Sins of the Warrior (21 page)

He closed his eyes. It wasn’t what he thought, he assured himself. It had to be something else. Compassion, perhaps. After watching her go through so much, it was inevitable he feel something of the sort. He wouldn’t be true to his nature if he didn’t.

His hand tingled anew.

Bloody Hell
.

He drew a steadying breath, forced his mind to calm, shook off the shock that clouded his thinking. He was the Archangel Mika’el. Whatever he thought he might have felt, he couldn’t have. Wouldn’t so much as consider the idea, because it went against everything he believed in, everything he fought for. Everything he was supposed to—

“Bad night?” a voice behind him inquired dryly.

Mika’el’s sword was in his grasp before the thought of it had completed itself. Bethiel threw himself backward, out of reach of the swing.

“Easy, warrior!”

Mika’el caught short a second lunge. “Damn it, Bethiel—I might have killed you! You should know better than to sneak up—”

Jaw flexing, he stopped, glowering at the other angel. That anyone could sneak up on him at all should have been impossible, and they both knew it. But he was damned if he’d discuss it with one no longer even of Heaven. He shoved his sword back into its sheath.

“You’re supposed to be looking for the girl.”

“And
she
”—Bethiel inclined his head toward the hallway—”is supposed to be looking for Mittron.”

“She’s done what she can for the moment. If and when she learns anything, I will let you know.”

The other angel’s face turned stubborn. “I want to speak with her.”

“She needs sleep. You can speak with me.” Mika’el narrowed his gaze. “How did you even find us here?”

“She left me a note in her apartment, telling me you were bringing her here. Because it obviously hadn’t occurred to
you
to do so.”

Michael crossed his arms. Flexed his wings.

Bethiel sighed. “Fine. I may have something on Mittron and I want her to check it for me. There’s a rumor among the Fallen that he’s supervising the Nephilim army—and recruiting humans to help.”

“Humans!”

“By way of something the Fallen are calling the Internet.” Bethiel dropped onto the sofa and arranged his wings behind him. His expression turned brooding. “There can’t be many places on Earth where you can hide eighty thousand Nephilim. If the Naphil can find where these human recruits are going, perhaps she will find Mittron as well.”

Mika’el went still as he remembered Alex pointing at the devastation on the television. An entire city wiped out by a nuclear accident. He heard again her accusatory words. “
If I told you the Fallen had engineered that, what would you do?
”

She hadn’t explained further, and Mika’el hadn’t asked, because his answer, of course, would have been that he could do nothing. Because that’s just how things were. Bethiel’s revelation, however, complicated matters. Mika’el swung away from the Principality and walked to the glass doors overlooking the garden.

The destroyed city had been near Pripyat. The same Pripyat that had been abandoned after the Chernobyl disaster, where enough buildings still remained to house an army.

He heard Bethiel’s weight shift against the leather. Felt the Principality’s increased interest.

“You know something,” Bethiel said.

Mika’el looked over his shoulder. “Perhaps.”

Bethiel sat back again, one arm extended along the sofa back. His gaze narrowed. Turned watchful. “You don’t want to tell me.”

“No.”

Watchful became cold. Ugly. Furious.

“The Seraph deserves to die for what he’s done,” Bethiel spat.

“I’m not arguing that,” Mika’el said quietly. “Nor am I disputing that it should be you who kills him. But it can’t happen now. There’s more at stake here than revenge, Bethiel. The Fallen can’t know we’ve found the Nephilim. Not until I find—”

The Principality interrupted with a short, humorless bark of laughter. “You seriously think you can find a god who doesn’t want to be found and talk her back into a place she doesn’t want to be?”

“I seriously have to try,” Mika’el retorted. “Because the universe seriously won’t survive if I don’t.”

Bethiel’s gaze flicked toward the hallway. “If you know, then the Naphil does, too.”

Mika’el shook his head. “Don’t. We both know I can stop you. I’d much rather not have to. You’ll get Mittron. I promise. Just not now.”

“Then when?” Bethiel shoved himself up from the couch. His snarl held the pent-up rage of three thousand years in Limbo. Three thousand years of silently, slowly going mad. “When
you
deem it time?”

