Sins of the Lost (20 page)

Chapter 54

“This is it.” Standing on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, Qemuel nodded at the house on the other side of a manicured lawn. “The car’s in the driveway, so she’s home.”

Lucifer inhaled deeply and shook the remaining tension of dealing with Samael from his shoulders. He pushed his irritation with the Archangel to the back of his mind. He wanted to savor this moment: the final nail in humanity’s collective coffin, six thousand years in the making. His lips curved. How ironic that one of their own would be so instrumental to their demise.

“Well done, Qemuel. Thank you.”

“I’m done, then?”

Lucifer hesitated. He hadn’t thought about what he would do with the Naphil afterward. He couldn’t risk sending her to Pripyat with the Nephilim babies. She was too human, her bloodline too weak. There was no telling what exposure to the radiation there might do to her health.

“No,” he said. “Wait here. When I’m done, I want you to take her somewhere. Watch her, provide for her, and bring me the child when it is born.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw the Virtue raise an eyebrow. Seeming to understand his curiosity wouldn’t be satisfied, however, Qemuel shrugged and wandered across the lawn to lean against a tree. Lucifer grimaced. If only certain others among the Fallen could be so inclined to cooperate.

He strolled up the drive and climbed the stairs. A single effortless shove shattered the frame and sent the door, hinges and all, crashing to the floor. At the foot of the staircase inside, a woman whirled to face him. Her wide eyes went from the door to him. From startled to terrified. Then, showing what he considered remarkable presence of mind for a mortal, she threw the filled laundry basket at him and scrambled up the stairs.

He met her at the top.

Shoving her against a wall, he blocked the blow she aimed at his head and deflected her knee. “Don’t waste your energy, Naphil. You haven’t a chance.”

She’d opened her mouth to scream, but at the word
Naphil
, the attempt became a strangled gasp in her throat. The terror in her eyes became horror, and her entire body flailed in his grasp.

Holding her fast with one hand, he reached for her forehead with the other. He had no need of her awareness, and no desire for a struggle. Best that she—he paused, hand hovering near enough to feel the heat of her skin. The fear radiating from her in undulating waves. Something was wrong. He frowned. Lowering his hand, he jammed it hard against her belly.

Bloody fucking Heaven. She was sterile.

In a split second, his entire plan crumbled around his feet. He stood amid its ruins, staring in disbelief at his hand resting against white cotton. He’d been so focused, so determined—the possibility of failure had never occurred to him. Cold anger rippled through him. He curled his fingers against the woman’s stomach. Heard her inhale, felt pain join her fear. Defeat sat bitter on his tongue. She had cheated him, just as her sister had done. For that alone, she would—

“Mom? Mom, where are you?” Another female voice, younger, filled with uncertainty and a note of panic, drawing closer with every shout. “Mom!”

The woman surged against his hold. “Run! Nina, ru—”

Lucifer threw her against the opposite wall, cutting her scream short. She slumped to the floor, unconscious or dead—it didn’t matter which. The female at the bottom of the stairs stared up at him, then turned and bolted for the space where the front door had been. He blocked her escape with the same ease he had her mother’s. She skidded to a stop and swayed on her feet, her hands dropping to her sides. Her eyes glazed over, becoming unfocused. Sanity itself seemed to drain from her. He scowled. She was his last chance to sire a Nephilim leader, but what if she was too fragile?

Ignoring her whimper, he grasped her chin and turned her face up to his, staring into her damaged soul. No, not fragile. Incredibly strong. She had seen—and survived—things that would have demolished most mortals. If her mind didn’t survive this newest assault, well, it wasn’t her mind he needed.

He pushed her to the side, then lifted the door from the floor and stood it against its shattered frame. No interruptions. Nothing more to stand in his way. He turned back to the female. Humanity’s final days began here. Now.

“Amen,” he whispered.

