Archangel or not, the Fallen will never follow you. You’re not strong enough.”

“Not me. Seth.”

“Seth! But you just said—”

“I said he gave up his powers. I didn’t say he couldn’t get them back.”

“And why would he want to do that? He gave up everything to get rid of them, and he didn’t make the decision lightly. He’s right where he wanted to be. He has the woman.”

“Not if I can convince him otherwise.” Samael withdrew the next of Lucifer’s journals destined for Seth’s hands and laid it on the bench between them. Mittron’s eyebrows went up.

“That’s your plan? You’re going to convince him with a book to take back his powers and overthrow Lucifer?”

Samael grinned at an elderly woman forced to maneuver her walker onto the rough grass to get around his feet. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to judge a book by its cover?”

Mittron set down the coffee and picked up the leather-bound volume. He flipped through a half dozen pages, then looked up at Samael. “Lucifer’s journal?”

“One of a thousand and eleven at last count. Six millennia of history as seen through the eyes of the Light-bearer himself. A rather ugly read, if you ask me.”

“I still don’t see—”

“A son should have the opportunity to know his father, don’t you think? Especially when they have so much in common, such as an obsession with the females in their lives. Females who insist on choosing the good of an entire race over the ones who worship them.”

Speculation narrowed Mittron’s eyes. “You think you can turn Seth from the woman? After he gave up all that he did for her?”

“I know I can.”

Mittron closed the journal. “Even if you succeed, we’re talking about Lucifer. There’s no guarantee Seth will be strong enough to take him on—with or without an army. Or that Hell will survive if he does.”

“Perhaps not. But I can guarantee neither it
nor
we will survive if we don’t at least try.”

“So you’re choosing between the lesser of two evils and you want me to join you?”

“Unless our fearless leader has a sudden change of heart—and I wouldn’t hold my breath on that—yes. That’s exactly what want.” Samael raised an eyebrow. “So what will it be, Seraph? Take a chance on my plan, or return to your Judgment?”

Mittron took a swig of coffee, staring out across the little park.

“Tell me what you need.”

***

Aramael frowned as Alex joined him beside her sedan. “Are you—?”

“Don’t.” Her throat aching, Alex brushed past him and went around to the driver’s side. Seth’s gaze bored into her back from his vantage point in the apartment window, but she refused to turn. She didn’t trust herself not to break down if she did. “Just get in.”

“Alex, if there’s—”

She rested a gloved hand on the car roof, holding on for dear life to the door handle with her other. Steeling herself, she looked across the car into Aramael’s concern. His caring. Her knees trembled and she locked them so they couldn’t fold beneath her.

“Can you leave?” she demanded.

Can you go away forever and take all of this with you? The pain of having known you, the agony of still doing so, the heartache that you’re inflicting on the man I’m trying so hard to love? Can you please—please—break this connection between us before it destroys me?

Aramael shook his head slowly, sadly, responding to all her questions, spoken and unspoken. “You know I can’t.”

Her breath slid down her throat like a thousand shards of glass. She wrenched open the car door. “Then no, Aramael. There’s nothing you can do. So get in, shut up, and leave me the hell alone.”

Chapter 43

Alex gathered up the scattering of messages. Two from the Internet techs looking to clarify the list Roberts had given them; one from Riley, giving her an office location in case she wanted to stop by—at least doing so was a suggestion now and not an order; and one from Roberts ordering her to his office.

She eyed the coffee room longingly, and then, suppressing a sigh, shed her coat and scarf and dropped them onto her chair.

Roberts’s door stood open. She tapped on the door frame. “You wanted to see me?”

His back to her as he stared out the window, her supervisor waved her in. She took a seat and frowned. Hadn’t Roberts been wearing that same suit yesterday? Had something else come up after they’d sent her and Seth home from the hospital?

She opened her mouth to ask. He spoke first.

“There’s a press conference in Ottawa tomorrow afternoon.” Roberts let the blinds fall back into place with a metallic clatter. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he turned and leaned back against the window ledge. “The federal health minister is announcing a country-wide implementation of the same measures we used here for the SARS scare in 2003.”

“SARS! But we quarantined—” Alex broke off. “You’ve got to be kidding me. They want to quarantine pregnant women?
That’s
their answer to this?”

“No. That’s their attempt to contain things, at least for a while. It will apply only to women in their first trimester. Beyond that, there doesn’t seem to be much danger. World Health is recommending the measures be taken globally as a precaution while they work to isolate the virus.” Roberts held up a hand to ward off her pending outburst. “Our hospital incident night before last wasn’t an isolated one, Alex. Demonstrations are springing up at clinics across the globe and ten more women—that we know of—have died giving birth to those babies. People need to believe we have a handle on this thing, or we’re going to lose any chance at control.”

