Sins of the Warrior (2 page)

“She’s my niece,” she replied. Sheer determination kept her voice from reflecting the quiver in her gut. “I want her back.”

“She is the bearer of Lucifer’s unborn child,” he corrected, “and no longer your concern. Moving weakens her. You will stop seeking her.”

Joly’s fingers went rigid under hers. Her own gun hand itched to close over her weapon. Maybe if they shot enough lead into him…

She shook her head. “I can’t do that.”

“Then you invite death.”

Her chin lifted. She didn’t know how far Seth’s little gift would go in a confrontation with a Fallen One, but she wouldn’t back down from finding out. And she wouldn’t let Lucifer’s henchman take Nina again. She stepped away from Joly. “I’m not like the others. I’m—”

“Not you. Them.”

Without warning, the Fallen One swiveled to his left. His wings unfurled, spread wide, and swept forward in a mighty surge. Snow, gravel, and rail ties all lifted from the ground, driven by a gust of wind more powerful than a hurricane, and hurtled toward the cluster of uniforms. Men and projectiles alike slammed into the wall. Gravel and ties remained, embedded in the concrete. The cops dropped to the ground, silent, still. Four bright crimson splashes marked their places of impact, garish, hideous, undeniably fatal.

It was over in less than a second.

Beside Alex, Joly’s mouth opened and closed, but no sound emerged. The Fallen One’s implacable gaze met Alex’s across the interlace of tracks.

“You will stop seeking her,” he repeated. And then he lifted into the air and disappeared into the night above the lights, taking Nina with him.

From a long way off, Alex heard Joly’s frantic voice barking orders to the dispatcher he’d reached on his cell phone. The dog handler’s shouts for help as he ran to the fallen uniforms. The distant whistle of an approaching train that would now be delayed for hours. Joly shoved past her, bellowing her name and wrenching back the part of her that hovered on the brink of disappearing forever.

Breath returned, its shattered edges shredding her lungs. She responded to a second bellow from Joly with a nod, and then, stripping off her gloves, followed him toward the downed officers. But where he ran, she walked, knowing there was no rush. Knowing none of them survived.

She tucked the gloves into her pocket, listening for the wail of sirens. Others would be here within minutes, and then there would be much to do and many questions to answer—all except the one that had already been answered.

The Fallen One had known about her, all right.

And others had paid the price. 

SAMAEL STROLLED INTO WHAT
had once been Lucifer’s office, his gaze taking in the changes to the room. The Light-bearer’s thousand-plus journals and their shelves were gone; the ever-present bowl of peppermints no longer sat on the desk; the rug stained with the blood of Raziel had been removed.

“I see you’ve made yourself at home,” he said. “Much better.”

Seth stood at the window behind his departed father’s desk, his back to the room, his grunt the only indication he’d heard. Samael’s eyes narrowed. It had been nearly a week since the Appointed had regained consciousness, and still he showed no signs of taking up the reins of Hell or interest in doing so. Unless one counted minor redecorating.

Which Samael didn’t.

He cleared his throat. “I thought you might like to go over our current status now that—”

“You thought wrong.”

Samael snapped his teeth shut. His jaw flexed. He chose his next words carefully. “I understand you’re disappointed that the Naphil—”

Seth moved so fast that Samael had no time for more than a single step back before the Appointed’s fingers closed over his throat. A glittering black gaze bored into his with a ferocity that bordered on viciousness.

“You understand nothing,” Seth spat. “
Nothing
. All your urgings, all your promises—I did everything you told me to, and I lost her. I lost the one thing in the universe that I wanted more than life itself. That I 
needed
.” His grip tightened. “I should kill you now.”

The tremble in Seth’s fingers told Samael he could likely break the Appointed’s grasp—Seth was nowhere near recovered from the injury inflicted on him by the Archangel’s sword—but he clamped down on the urge to twist away. Instead, he studied the dark, hate-filled eyes only inches from his own. Had he miscalculated? Made a mistake in recruiting the Light-bearer’s son to take Lucifer’s place as Hell’s leader? Perhaps Seth was
too
like his father. Perhaps it would be best if—

No. Even if he managed to kill Seth—and it was a big 
if
, even in the other’s weakened state—it would only leave him with a greater problem. A rudderless Hell didn’t stand a chance against Heaven. Whether he liked it or not, the Fallen needed Seth to lead them. And it was up to Samael to get him to do so.