Chapter 55

Alex shoved gloved hands into her pockets and huddled deeper into her coat at the foot of the stairs to Parliament’s main building. Beside her, a silent Aramael blocked the wind. She shifted away from the warmth radiating from him and scanned the crowd below. Despite the cold, at least a thousand had gathered, maybe more. The rain had started again, and the number was hard to judge with all the umbrellas. Many held up signs inscribed with demands in English to
Save Our Babies and Women; Sauvez nos enfants et nos femmes
in French. A thousand citizens, representing billions more across the planet who shared in the growing alarm at the number of women dying in childbirth.

Television crews gathered at the crowd’s edge, cameras and microphones pointed at reporters who would be talking about the growing unrest, the unanswered questions, the imminent speech from the minister of health. The fruitless, useless efforts of government to explain the inexplicable and solve the unsolvable.

Just wait until the eighty thousand were born.

A flurry of interest in the crowd below made Alex look over her shoulder. The massive oak doors had swung open behind her, and Canada’s health minister emerged, surrounded by an entourage of aides and dark-suited RCMP officers. Alex grimaced at the show of security, normally reserved for the prime minister or top-ranking dignitaries. One more indication of how tightly wound nerves had become.

The very pregnant Lilliane Benoit waddled down the stairs, across the driveway, down the next set of stairs, and across the lawn to the podium that had been set up for her. The government couldn’t have had a better spokesperson for the situation. A mother-to-be reassuring other women in her condition, counseling the public to remain calm, to trust their leaders. On the lawn below, the crowd drew closer to the podium, faces pinched with cold and anxiety but still patient. So far, so good.

Glancing up at the rooftop of the east block, Alex picked out the police sniper and two watchers posted there. To the west, more figures stood on top of the building that flanked the opposite side of the lawn. Still others would stand guard on the center block’s roof, she knew. Right above where she stood. Their presence was a standard precaution, but one that had an ominous feel to it under the circumstances. She stamped her feet, attempting to restore circulation to her freezing toes.

On the podium now, Benoit switched on the microphone and leaned forward. “Good morning.” Her voice rang out across the wet lawn.
“
Bonjour.”

Alex tuned out the speech. Her gaze strayed restlessly across the crowd again. Equal numbers of men and women, some with children in tow. Benoit’s voice droned on, switching from English to French and back again. From behind Alex came the impatient rustle of feathers, audible only to her.

She looked past Benoit and the security detail, to a stroller parked near the podium. She wondered idly how old the baby it contained would be. How relieved its parents must be to know their child was fully human. Then she frowned. Speaking of parents . . .

Straightening, she surveyed the people standing nearby—none of them near enough. Disquiet coiled like a serpent in her belly. She turned to Aramael. “Something’s not right.”

His wings instantly unfurled part way, brushing against a parliamentary page who glanced around, saw nothing, and gave a puzzled shrug. Scowling, Aramael folded the wings close again.

“What?” he asked. “I feel no Fallen—”

“No.” Alex shot him a warning look. “That stroller down there.” She nodded her head toward the lawn. “I don’t see anyone with it. I want to have a look.”

“I’m coming with you.”

Striding across the driveway, she headed down the stairs, Aramael at her back. One of the plainclothes RCMP officers beside the podium looked toward her, eyes hidden behind sunglasses. Alex turned the lapel of her coat over to expose her badge and gave a jerk of her head to the right. The woman frowned and leaned forward to murmur something to her burly colleague, who also looked toward Alex. With a nod, he returned to his crowd surveillance.

The female officer stepped away from her position and crossed the grass, intercepting Alex halfway between the podium and the stroller. “You are—?”

“Alexandra Jarvis, Toronto Homicide. This is my partner, Jacob Trent.”

Barely glancing at Aramael, the woman responded, “Julia Greer, RCMP. What’s up?”

“That stroller.” Alex nodded past her. “No one’s with it.”

Greer swiveled and did a quick reconnaissance. “You’re right.”