“Quarantining pregnant women and handing out surgical masks does not constitute a
handle
on things.”

“I know that, Detective. WHO knows it. We all know it, but what would you suggest we do? China has already imposed martial law because of the demonstrations there, and damned if I’m not half in agreement with them. People are scared. If these measures give people any peace at all, every member of this force will help to enforce them, including you. Do I make myself clear?”

She held his glare for a second and then subsided. “Of course. You’re right. We need to keep people calm.”

“Good, because we don’t have time for disciplinary crap. You’ve been called to Ottawa.”

“I—what? But why?”

“They didn’t say. I got a call from CSIS half an hour after I sent your list to the techs. They want to see you tomorrow morning at ten. My guess is that someone started connecting the dots and discovered you’re part of the picture.” Roberts grimaced. “I shouldn’t have mentioned your name in that memo to tech. I didn’t stop to think.”

CSIS—the Canadian Security Intelligence Service. With the number of connections she had to events—from Caim’s killing spree in Toronto to the mess in Vancouver—it was inevitable that someone would flag her as a person of interest. She should have expected as much.

Alex shook her head. “It’s okay, Staff. Really. I haven’t exactly kept a low profile. Someone was bound to put it together eventually. Do you know how long I’m there for?”

“Just one night. Trent will go with you.”

“Trent?” The name escaped before she could stop it.

“After yesterday?” His brows rose. “Not up for debate.”

Shit. Overnight in Ottawa with Aramael after that row she’d had with Seth this morning?. She massaged at the ache forming behind her temple. Hell, maybe she’d skip coffee and just find a bar somewhere instead.

“Is that everything?”

“Just one more thing. I’ve been looking into the DNA reports you mentioned. The ones for the babies. They’ve been sealed. So has the one for the claw we found. All I could get out of anyone is what they’ve already released to the media and a promise to keep us apprised of the situation.”

“They?”

“Government Operations Centre. They’ll be at the meeting tomorrow, too.”

Chapter 44

Mika’el hesitated midstride as he passed the gaping hole in the greenhouse’s side. A window, not yet repaired, shattered by pruning shears thrown by the One when their struggles with Seth had begun. He made a mental note to have it looked after by one of the Thrones, then looked beyond the broken glass to the riotous, unkempt growth within the building. The air of desertion was unmistakable, sending a whisper of cold down his spine. How long had it been since the One had tended her beloved plants?

He’d best have the Thrones tend to that task as well.

He continued walking. He had already been through the gardens without success. The only place left to look was the One’s office. Pushing open the great oak door of a small stone building tucked behind the greenhouse, he stepped inside. The coolness of the interior reached out to wrap around him, dim, silent, empty. No Principality standing guard over the outer office, no light other than what filtered through the deep-set windows. Mika’el paused. Was the One not—?

“I’m here, my Archangel,” came a quiet voice through the open door behind the Principality’s desk.

He found her seated in one of the wing chairs by the window overlooking her rose garden. A shadow among the room’s shadows but for the pale glint of light off silver hair. He moved closer, his footsteps absorbed by the carpet. Looking up at his approach, the One held out a hand to him. He took it in his own and crouched at her side. He studied her face, his heart recoiling.

“You look tired,” he said. The understatement of his existence. The Creator’s pale skin had become almost translucent, giving her a fragile, ethereal air, as if she had lost a portion of her very substance.

“I’m not surprised.” She turned her face to the window again. Sadness clouded her silver eyes. “My son’s powers have proved greater than I anticipated, Mika’el.”

His breath snared in his chest. This was why she’d refused to see Verchiel. How long had she been like this, without anyone telling him? Without him paying attention? How in
Hell
had he not known?

“How bad is it?” His voice was gruff.

Ignoring his question, the One closed her eyes. “Have you made any progress with the woman? Will she help us?”

“I don’t know. She’s very loyal to your son.”

A sad smile tugged at the corner of his Creator’s mouth. “She loves him. She thinks I have failed him, and she is right. What kind of mother uses her son’s life as currency for bartering with her helpmeet?”

“You did what you—”

“I did wrong, Mika’el. I should have ended this matter with Lucifer when it began. When you wanted me to.” Her voice dropped. “When I could.”

The chill returned to crawl along his skin. “But you still can.”

