Sins of the Lost Read online

  The One lifted her hand, pressing it against a soft, lined cheek. “This, the physical part of me to which you cling, this is but a tiny fraction of what I am, my angel. I am so, so much more than what you can touch or see or feel. I am everything. All you have to do is want to understand that.”

  Verchiel sat. Listened. Strained to feel what the One described to her. She shook her head.

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, “for not being strong enough.”

  “Hush, child. After all you have been, all you have done, you have nothing for which to apologize. You are as strong as you need to be. The rest will come in time.”

  Verchiel pressed a hand against the ache in her chest. This struggle was her own. The One did not need the extra burden of her doubt; she needed her help. Even if helping meant losing her.

  “Tell me what you need me to do.”

  “Watch over the Archangel Mika’el for me. He takes on too much—more than he needs to—and he’s terrible at asking for help.”

  “He doubts Seth.”

  The Creator of All looked out over the garden. Her gaze became distant again, her face shadowed with a sorrow that made Verchiel’s own pale in comparison.

  “As do I, Verchiel,” she murmured. “As do I.”

  Chapter 11

  Alex steered down the ramps and around the pillars of the underground parking complex. Fatigue sat heavy behind her eyes, the result of another mostly sleepless night spent staring at the ceiling. Returning to work had seemed like a good idea, but now she wondered how long she could keep it up. Playing at being a cop, pretending everything was normal and not teetering on the edge of total destruction.

  Just another day at the office.

  Yawning, she rounded the final corner to her parking level. The sedan straightened out again …

  And bore down on a man directly in its path.

  Adrenaline shot through her and she jammed her foot onto the brake, but it was too late. She had no room to get around him, nowhere to go, no time. She braced for the impact. The car jerked to a halt, and she stared in horror out the windshield at—

  Nothing.

  No one slumped across the hood. No one hurled to the pavement by the collision of steel against flesh. No one at—

  A tap sounded at the window beside her.

  “Christ!” She whipped around in her seat, then froze. An emerald gaze met hers, holding it with a familiar, shoulder-knotting intensity. She stared at the arrogant features, the watchful stance, the broad expanse of black wings.

  Michael.

  A hundred possible reasons for his presence flitted through her mind, none of them good. For a second, she considered putting the vehicle back into gear and driving away. She might have done so if she thought she could get away with it.

  But she didn’t think one ignored an Archangel.

  Reaching for the electric window button, she saw that the glass between them had already dissolved. The desire to run away grew exponentially. She clamped her teeth together.

  “Naphil.” Michael’s tone was reserved. Guarded.

  Irritation sparked. They were back to that, were they?

  “Archangel,” she responded.

  Annoyance flared in the green depths. Good. Maybe he’d get the message … eventually.

  “We need to speak.”

  “About what?” Glancing in the rearview mirror, she saw another vehicle pull up behind her. “Wait. I need to move. There’s a café across the street from the main door. I’ll park and meet you there.”

  Michael hesitated, most likely weighing the chance she might not show up. The car behind Alex tooted its horn. His gaze flicking toward the sound, Michael nodded, withdrew behind a concrete pillar, and vanished. Alex stared at the emptiness left behind, convinced she would never, ever get used to the disappearing act.

  A second impatient toot jolted her back to the present. She waved a hand out the windowless opening—hell, she’d forgotten to ask Michael to undo that particular trick—and took her foot off the brake.

  ***

  She found Michael seated by the window in the back of the crowded café. Sliding into the chair opposite, she shook her head at the waitress’s offer of a menu and asked for a coffee. Michael declined to order anything. With a huff of displeasure, the harried-looking woman stomped off to serve other, presumably higher-paying clients. Michael cleared his throat.

  “You look well.”

  Alex raised a brow. Small talk? From an angel? She reached past him for the sugar dispenser, taking in the stiff lines of his shoulders, his fists resting on the chipped tabletop.

  “And you’re not here to exchange pleasantries,” she replied. “So you might as well get to the point.”

  “I need your help.”

  “I thought you said my part in your affairs was done.”

  “It was supposed to be. Something has changed.”

  She frowned. “This morning’s murder?”

  It was Michael’s turn to raise an eyebrow.

  She cast a look at the crush of breakfast patrons crammed into the restaurant. At the table nearest them, a lone man turned the page in his newspaper, giving it a snap to straighten it out. She lowered her voice.

