Sins of the Lost Page 13

  There—beside Seth.

  Seth. How—?

  He clutched at his hair, pulling until water streamed from his eyes. He couldn’t take her in this state. The damned drugs were too fresh in his system. They had to wear off enough to think again. Follow, watch, think.

  Half a block ahead, the Naphil disappeared into a building. The Appointed followed.

  The Naphil and the Appointed? How—?

  Damn it to Hell.

  ***

  Despite Alex’s best intentions, lunch was an endurance event filled with long silences, stilted conversation, and the ever-present specters of Michael and Aramael. With one elbow on the table and her fist resting against her mouth, she stared out the window, her sandwich untouched, lunchtime odors assailing her. Roasted chicken, mushroom-barley soup, coffee. None stirred her appetite.

  She watched a ragged man stagger past on the sidewalk, his hands clutching at his hair. Seth reached past her for the napkin dispenser. She drew back with a murmur of apology, then returned to her brooding.

  Unclaimed powers, a world that might or might not survive events that went far beyond this current drama, their own struggling relationship … Where did they begin sorting through the chaos? Seth had lost everything because of her, and now they wanted him to lose her, too?

  Expected her to push him away?

  Christ.

  Seth shoved the plate with his own sandwich to one side. “We need to talk.”

  A woman laughed at a table in the back corner, a bray of sound that caused other patrons to go quiet and look for the source. Alex shook her head.

  “This might not be the right time—”

  “It will never be the right time, Alex, and we can’t continue like this. You and Heaven want me to take back my powers—”

  “I never said that.”

  “Semantics. Whether you want it or not, you think I should. But has it ever occurred to you—to any of you—to question the need for me to do so?”

  “What do you mean? Aramael said—”

  Fury sparked in his black eyes. Shit. Wrong name to drop right now.

  His forearms on the table, Seth leaned toward her. “Think about it, Alex. My mother is the One, the Creator of All, and she can’t deal with this? She needs me to take back my powers because she’s not strong enough to keep them from damaging the planet? Does that even make sense? Or are you too blinded by your soulmate’s presence to see sense?”

  Alex rocked back in her seat, recoiling from his viciousness, stunned by his words. He really thought that of her? And wait—could he be right about the One? When he put it like that, he was right. It didn’t make sense. The Creator of the entire universe should be able to manage this. But then why would Aramael and Michael say otherwise? What weren’t they telling her?

  Christ, she didn’t know what to think anymore. If there was a shred of a chance that Seth might be onto something here, however—

  “I’ll talk to Aramael,” she said. “See if I can find out—”

  “What, more lies? Do you really think he’ll tell you the truth?”

  “Michael, then.” She watched Seth’s mouth compress. “Damn it, Seth, we need more information. You can’t make a decision without—”

  “My decision is already made.” His voice was cold. “Apparently, however, yours is not.”

  Chapter 36

  Seth walked Alex back to the office in stubborn silence. With every step, the few inches between them seemed to grow wider. The chasm in his heart did likewise. Try as he might to justify her words, to understand why she felt the way she did about her world, her race, it all kept coming back to one thing. If it turned out that the planet really was in trouble, she expected him to save it. To take back his powers and give her up. Give them up.

  As she would do. Willingly.

  Pain squeezed through his chest. He breathed around it, the words of his father’s journal burning in his memory: “How she could allow these creatures to come between us is beyond comprehension. Beyond endurance.” He shoved them away. No. Alex wasn’t like his mother, and he was nothing like Lucifer. They could still figure their way through this. If she needed more information, he’d get it for her. He’d ask the questions of Mika’el himself, find a way to make the Archangel admit he was wrong. Make him admit the One could—

  Alex’s hand on his forearm sent a rush of warmth through him, stopping his thoughts, freezing his step. He looked down, even now all too willing to let go of their argument, to put things right again. Needing to do so. But her attention wasn’t on him. He peered into the alley beside which they stood, then looked askance at her.

  She frowned. “I thought I heard—”

  A moan. He heard it, too.