“You may have lost the battle for her, Appointed,” he rasped past the vise-like pressure on his larynx, “but not the war.”

Seth scowled. “Explain.”

Samael tugged at his hand. After a moment’s hesitation, Seth’s fingers loosened until he could draw air. But only just.

“Aramael is gone,” Samael said, “and Mika’el and the others are preoccupied with the war. The Naphil will be alone. Unguarded. If she really means that much to you—”

Seth’s hand tightened again. “And more.”

“Then let me get her for you,” Samael croaked.

“And why would I need you to do that?” Seth growled. “Or trust you?”

“Because I can do this”—Samael reached up and prised the fingers from his throat—”and you’re wise enough to know you’re in no shape to move between the worlds right now, Appointed. And I’m wise enough to know Hell needs a leader, and it’s not me. Each of us has what the other wants—or we can get it. It makes sense that we would help one another.”

Seth’s hand balled into a fist and dropped to his side. His expression turned stony but for the fire seething in the black depths of his gaze. Samael coaxed himself to patience. The urgency that had driven his actions when Lucifer still lived no longer existed. Seth might not be the powerful leader Hell needed just yet, but with the right encouragement, he could grow into the role.

Damaged though he might be, he was still more of a leader than Heaven had anymore.

Seth wheeled away and returned to his place by the window. “Talk.”

Samael strolled forward to drop into the chair facing the desk. “Without the One’s will driving them, Heaven’s forces are scattered. Weak. They outnumber us, but their casualties are greater, and we don’t even have all the Fallen engaged in battle yet. Better than ten thousand remain with the Nephilim children.”

“Why?”

“The children are young. They need care and training.”

“I meant why do I care about the Nephilim at all?”

Samael swallowed his retort. Bloody Heaven. First Lucifer had been wholly focused on the creation of his Nephilim army, and now Seth saw no point to it? Was Hell to be forever burdened with leaders who couldn’t see past their own selfish desires? Was he to spend his entire existence drawing maps for them?

“Two things came between you and the Naphil woman,” he reminded Seth. “Aramael, and the Naphil’s concern for the human race. The former might no longer be a concern, but as long as humanity exists, the entire race will stand between you and the Naphil as it did between your father and the One. It was why Lucifer created the Nephilim in the first place.”

“I know why he created them.” Seth brushed off his words with an impatient wave of one hand. “But they’re only just born. It will take months for them to grow up; years before they’re able destroy humanity. We could wipe out every mortal on the planet in a fraction of the time.”

Really?
Samael rubbed fingertips over one temple and the headache forming there. He’d heard this argument from Lucifer so many times that he’d lost count, and now Seth, too? Bloody, bloody Heaven. He unclenched his teeth.

“Actually, we couldn’t,” he said. “Heaven—”

“Heaven would come after us,” Seth interrupted. “And then we’d be fighting the war on Earth, where human casualties would be catastrophic. Isn’t that the whole point?”

“Yes, and no. With all due respect, Appointed, your approach has three flaws. First, not all mortals would be killed. Some would survive, and now that you’ve made her immortal, your Naphil will never stop fighting to save them. Second”—Samael ticked off another finger—”we might have the advantage over Heaven right now, but if we take the fight to Earth, I guarantee we’ll lose that edge. Nothing will unite and motivate the angelic forces like a direct assault on the One’s mortal children, Seth. Nothing. If that happens, humanity’s destruction becomes the least of our worries, because we’ll be fighting for our own survival.”

The Appointed’s jaw flexed. Relaxed. Flexed again. Thunder gathered on his brow. “You make it sound like you expect me to wait for her.”

“I think it might be best.”

“And for exactly how long would you suggest I do that?”

“As long as it takes. You made the Naphil immortal, remember. That means you have eternity on your side.”

Seth glowered, but didn’t argue.

“You said three flaws. What’s the third?”

“If the woman sees you strike directly at humanity, a thousand eternities won’t be enough to win her back.”

Back and shoulders rigid, Seth turned away. Samael gave him a few moments to process his words, then, satisfied he’d made his point, levered himself up from the chair.

“I have maps and strategies posted in war council chambers,” he said, crossing to the door. “If you’d like to have a—”

“No.”