Alex fell into step beside her. Greer lifted her left hand to her face.

“We have what appears to be an unattended stroller on the west side of the podium,” she murmured into the microphone clipped inside her sleeve. “I’m taking a look.”

A half dozen pairs of sunglasses swiveled in their direction, tracking their progress. Fifteen feet, ten. At the center of a group clustered nearby, a man raised a cell phone as if to take a photo. Alex’s steps slowed. She frowned at the words on the sign he held aloft in his other hand.
Luke 21:23
.

Luke, chapter twenty-one, verse twenty-three. A biblical reference.

Son of a—

The man moved his thumb.

Alex looked back to the RCMP officer, too far away to reach.

“Greer!” she yelled.

From the depths of the stroller, a cell phone rang.

The world exploded.

Chapter 56

“So that’s it, then. It’s all over.”

Whirling, Samael pinned Mittron against the graffiti-scrawled brick wall of the long abandoned factory. Snow, blown in through the broken window, swirled around their ankles. Pripyat was bloody cold at this time of year. It was a damned good thing the Nephilim children were stronger than their pathetic human half-kin.

“It’s
not
over,” he hissed. “I just need to accelerate things. If I can find a way to sway Seth . . .”

Mittron’s shaggy brows ascended. “You’re kidding, right? Lucifer has informed you that you’re his personal target. You think you can—what, pretend he was kidding? You’re a marked Fallen One, Samael. There’s nothing
to
accelerate.”

Rage snarled through Samael, sharpened by fear. He glared at Mittron for a second more, then released him and swung away. He paced the rotted wooden floor. “There has to be a way I can spin this,” he muttered. “If I can convince him that I was only trying to help—”

“You really think he’s that gullible? You’ve been passing his journals on to the son he all but disowned. He’s not going to care one way or the other about Seth.”

Samael stopped at a window. Mittron was right. He was as good as dead.
Would
be dead as soon as Lucifer tracked him down. The Light-bearer wouldn’t give a—

“Unless . . .” Mittron murmured.

“Unless what? The One herself intervenes with a miracle? Not going to happen.”

“Unless you go to him first.”

Samael sent a scowl in his direction. “It must be time for your next dose, because you just became delusional. Why in bloody Heaven would I go looking for someone who just threatened to kill me—and who’s capable of following through on that threat?”

“Because it might convince him you’re telling the truth about trying to sway his son to his cause.”

“I suggested something along those lines already. He wasn’t interested.”

“Not even to ensure that the balance of power lies with Hell when the war begins?”

“Let me think. I believe his exact words were
I don’t care
,” Samael said sourly. “I’m fairly sure that indicated a certain level of disinterest, yes.”

“Then how about to ensure the survival of his army?”

Samuel shot the Seraph a sharp look. He crossed his arms and leaned against the window ledge. “Keep talking.”

“He’s not going to survive this time, Samael. He’s gone too far. The One can’t—and won’t—allow him to continue. And once he’s gone, who will look after his army? Who will make certain his legacy is carried out? One of the rabble that followed him or you, his trusted aide—with the help of his own son?” Mittron strolled across the warehouse floor to stop in front of him, just out of reach. “Don’t wait for him to come to you. Seek him out. Convince him everything you’ve done has been in his best interests.”

“And how do you propose I do that?”

“Look around you, Samael. Look at what you’ve accomplished here. You’ve done everything he asked you to do and more. You’ve given him the base he needed for his Nephilim army. You’ve rebuilt it, equipped it, protected it. Not even the Archangels know it’s here, and that’s no small success. You just need to make him aware of your hard work. Make him believe in your loyalty to the cause.”

Samael stared through the broken glass at the derelict lot below. The Seraph might be on to something with the idea. Already his thoughts were aligning, mustering the words to frame his arguments, his defense. If he played this right, he just might pull it off.

“You really think the One will destroy him?”

“I don’t think he’s left her a choice.”