  Alex dropped her hand from his arm and stepped into the narrow passage. Reining in his impatience, he followed. Yet again, another took precedence. Even if he managed to convince Alex that his decision to remain with her would do no harm—that it was the right one, the only one, to make—would they still grapple with this, her job? Would she always put others before herself? Before him? He looked down at her touch on his arm and saw her pointing with her other hand.

  “There.”

  A figure slumped in the shadow of a Dumpster a dozen feet away, head resting in a dark pool. Seth drew back in distaste. “Is that blood?”

  “Most likely.” She pulled out her cell phone and moved forward again, simultaneously punching in a number and calling out to the man. “Sir? Are you all right? I’m a police officer, and I want to help. I’m going to have a look at—” She broke off and turned her attention to the phone as she went down on one knee beside the man. “Hi, yes, it’s Detective Alexandra Jarvis from the homicide unit. I have an injured civilian in an alley off—”

  The man lunged at her. The cell phone flew from her grasp and smashed into the Dumpster. Seth leapt forward, reaching to pull Alex away, but he was too slow. The man’s hands closed around her throat and he rose to his feet, lifting her with him. Her breath became a harsh rasp beneath his hold and Seth seized his arm. He pulled. Pulled harder. Bellowed his fury. His fear.

  The man paid no attention.

  Abandoning his hold, Seth snaked his forearm around the man’s neck and tightened it with all the strength he possessed. An elbow plowed into his ribs and he sailed through the air. His head cracked against a brick wall. For an awful instant, the world flickered, on the verge of turning black. He struggled to breathe, fought off the darkness.

  Alex. I have to help Alex.

  He rolled to his hands and knees. Pain shot through his chest, hammered in his skull. A cold, awful realization gripped him. I can’t help her. I’m mortal. I have no power—

  “Call him,” the man snarled.

  Seth tried to focus through the flashes of light going off in his eyes. Alex’s attacker held her off the ground, hands still at her throat, shaking her as he might a doll.

  “Call him!” he demanded again. “Call your soulmate, Naphil. Like you did for—”

  A rush of wind swept through the alley, driving grit into Seth’s eyes, sealing them shut. He scrubbed at them, forced them open. Aramael towered above him, black wings spread wide, menace written in his every line.

  “Let her go, Mittron,” he snarled.

  Mittron?

  The man shifted, spinning to hold her from behind. He replaced the hands at her throat with a knife. Alex gasped for air, a harsh, ragged sound that clawed at Seth’s heart. He struggled to his feet, ignoring the pain streaking through his rib cage, focusing instead on the cold glint of metal. He tried not to think about the terrible fragility of a mortal life. The world spun and his stomach heaved. He sagged to the pavement.

  “I knew you would come,” the man breathed. “I knew she would call for you.”

  “Let her go,” Aramael said again.

  The man shook his head, his amber eyes glowing with an intensity that sent a shudder down Seth’s spine. Amber eyes that, despite the mania that had taken hold in th
eir depths, he recognized. Aramael was right. It was Mittron. Fresh fury snarled through Seth. Damn it to Hell, would Heaven’s interference never end?

  “It’s not that easy,” Mittron said. “We need to trade. You want her, and I want what you gave Caim.”

  Aramael scowled. “Caim!” he spat. “I gave him noth—”

  “Death,” rasped Seth. “He wants you to kill him.”

  He felt the Archangel’s shock. His denial. He kept his own focus squarely on the wavering knife, willing it to stay still. A thin line of blood trickled down Alex’s throat. Something inside him shriveled.

  “Do it,” he told Aramael.

  “I cannot.”

  “Yes,” he snapped, flashing the angel a venomous glare. “You can. And we all know it.”

  Icy rage gathered in the other’s eyes. Glittered in them. “We all know what came of it, too,” he growled back.

  “A little late to have discovered your principles, don’t you think?”

  “At least I have them.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud,” Alex’s mutter broke between them.