Had her hand always been this tiny? This fragile?

“One—”

“Oh, never mind me,” she said brusquely. “I’m just feeling maudlin today. I’ll be fine, and you have enough to look after without worrying about me. You wanted to know about Seth’s healing.” She raised a brow at the surprise he failed to hide. “You didn’t think I knew why you were here? I am still the Creator, you know.”

“Of course. I just—”

“It wasn’t one of Heaven who healed him.” The One’s gaze drifted away to the window and became distant. “Nor was it Seth himself.”

Mika’el let his head hang. Damn. He’d really hoped he’d been wrong about this. “And the Naphil’s attacker—”

“Mittron. I know.” She shook her head slightly. “I hadn’t anticipated that, either. The woman is unharmed?”

“Her injuries were minor. She’s fine.”

“Is she?”

He opened his mouth to reassure her, then snapped it closed again. “Hell,” he muttered. “I don’t know. I feel like I’m beating my wings against the Hellfire itself where talking to her is concerned. Whatever words she needs to hear to convince her, I don’t have them.” He grimaced. “And I might have made it worse this morning.”

He heaved a sigh and recounted his latest conversation—if it could be called such—with the Naphil, ending on an embarrassed mutter: “I told her to stop feeling sorry for herself and make a decision.”

To his surprise, the One chuckled. “You never were one to mince words, my Archangel.” Withdrawing her hand from his grasp, she rose to her feet. “But I think perhaps the reason you haven’t found the right ones for the Naphil is because they’re mine to speak rather than yours.”

Mika’el stood, towering over the One. “I beg your pardon?”

“You asked how bad it is?” She gave him another tiny, infinitely sad smile. “It’s bad, Mika’el. We’re running out of time. If Seth doesn’t take back his powers soon, I won’t have enough left in me to join with Lucifer. You’ve done what you can, and now I must do my part. Perhaps I might find the words to convince her.”

***

“Lucifer!” Samael stepped back, hitting the edge of a garbage can. The metal lid slid off, landing with a crash that echoed the length of the street. “You—I wasn’t expecting you here.”

The Light-bearer regarded him without word. Then he nodded at the building across the street. “She’s there?”

“The Naphil? Of course. Eighth floor, corner apartment, overlooking the parking lot.” Samael pointed at the lighted window of the Naphil’s residence, surreptitiously studying his companion. “She and your son, both.”

Lucifer gave an impatient wave, dismissing the mention of Seth. “And the Archangel who protects her?”

Samael pointed upward again, this time at the rooftop of the building towering above the first—and the barely discernible outline of the brooding, omnipresent Archangel who watched over the woman. “There.”

The Light-bearer jammed his hands into the pockets of his dark overcoat. “So he really is there. Does he ever leave?”

He really is there?
Samael scowled.

“You’re checking up on me.”

Lucifer slanted him an unpleasant look. “That surprises you? Answer the question.”

Samael swallowed the acerbic retort hovering on his tongue. The time to take on the Light-bearer would come, but this wasn’t it. Not yet. “No. Not without her.”

“And does he know you’re here?”

“He saw me once. I’ve been more careful since.”

The Light-bearer stared up at Aramael. “Well, I’m not going to wait forever. We’ll need a distraction. Something big enough to draw him away so you can capture her.”

Samael tensed. “But—”

“Not now, of course. After the infants are born. Get them safely to this place you’ve prepared—this . . .”

“Pripyat.”

“Whatever. And then, as soon as they’re looked after, do whatever you must to draw the Archangel—all of the Archangels—away from the Naphil. I want her sister and niece.”

“Of course.”

“And Samael, for the record, I’m glad you passed.”

Samael stood rooted to the spot for long, agonizing minutes after Lucifer’s departure. Part of him—a quivering, jelly-like mass deep in his core—waited for the Light-bearer to reappear and strike him down, to tell him that he knew Samael hadn’t been watching the woman as ordered, that he would pay the price of failure. But Lucifer didn’t return, and slowly the cold cramp of fear in Samael’s gut relaxed. He sagged back against the wall and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Bloody Heaven, that had been close. Too close. He’d only just returned to his surveillance—another minute or two and Lucifer would have known of his absence. And he wouldn’t have bothered to ask questions.

Samael lifted a hand and stared at the tremble in his fingers. He’d have to be more careful—and he needed to speed up the agenda, too. He’d start by speaking to Mittron about opening Limbo sooner rather than later . . .

He shot another look at his surroundings.

As soon as he was certain Lucifer wasn’t still watching.