Samael stopped mid-stride. He looked back at Seth, who still faced the window. “No, what?”

“I won’t wait.”

“You can’t be serious!” Samael didn’t bother trying to hide the scowl this time. “Have you not heard a word I’ve said?”

“I heard.” Seth swung to face him. “And I don’t care. You want a leader for Hell? Then I want Alex. Now.”

SETH STAYED ON HIS
feet until the door thudded shut behind Samael. Then, legs buckling, he dropped to his hands and knees before sprawling full length on the cold, hard flagstone, fire consuming him from ribcage to hip. Blackness encroached on his vision. He fought it off, gasping for air, gagging against the gorge that rose in his throat.

Fucking
Heaven
, that hurt. More now than it had yesterday, twice as much as the day before that. His attack on Samael had made it worse. Had the other sensed his weakness? Known how incapacitated he really was? Seth grunted, his fingers tingling at the memory of being prised from Samael’s throat. Who was he kidding? Of course the Archangel knew. With a dozen former Virtues dancing attendance on Seth, at least half the realm would know.

He curled his fingers against the stones, drawing his focus inward. He was the Appointed, son of Lucifer and the One. He could not—would not—be caught lying prone on the floor, should someone come in. Taking a slow, careful breath, he hardened his muscles and, in one swift motion, pushed grimly, fiercely to his knees, grabbed the desk, and pulled himself upright. Nausea washed over him. Through him. Became him. He swallowed, retched, and, only through sheer force of will, stopped from spewing his earlier meal across the polished mahogany desktop. Lights sparked behind his eyelids. Sweat beaded his forehead and his upper lip.

When he could draw breath again, he stretched out a hand and tugged the bell rope to summon those tasked with his healing. Then he stumbled to the sofa and collapsed onto it, waiting for the fresh assault on his stomach to subside. It would be at least five minutes before one of the Virtues made his/her way to his side, if not more. The wait grew longer every time he called for help, as did a subtle but pervasive air of insolence.

He scowled. He may not have wanted to admit it to Samael, but the Archangel was right. Already Hell grew restless without an undisputed leader in place. Even in his weakened state, Seth could sense the shifts in energy outside the confines of the building, the rumblings of discontent. If he didn’t take up the reins soon, things would get ugly.

He rested his head against the cushions. So. Was that what he wanted to do? Step into his father’s shoes and take up the fight against Heaven? He snorted at the thought and immediately regretted even that slight movement of his diaphragm. Another moment of white-hot fire slid by.

His vision clearing again, he stared into the cold, grimy fireplace. Now that Aramael was gone, he didn’t give a damn about Heaven. Couldn’t care less if the Fallen reclaimed a place there or not. Humanity, however, he did care about, for the exact reason Samael had voiced. The One’s mortal children would always stand between Seth and Alex. She’d proved that when she sent him away. Again, when she’d called on Aramael to protect her from Seth’s gift of immortality. And a third time, irrevocably, when she herself had taken up Aramael’s sword and inflicted this injury that refused to heal.

Eyes closed, Seth focused on the throb that radiated from his side. A mortal of Nephilim bloodlines, twice brought back from the very edge of death, made immortal by his own hand, wielding a sword given to her by the Archangel who was her soulmate. There was no doubt that the will of Heaven itself had somehow been behind that blow. The question wasn’t why the wound had been so severe, but how he had survived it at all. And the only answer he could come up with was—

A knock sounded at the door, signaling the arrival of a Virtue. Seth barked a command to enter. The door opened and footsteps padded across the stone floor.

The answer was that Alex had hesitated. She’d held back. She hadn’t, despite everything, wanted to kill him. Somewhere inside her, she had still cared, and she would learn to care again. Perhaps not as soon as she was brought to him, but certainly once mortals no longer interfered.

And for that to happen, Seth needed the Fallen. He needed Samael. And he needed to heal so he could take his place on his father’s throne.

Efficient fingers lifted Seth’s shirt and began peeling back the bandage. The putrid scent of rot wafted upward. Seth gritted his teeth and braced for what followed. Scissors snipped, biting into flesh, cutting away the gangrene, slicing into nerves made raw by infection. He gagged, digging his fingers into the soft leather of the sofa. His last thought gathered strength. Settled into his soul. Became, in its truth, more powerful than the agony being inflicted on him.