  Seth switched his attention back to her in time to see her become a blur of motion. In the space of a heartbeat, before Mittron could react, she planted an elbow in his gut, clamped fingers over his wrist, spun on one heel, and pinned the knife-wielding hand behind his back. Practiced moves calculated to disarm and control a human.

  But not an angel. Not even an exiled one stripped of his divine powers. A warning formed in Seth’s throat as Alex glowered over her shoulder.

  “When you two are done with your pissing contest—” she began.

  Mittron jerked free and whirled, his knife slicing toward her in a wide, graceful arc.

  Chapter 37

  Even as Seth’s shout rang through the alley, Aramael’s wings shot open, driving between Alex and her attacker. The knife slammed into unyielding feathers and Mittron staggered backward. Before he recovered his footing, Aramael reached one hand for the weapon, the other for the former Seraph’s throat. A vast ugliness rose in his soul as his fingers closed around both.

  Manic joy lit the Seraph’s eyes.

  “Yes,” he croaked. “Do it. I deserve nothing less after what I’ve done to you, to her. I deserve to die.”

  The ugliness in Aramael’s core darkened. Seethed. About that, Mittron was right. No one was more deserving of death. All of this was the Seraph’s fault. He was at the center of everything: the breaking of the pact between Heaven and Hell; the failure of the eleventh-hour agreement; Alex’s near death—twice; Seth’s abandonment of his place at his mother’s side …

  And Aramael’s own bond to a soulmate he could never hope to have.

  Deep within him, the power of an Archangel began to build, mingling with the rage he thought he had left behind. He inhaled a ragged breath and crumpled the knife in his hand. He let it fall to the ground. Energy—fluid, glacial—coursed through his body.

  Dangling from his hold, Mittron closed his eyes. His features went slack and almost peaceful. “Please,” he whispered.

  No other word could have reached Aramael.

  No other word could have stopped him cold.

  He stared at the Seraph. Saw for the first time the agony etched into the lines there. The anguish. Slow understanding unfurled in him. The One’s intent hadn’t been to let Mittron live; it had been to let him live like this. With the same torment that he had caused so many. Inescapable, awful torment.

  Her Judgment had been so much more than Aramael had assumed.

  More, and infinitely worse than death could ever be.

  He shook his head. “No.”

  Mittron’s eyes shot open. Panic warred with madness in their amber depths. He scrabbled at the hand locked around his throat. “You must. I should die for what I’ve done. I need to die.”

  “Which is why I won’t kill you. You don’t deserve to die for what you’ve done, Seraph. You deserve to suffer. I can do no worse to you than what our Creator has done, and I’m damned if I’ll do better.”

  He released his hold. The Seraph dropped to the ground, sagged to his knees. He reached to pluck at Aramael’s leg.

  “By all that is merciful, Archangel—”

  Aramael backhanded the Seraph across the cheek, snapping Mittron’s head to the side. The wrecked, wretched angel toppled and lay weeping on the filthy pavement. Aramael stared down at him.

  “I have no mercy for you, Mittron,” he said.

  Turning his back on that which Heaven itself had already discarded, he found Alex still standing where she’d been when he blocked Mittron’s attack. Her sky-blue eyes stood out against the pale of her skin. Shocked. Wary. Appalled. He studied her, marveling at the strength that held her upright, that had let her become embroiled in a war between angels.

  “Are you all right?” he asked. A dozen tiny cuts marred her face, seeping crimson. “I’ve hurt you. I’m sorry. In battle, my wings—”

  She deflected the hand he put out to her, and he followed her gaze to the figure propped against the wall a dozen strides from where they stood. Seth. Of course. How could he have forgotten?

  “Go,” he said wearily. “He’s injured.”

  Alex went.

  ***

  Alex walked carefully away from Aramael and the keening man by his feet, willing her legs not to give out beneath her. Reinforcements were arriving en masse, heralded by feet pounding down the alleyway, the approach of a siren, the slam of car doors. She shut them out, crouching beside Seth and reaching to touch his cheek.

  “Are you okay?”

