Sins of the Son: The Grigori Legacy Read online

  “It’s the name I know him by,” she hedged.

  Henderson’s gaze narrowed and several long seconds passed. “Twenty-eight years,” he said finally.

  “Pardon?”

  “That’s how long I’ve been a cop. Twenty-eight years.” He paused as a waitress approached with a coffeepot and refilled Alex’s cup, waving her off when she reached for his. When they were alone again, he looked up with a knock-off-the-bullshit expression. “I know evasiveness when I see it, Detective, and I don’t give a rat’s ass if you’re here unofficially or not. I don’t appreciate having a colleague try to snow me.”

  Adjusting her estimate of his age a few years upward, Alex looked out the window at the pedestrians on the sidewalk. A child in a yellow raincoat gave her a shy smile and wave as he trotted past the restaurant at his mother’s side. She watched the bright spot of color until parent and offspring disappeared from sight. A hard lump settled in her throat.

  If she couldn’t help Seth after all, if he couldn’t stop the coming war, what would happen to humanity? What would happen to Nina, already so fragile, and all the yellow-raincoated children of the world?

  She swallowed the lump.

  “Thirteen years,” she said, returning her gaze to Henderson. “That’s how long I’ve been a cop. I don’t snow colleagues.”

  Henderson toyed with a spoon on the table before him. “But you still won’t give me answers.”

  “I can’t.”

  “There’s a difference between can’t and won’t, Detective Jarvis.”

  Alex held his gaze without blinking. “I know the difference, Detective Henderson.”

  A flush of color rose from beneath Henderson’s collar. Alex heaved an inward groan. Great. That was all she needed to do, piss off a cop in his own jurisdiction when she had no real business being here in the first place—no business she could discuss, anyway. She leaned her elbows on the table and threaded her hands into her hair, imagining herself in Henderson’s shoes and knowing she’d react in exactly the same way. She had to give the man something. Some tidbit to appease him.

  Henderson cleared his throat. Alex held up one hand to forestall him, leaning her head sideways into the other.

  “You know about the serial killer we had in Toronto last month.”

  A blink acknowledged the sudden change in subject.

  “Seth—Mr. Benjamin was—” Alex hesitated, framing her words with utmost care. A tidbit, not a five-course meal. “He was instrumental in the solving of the case.”

  Henderson waited and Alex had to grit her teeth to keep herself quiet. She decided she preferred being on the business end of that particular interrogation tactic. More seconds passed. A tiny glint of humor moved across Henderson’s gaze, an acknowledgement of the stalemate.

  “Instrumental how?” he asked.

  She had to force the words out. “I can’t say.”

  The flush returned and crept upward, staining Henderson’s jawline. “Is there anything you can say, Detective Jarvis?”

  “Mr. Benjamin didn’t want his involvement widely known. He gave us no information about himself and we were in no position to force the issue.”

  “And I can confirm this by talking to—?” The Vancouver detective’s voice was tight.

  Alex recalled Roberts’s offer when he’d shown her Seth’s photo—call me. I’ll do what I can—and hoped to hell he’d meant it.

  “My supervisor.” She sighed. “Staff Inspector Doug Roberts.”

  ARAMAEL INSPECTED HIS image in the mirror and then tossed the damp, crumpled paper towel into the garbage can. He hadn’t been able to wash away all the traces of his latest beating, but at least his appearance wouldn’t draw too much attention anymore. Especially not in this place.

  He dodged the door as a man pushed into the bathroom and staggered toward the row of urinals along one wall. With a grimace, Aramael stepped into the narrow corridor, trying not to breathe too deeply of the stench of beer and misery oozing from the walls. A throb of music from the strip club overhead accompanied him back to the shabby basement bar.

  His gaze traveled the half dozen patrons lining the stools along the counter, each seeking refuge from the world in varying states of inebriation. It was no wonder the Archangel had chosen this place. Most of these mortals had already turned from their Guardians, making it unlikely that a Fallen One would wander in to disturb the tête-à-tête he had requested. A tête-à-tête he’d made clear he wanted kept secret.