Mika’el’s right hand rested lightly on the hilt of the sword at his hip. “When the time is right. You still have it in you to be one of Heaven, Bethiel. You’re still—”

“Bloody Hell. You haven’t changed at all, have you? You’re still trying to hold everyone else to your own standards.”

Mika’el stalked across the room until he stood toe to toe with the other, their faces mere inches apart. “Be glad I do, Principality, because if I thought you couldn’t be trusted—”

A door down the hall opened, and he froze. Great. They’d woken Alex. He glanced over his shoulder, but the hallway sat empty, the bedroom door at the end of it closed. He frowned. He’d been certain—he swiveled back to Bethiel.

“Were you followed?”

“Of course not.”

“You took precautions?”

“Well—”

Another sound from down the hall. This time, the unmistakable hiss of a sword leaving its sheath.

ALEX CAME AWAKE WITHOUT
moving, without breathing. Her back to the door, she stared at the vertical sliver of light on the wall. Watched it widen, fill with the shadow of someone entering the room, then narrow again. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. Michael?

A faint pulse of blue pulled her gaze to the sword lying on the bed beside her. Inside its scabbard, Aramael’s blade glowed, its light escaping where hilt met sheath. Her eyebrows twitched together. Had it always done that, or—?

The low rumble of two male voices reached her, one of them Michael’s. The door clicked shut.

Ice gripped her belly. Splintered through her veins. If Michael was out there, then who the hell was in here?

She didn’t wait for an announcement.

Throwing back the covers, she rolled away from the door, fingers closing over the sword’s hilt as she gained her feet. Free of its scabbard, the blade glowed with a fierce blue light, pushing back the shadows in the room and highlighting the figure between the bed and the door. Between Alex and escape.

Without a word, the Fallen One—a female—flicked on the light switch and stalked toward her. Alex bit down on the terror that demanded she swing. She shifted her feet into the stance Michael had taught her. Adjusted her grip. Balanced the sword’s weight…

The Fallen knocked the weapon aside as she might have done a twig. The fingers of one hand clamped over Alex’s throat, all but cutting off her air. Her every nerve screaming at her to fight, Alex held herself rigid. She watched the vicious gleam in her attacker’s eyes draw nearer.

“If I didn’t know you were worth more to me alive than dead,” the Fallen One whispered, her breath hot against Alex’s ear, “I would slay you on the spot for daring to
think
about raising your hand to me.”

“Let go of me and I’ll try again,” Alex croaked.

Disconcertingly colorless eyes went agate hard. “Try, Naphil bitch, and I’ll beat you into the ground.”

The Fallen’s gaze moved to the sword in Alex’s hand. It narrowed, then flashed back to pin Alex’s again. “Is that an Archangel’s sword?”

She didn’t wait for Alex’s response, instead turning greedy pale eyes back to the sword. Alex felt the blade shift in her grip as the other’s hand closed over it. She tightened her hold, clinging to the hilt. Claw-like fingers prised hers. Then sudden, sticky heat sprayed across her face, burning her cheek, her lips. The Fallen One shrieked and fell back, releasing both Alex and sword.

Sucking air through her bruised larynx, Alex brought the sword up to striking height again. But her attacker had spun away, blood spurting from the stump at the end of her arm.

A severed hand lay twitching on the carpet.

Alex stared at it, then lifted her gaze to the grim countenance of Michael, towering over the huddled Fallen.

“Damn you, warrior!” Alex’s attacker snarled, cradling the injured limb. “The female is Naphil—what do you care what happens to her?”

“My business with her is just that, Zuriel.
My
business.”

The Fallen lifted her chin. “You remember my name.”

“I remember all names. Including that of the one who sent you. I want you to deliver a message to him for me. To Samael.”

“I’m not your messenger.”

Michael raised the tip of his blade to rest against the center of Zuriel’s chest. “Neither are you in a position to argue.”

Zuriel growled something under her breath and flashed Alex a look of pure poison. She still cradled her arm stump, but the bleeding had slowed to a drip. She scowled at Michael again. “Fine. What’s your message?”

“The Naphil woman is off limits. To anyone.”

“Or…?”

Michael shot a pointed stare at the floor. Alex followed his gaze—and that of Zuriel—and horror uncoiled in her belly. The hand severed from Zuriel’s wrist had become twisted, blackened, desiccated. A skeletal fraction of what it had been before.