  For a long minute, he didn’t answer. Then, one hand against his ribs and blood trickling down his forehead, he lifted pain-glazed eyes to hers. “I couldn’t stop him. I wasn’t strong en—”

  “Shh.” She placed her fingers over his mouth. “It doesn’t matter. I’m fine.”

  He twisted his head away from her. Something darker than the pain clouded his face. “Because of him.”

  Alex shivered a little at the bitterness underlying the emphasis on him. “He only did what he’s supposed to do.”

  “Because I chose to be weak.”

  She brushed his blood-matted hair away from the gash over his eyebrow. “You’re not weak,. You’re just mortal.”

  He scowled. “There seems little difference at the moment.”

  “Christ, Jarvis,” Roberts’s voice growled behind her. “What is it with you and alleys?”

  She looked up at him, and his face went white.

  “You’re hurt.”

  She shook her head. “It’s superficial. But Seth—”

  “I’m fine.” Seth made as if to rise, let out a hiss, and subsided, his glower deepening.

  “The ambulance is on its way,” said Roberts. “What the hell happened?”

  In as few words as she could, Alex summed up finding what she thought had been an injured man, concocted what she hoped was a plausible story about an attack driven by the influence of drugs, and prayed that it would be enough to satisfy the questions she saw in her supervisor’s eyes.

  Silence followed her explanation.

  “And your face?” Roberts asked at last.

  Damn. She’d forgotten that part.

  “Glass?” she hazarded. “It happened fast. I’m not sure.”

  Roberts looked pointedly around at what had to be the only alley in all of Toronto that didn’t have at least one broken bottle in it. He looked at Seth, then back at her.

  “I’ll see where that ambulance is,” he said.

  Alex settled onto the dank ground beside Seth. She took his free hand in her own. Neither of them said anything more, and he returned none of her pressure on his fingers.

  Chapter 38

  “Typical that one of Heaven would leave you in this condition.”

  Head throbbing, Seth forced open his eyes against the glare of fluorescent lights. He closed them again when he saw the Fallen One at the foot of his bed in the emergency ward.


  “Go away. I’m not interested.”

  The Fallen One snorted. “Right. That’s why you’ve been reading those journals so fast. What are you up to now? Four? Five?”

  “You know damned well it’s seven, because you deliver them as fast as I read them.”

  “Just trying to be helpful.” The Fallen One dropped into the chair beside the bed. “So that was quite a performance our Aramael put on for his lady friend. Very impressive. Nothing like having a big, strong Archangel around to save you when your mere mortal partner is too weak to do so.”

  Seth’s fingers clamped onto the bedcovers.

  “Of course, it didn’t have to be that way,” the Fallen One added. “If you’d taken back your powers—”

  “I could have saved her myself. I get that,” Seth snarled, jerking his head around to look at his visitor. Pain shafted through his skull. He inhaled sharply, and another jolt streaked across his ribs. He let his breath out in a slow hiss. “I know I could protect her better if I had my powers. But for what? So I can give her up and return to Heaven? I told you, I’m not interested.”

  “Is that what you think?” The Fallen One propped his feet on the edge of the bed and tipped the chair back onto two legs. “Seth, Seth, Seth. You disappoint me. It’s not Heaven I want you in, it’s Hell.”

  “My father wants—?”

  “Lucifer has nothing to do with this.”

  Seth stared at him, and then snorted. “You want to take on the Light-bearer? You’re not anywhere near strong enough.”

  “No. But you are. Or could be.”

  Shuddering, Seth remembered his short-lived attempt to stand up to his father in a Vancouver alley, when Lucifer had knocked him aside with less effort than he might have expended on a fly. “You overestimate my ability—and underestimate his. Even if I were interested, which I’m not, I wouldn’t stand a chance.”

  “You would with my help.”

  Seth stared at the booted feet beside him. The Fallen One’s proposal was ludicrous. Seth didn’t have so much as the slightest interest in it. And yet, instead of telling his visitor to go straight back to whence he’d come, he found himself asking another question.