  Aramael’s gaze settled on a set of wing tips jutting over the top of the booth at the far end of the room. Threading his way past a battered pool table and the clients seated at the bar, he slid into the seat opposite the Archangel. Not a single head turned to mark his presence.

  The Archangel surveyed him, toying with one of the glasses on the table. “Not much better, but you’ll do. We’ll have to see about getting you a clean set of clothes. That’s Scotch, by the way.” He nodded at the glass in front of Aramael. “You looked like you needed it.”

  Aramael ignored the drink. “We aren’t doing a bloody thing until you tell me what the hell is going on. And who you are.”

  “You know who I am.”

  “No.” Aramael paused. “But I suspect.”

  “My name is Mika’el.”

  So it was him. Mika’el. Legend among his own kind, the most powerful of all the Archangels, rumored to have defied the cleansing of free will among the Heavenly host and to have been banished to the mortal realm for his insub-ordination.

  Aramael stared at the angel on the other side of the booth, wondering what the sentence had done to him, contemplating the eternity he himself would endure here. A sliver of dread pierced his heart. Even if he did manage to find Alex, and even if he were to reestablish what had been taken from them, and even if she lived an extraordinarily long life, at some point she would be gone and he would find himself just like Mika’el, living a life of eternal solitude.

  He backed away from the abyss behind the thought. He didn’t need to go there. Not yet. Picking up the drink, he swirled the amber liquid in one direction, then the other. “The stories were true, then.”

  “That would depend on the stories.”

  “You defied the One and were banished to Earth.”

  Mika’el snorted. “Wrong on both counts. I didn’t defy her, and I left of my own accord.”

  “Because—?”

  “We had a disagreement.”

  “A disagreement,” Aramael repeated. “You left Heaven, left the One’s side, because you didn’t like something she said?”

  Mika’el’s eyes narrowed. “You of all angels should know things are never as simple as they appear.”

  Touché.

  “Can I ask what the disagreement was about?”

  “We’re not here to discuss me.”

  One look at the Archangel’s iron-hard jawline assured Aramael he didn’t want to pursue the subject. “Fine. Then what are we here to discuss?”

  “Seth has transitioned to the mortal realm, but things—well, let’s just say things didn’t go as planned.”

  “Mittron.” Aramael bit out the hated name as a statement, not a question.

  “Mittron,” the Archangel agreed.

  “You know?” Aramael frowned. “Then the One must, too.”

  “The Seraph has already faced Judgment.”

  Savage satisfaction sparred with disappointment in Aramael’s belly. As glad as he was the Highest had gotten what he deserved, he had very much wanted the pleasure of seeing to Mittron’s punishment himself. Very much.

  He took a swallow of Scotch. “Limbo?”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  He grunted. Whatever it was, it could never be harsh enough. Never begin to equal the damage the Seraph had caused. He raised an eyebrow in Mika’el’s direction.

  “So what is this all-important task the great Mika’el was pulled from retirement to tell me about?”

  Mika’el ignored the dig. “The Appoint
ed transitioned as an adult rather than an infant.”

  Aramael stared at the Archangel. “An adult? But that means he could make a decision at any time, without a chance to get to know them.”

  Except Seth had gotten to know some of them. However briefly, he’d at least met Alex and her colleagues and family—a tiny fraction of humanity but enough, with luck, to give him some perspective. A damn good thing, too. Aramael’s gaze returned to the bar. Because if Seth had seen only this as humanity’s potential…

  “It gets worse.” Mika’el grimaced. “He has no memory.”

  In a few brief words, Mika’el told Aramael what Mittron had attempted—and failed—to do. Shock rocked Aramael to the core. So much for context. “Bloody Hell,” he breathed. Reaching for his glass, he downed the contents and waited for the burn to pass. “What is the One going to do?”

  “There’s nothing she can do. Not without forfeiting the agreement.”