“That still doesn’t solve my Seth problem. Without him on board, there’s no point to anything else.”

The former Seraph’s yellow eyes gleamed. “As to that, I think I know how to tip the Appointed in our favor.”

Chapter 57

A fireball consumed Alex’s world.

Heat—intense, scorching, blistering—swept over her.

Burning shrapnel embedded itself in her skin.

And then—

Wings. Folding around her, cutting her off from the assault, the pain . . .

For a heartbeat that seemed an eternity—a thousand eternities—she stood with her soulmate. Protected, safe, apart. And then she jolted back to the here and now. To the screams. The panic.

Chaos.

Mayhem.

Shoving against Aramael’s powerful chest, she fought her way out of the feathers surrounding her. Stood, swaying, in the midst of a devastation unlike any she had ever witnessed. Scorched, smoldering bodies strewn across the lawn. Parts of bodies. Unrecognizable fragments of shattered lives. Julia Greer
,
who had stood between her and the stroller, gone. Obliterated.

Hands gripped her shoulders. Shook her. She stared into Aramael’s face, into his stormy gray eyes clouded with worry. Made herself focus on his lips and the words they were forming.

“Damn it, Alex, answer me! Are you all right?”

She nodded. Inhaled. Gagged on the stench of burnt human flesh. Then she nodded again, this time with more certainty. She struggled to bring her brain back online. She was a cop. People were hurt. She needed to help.

She scanned the scene. People milled everywhere. Some sat or lay on the ground, others tended the injured. Screams ripped through the air. Beside her, the wooden podium burned fiercely, its flames unimpeded by the few small fire extinguishers aimed in their direction. Sirens wailed their approach.

She saw no trace of the pregnant minister of health—or her security entourage.

She snagged the arm of a passing security guard. “Find some crime scene tape,” she ordered, her voice hoarse, throat raw. Her eyes watered. Goddamn, that hurt. “I want this area, the blast zone, secured. That”—she pointed at the crater where the stroller had stood—“is ground zero.”

The guard hesitated, full of questions. Alex reached for her lapel to show her badge, but found only ragged cloth, crisp with char at its edges. Her gaze locked with Aramael’s over the guard’s head.
That close?
His eyes hardened. She turned back to the security guard.

“I’m a homicide detective,” she told him. “And I need your help to protect the scene. Can you do that for me?”

His hesitation evaporated. “Crime scene tape,” he repeated, and with a nod, he headed off at a trot.

“I’m going to help with triage,” Alex said to Aramael. “No one is to come through this area. When the guard gets back, help him with the tape.”

“Alex.”

His voice stopped her midturn.

“You’re injured.”

She looked down at herself in surprise. At the wool coat half burned away, the scattered bits of gore—not her own—plastered across its remains, and the fresh blood seeping from beneath her blouse and both pant legs.
Hell
.

She met Aramael’s gaze again.

Then she collapsed at his feet.

***

Lucifer stopped in front of Qemuel.

“She’s inside,” he said. “The Naphil will look for her, so leave the city. When she gives birth, take the baby to join the others.”

Qemuel nodded. “Will anyone else look for her?”

“Unlikely, but stay alert.”

Another nod. Then, when he said nothing more, the bulky Fallen One strolled up the sidewalk and mounted the stairs. Lucifer watched him disappear into the house.

So. He’d succeeded at last. Fathered the perfect child to lead his army against the mortals. He’d expected more from the victory—pleasure or excitement of some kind—but there was nothing. No sense of accomplishment or satisfaction. Not even contentment. It was as if none of what he’d done had mattered after all, leaving him . . .

Empty.

Used up.

Tired.

He seized on the last thought. Tired. That was it. He was just tired, and after six millennia of waiting and building up to this moment, was it any wonder? A little rest and reflection—and perhaps dealing with Samael once and for all—and his outlook was bound to improve.

It had to, because otherwise—

Otherwise wasn’t an option.