“Leave it,” Michael ordered.

Alex looked up to find that Zuriel had moved, as if to retrieve the monstrosity. Zuriel scowled at the Archangel, then dove toward the hand. White light flared. The appendage crumbled into black dust.

“I said leave it,” Michael repeated, his voice flat.

Fury rolled off Zuriel in waves, pressing Alex back into the wall. For a second, she thought the Fallen One might go after Michael, consequences be damned, but instead she raised a hand, pushed aside the sword with which Michael threatened her, and disappeared.

“You should have killed her,” another voice said. “She’ll tell Samael where to find the Naphil. He’ll send others.”

For the first time since Michael’s arrival, Alex looked beyond his shoulder to the figure in the doorway. Bethiel. The second voice she’d heard when Zuriel had come into the room. And he was right. There would be others. She sagged against the wall, staring at the sword to which she still clung. The blue light was gone, leaving only cold, dull steel in its wake. Others would come to retrieve her. And they would keep coming, until they succeeded. Because Michael couldn’t stay to protect her forever, and all the training in the world couldn’t equip her to protect herself.

She flinched, remembering how Zuriel had swiped aside the weapon, barely acknowledging its existence. Nausea slithered through her stomach. What a fool she’d been to think otherwise. To think she could stand up to any of the Fallen. To Seth.

She’d never stood a chance.

Never would.

Dropping the sword to the carpet, she bolted for the bathroom.

Samael closed his eyes, gripping the edge of the war table to keep from reaching out to throttle Zuriel. Teeth grinding together and nostrils flaring, he breathed in. Out. In. His eyes snapped open. Zuriel took a step back.

“So you let her get away,” he said.

Temper flared in the former Cherub’s pale eyes. “I didn’t
let
her do anything. I was up against fucking Mika’el himself, damn it. You should have told me he was protecting her.”

“My instructions were to locate her and then return to me. If you had done as you were told—”

“I wanted to bring her back for you. I thought—”

“No. No, you
didn’t
think. You didn’t think at all. You made a stupid, rash decision, and then compounded it by letting yourself be distracted by a sword!”

“But it wasn’t just any sword,” Zuriel objected. “It was that of an Archangel. Do you know what I could have done with a weapon like that? I would have been virtually undefeatable on the battlefield.”

“And instead, you’ll never fight again, Mika’el knows we’re coming for the Naphil, and Bethiel knows I’m having him followed.” Samael shoved against the table, sending it crashing against the far wall. He advanced on the Cherub, his steps as measured as they were furious. “In short, Cherub, you’ve failed me and rendered yourself useless in the process.”

Zuriel tucked the stump of her arm behind her and skittered backward until her spine met the wall. Two more strides carried Samael to her. His fist smashed into her face, shattering bone and teeth, slamming her head against the stone. She slid to the floor, her screech pressing in on his ears and bringing two other Fallen at a run into the war room. They looked from Samael to the Principality curled into a ball and then, without reacting, withdrew. Samael reached down to drag Zuriel to her feet, shaking her until her head flopped back and forth and bloody spittle flew from her mouth.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” he demanded. “You stupid, useless
bitch
. I’ve been working toward this for millennia. I had to depose fucking Lucifer himself to get this far! Then I give you one task—one simple, tiny task, to find the Naphil—and you…screw…it…up.” He punctuated the words with a shake between each. “Everything rides on her death, and you
fail
.”

Zuriel scrabbled with her remaining hand at his, trying to escape his grasp. His loathing for her at war with sheer fury, Samael threw her from him, and she scuttled into a corner.

Apologies and promises ran together in a babble. “I’m sorry I’m so sorry I don’t know what I was thinking forgive me I didn’t mean it I’m sorry!”

He stared at her, remembering his own pain and terror at the hands of Lucifer. He’d thought the Light-bearer too harsh at the time, but he understood now. Knew why Lucifer had demanded absolute obedience, even if he’d had to beat it out of him. He was certain he could extract the same obedience from Zuriel, and he might have done so but for one thing. His gaze settled on the stump of her arm, seeping fresh blood through its bandage, rendering her useless to him, to Seth, to Hell.