  “Which would give Lucifer free rein over the mortals.”

  “It would.”

  “There must be some way to stop the Appointed.”

  Mika’el stayed silent, his gaze unfaltering. Slow realization unfurled in Aramael’s mind. He shook his head, first in disbelief, then in denial.

  “She wouldn’t ask that of me,” he said.

  “She isn’t asking it of you. I am.”

  The Archangel was serious. Aramael struggled to breathe. To remain in his seat and not launch himself across the table at the warrior who held his gaze. “I’m not a murderer.”

  Again Mika’el said nothing.

  From the far side of the bar came the clink of a glass, the crack of pool balls colliding. The steady thump of music drifted down from the club above.

  “I am not a murderer,” Aramael repeated through teeth clenched as tightly as his fists.

  But the churn at his center had begun to give way to clarity. To sick, awful certainty. The Archangel was right. Heaven couldn’t leave the Appointed in such a position of power in his current state. There was no telling what kind of damage had been done to Seth’s soul during Mittron’s botched attempt to transition him. The risk in letting him make a choice in this state was simply too great. It made sense to eliminate him.

  Just as it made sense that Mika’el had come to Aramael. To the one angel no longer connected to Heaven who might take on the task.

  His fingers tightened around the empty glass. Breathing deeply, he let the wretchedness permeating the bar seep into his every pore. Sudden bitterness burned in his chest. Had he not sacrificed enough already? He’d lost everything he had once been, everything he’d known, and for what? To save these? These, whom she called her children and deemed worthy of protection from Lucifer at the cost of her own son? At the cost of first Aramael’s soulmate, and now his very soul?

  He gathered himself to leave. To rise from his seat and tell Mika’el what he could do with his task. But something greater than anger held him in place. Something greater than him.

  “Does she know?” he asked quietly.

  “She knows.”

  “And she is all right with the idea?”

  Mika’el didn’t answer.

  Aramael stared at the empty glass in his hands. Felt the echoing emptiness in his belly. “There is no other way?”

  “None we can afford.”

  “So is this an order, then?”

  “You’ve been banished, Aramael. I have no authority to order you. I can only ask—and remind you of the part you played in this whole mess.”

  Aramael flinched. Physically. Viscerally.

  “You prick.”

  “I state nothing but the truth, Power.”

  The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

  So help me, One.

  Aramael’s gaze slid to a point beyond the Archangel’s shoulder. It had been his fault. Giving in to his feelings for Alex, losing control of himself, taking a life. All choices he had made. All leading to this. All demanding he put the memory of Alex behind him and accept Mika’el’s task. He cleared his throat. “Will I have help?”

  “As much as I can give.”

  Wondering if the words were as hollow as they sounded, Aramael grunted.

  “One more thing,” Mika’el said. “We think the Appointed retains his powers—”

  “Great.”

  “—and we know he remains immortal.”

  “You can’t be serious. I don’t have the ability to take that from him.”

  “You have been given what you need.”

  Frowning, Aramael pulled into himself for a moment, examining his center. He found none of the energies he had once taken for granted. No connection to Heaven; none to the One. He opened his mouth to tell the Archangel so—and then paused.

  Wait. That. What was that?

  A tiny pulse, buried deep in his core, new, unfamiliar, and, when he reached out to touch it, surging with promise. Aramael drew back, startled. Wary.

  His eyes narrowed on Mika’el. “What the hell is that?”

  “It is enough. Call on it when you’re ready. But you only get one chance.”

  “And if I mess up?”

  “I think,” said Mika’el, “we both understand that’s not an option.”

  FIFTEEN

  “Is it him?”

  Alex balanced a load of books in one arm, pinned the cell phone against her shoulder, and fished in her pocket for her room key as she exited the elevator. “Nice to hear your voice, too,” she told her sister dryly. “And yes, the flight was great, thanks. Right on time.”

  “Is it Seth or isn’t it, Alex?”

  Alex’s fingers closed over the key. “It’s him. He has amnesia, but he seemed to recognize me.”

  “Seemed?”

  Entering the corridor to her room, Alex noted that management hadn’t yet replaced the burned-out bulbs she’d mentioned to them. In fact—she slowed her steps to let her eyes adjust to the gloom—she’d venture to say at least one more had burned out since she’d left a couple of hours earlier.

  She sighed, then answered Jen’s question. “He said my name when he saw me.”

  “That’s it? Nothing else?”

  “Nothing.” Alex grimaced. “He hasn’t said anything since he was found.”

  “Is he injured?”

  “No, I think—” Alex shifted her load and poked the hotel room key at the lock on her door. It missed. “Hang on a sec, Jen.”

  She bent to peer through the gloom and wrinkled her nose at an un-nameable odor rising from the carpet. Maybe that was why management hadn’t replaced the lights—they were trying to hide whatever caused the smell. Two books slid to the floor.

  “Oh, for chrissake,” she muttered.

  “Something wrong?” Jen asked.

  “Just trying to get into my room.” Alex succeeded in mating key to lock and straightened again. Three more books toppled from the pile. “Hell. Jen, can I call you back in a few minutes? I’m dropping stuff all over the floor.”

  “It’s all right. Nina and I are going out for lunch anyway. We’re celebrating her meds being cut. Last night was the first night she didn’t fall asleep in her dinner.”

  Alex paused for a moment, giving Jen her full attention. “That’s fantastic news,” she said. “I’m so happy things are getting better.”

  “Happy enough to visit us when you get back?”

  If I get back.

  “Of course. I’ll come straight there from the airport. Promise. Give Nina a hug for me, all right? And, Jen—” Her voice caught.

  “What, sweetie?”

  If something happens…if I can’t fix Seth…if I don’t make it back before things go wrong…

  “Nothing. Just—nothing. I’ll call you in a couple of days, all right? Love you.” Before her sister could respond, Alex flipped the phone shut and reached for the doorknob.

  “You lied to me,” said a woman’s voice behind her.

  Reflex sent Alex’s hand to her hip where her gun should ha
ve been. By the time she remembered it wasn’t there, her brain had identified the voice—and she still wanted the gun. She looked over her shoulder at Elizabeth Riley, who was obviously spoiling for a fight.

  Wonderful. Lips tightening, Alex pushed open the door and carried the remaining books into the room. She set them on the dresser and glanced at the bedside clock. Ten past two. Six hours since Henderson had visited her in the coffee shop. She wondered how many of those hours Riley had spent in the corridor, lying in wait for her return.

  She turned back to the psychiatrist, who still stood outside the room, arms crossed and expression belligerent. “I didn’t lie.”

  “Seth Benjamin doesn’t exist. You gave me a false name. What would you call that if not a lie?”

  Squatting to retrieve the fallen books, Alex regarded Riley wearily. She’d known Henderson would tell the shrink about their conversation, but had hoped for the day to go over things in her head, collect her thoughts, get her story straight. Hell, to come up with a story at all.

  Books in hand, she stood up again. “You’d better come in.”

  Riley glared at her over the tops of her glasses for a moment and then followed her into the room. Closing the door, Alex motioned toward the only armchair, a battered piece near the window that dated back at least to the sixties and looked to have been rescued from a Dumpster.

  “Have a seat.”

  She deliberately withheld the please, and the narrowing of Riley’s eyes said the doctor knew it. Good. It served her right for turning out to be a bulldog in a hippie-grandmother disguise. Dropping onto the edge of the bed, Alex waited for the psychiatrist to take a seat in the chair.

  “I didn’t lie,” she said again, when Riley had settled. “I gave you the only name I have for him. I also told you I didn’t know him well. I never ran his name myself.”

  “What about your mutual friend? Did you run him?”

  Alex looked away, staring at the gilt-framed landscape on the wall. Wondered, with a moment’s idle curiosity, what might have come from running an angel’s name through the police computer system. Would he have had a criminal record? A driver’s license? Outstanding parking tickets?