  “One of the pregnant women turned up dead. The baby was ripped out of her. Detective Henderson says there have been others. Five altogether that we know of. If I had to guess, I’d say the Fallen Ones are to blame.”

  Beyond a brief flash of annoyance, however, the Archangel looked unperturbed. “I told you, the Nephilim are your concern, not ours. That’s not why I’m—”

  She slammed down the sugar dispenser. “Maybe you didn’t hear me right. We’re already dealing with the Nephilim problem, Michael. Women across the globe are terrified of becoming pregnant, demand for DNA testing has soared beyond all capacity to provide it, and religious fringe groups are all over the Internet spouting off about the end of the world being nigh. But this? This is the Fallen Ones killing human women. That sounds like direct interference to me. The kind of interference you’re supposed to have rules about.”

  Michael regarded her., She scowled back, silently daring him to say what they were both thinking: that the women would die anyway. He sighed.

  “Fine. I’ll increase our surveillance. Now can we please move on?”

  “To what?”

  Hesitation flickered across her companion’s face, just enough to make ice crystals form in her veins. Hell, maybe she should have driven away when she had the chance.

  I could still leave. Before he tells me why he’s here, I could walk out. Just like that. Stand up, pay for my coffee, and—

  “We need Seth to take back his powers.”

  The air hissed from her. “Excuse me?”

  “His choice has had repercussions—”

  “Stop.” Holding up both hands against his words, she leaned back in her seat, as far away from him as the chair would allow. “Why hasn’t Seth told me this?”

  Michael’s expression turned wooden. “He doesn’t know.”

  “You haven’t spoken to him?”

  “I thought it best to speak to you first.”

  “Then this conversation is over.”

  “You don’t understand. The world—”

  “No, you don’t understand.” She glared at him. “You wanted to kill him. His own mother wanted to kill him. You would have cut him down where he stood in that alley if Aramael hadn’t helped me get to him, even after you promised to give me time to help him. You lied. To him, to me—” She broke off, remembering their very public location.

  “I did what was necessary,” Michael growled. “You don’t know all that’s going on—”

  “And I don’t want to. The only reason you’re coming to me is because you know Seth won’t give you the time of day on this. He made his choice, and you made yours.”

  “Damn it, Naphil—”

  Alex slammed a fistful of change on the table beside her untouched coffee. She stood. “You told me o
nce that I was done with your affairs, and now I’m telling you. I’m done. And so is Seth.”

  Iron fingers clamped over her wrist.

  “If Seth doesn’t take back his powers—”

  “What, you’ll put out an assassination order on him?” she hissed. “Oh, wait, I forgot. You already did that. For God’s sake, Michael”—how ironic that she should invoke the Almighty’s name at a time like this—“you’ve done enough to him. You know that, or you’d be talking to him, not me. Just let him go. Please.”

  Michael’s jaw flexed. “We can’t.”

  “Then grow a set and talk to him yourself. Because I’ll be goddamned if I’ll do your dirty work for you.” Tugging free, Alex pushed past the man with the newspaper and stalked out of the café.

  Chapter 12

  Mika’el watched Alex stride across the street and into the police station, her every line rigid. Leaning an elbow on the table, he raked his fingers through his hair. Well. That had gone just swimmingly. He grimaced.

  Who was he kidding? It had gone exactly as he’d expected. Except for her parting shot, perhaps. His grimace became a scowl. Grow a set? Bloody Hell, she had nerve.

  Still, he couldn’t fault her reaction. Every accusation she’d made had been accurate. He’d given her no reason to trust him—or to listen to anything he had to tell her. Even though he knew damned well what Seth’s reaction would be, he should have at least talked to him first. Maybe if he had—Mika’el went still.

  Across the street, the man who’d followed the Naphil from the restaurant, newspaper tucked beneath his arm, stopped to speak with another lounging against the side of the police station. Another that would appear human to mortal eyes, but Mika’el saw what they could not. An aura of power that marked him as an Archangel—but not one of Heaven. Not anymore.

  Samael.

  Halfway out of his chair, Mika’el froze as the other looked up, locking gazes with him. Golden eyes gleamed with bitterness, hatred, challenge.

  Thrusting back the chair with a force that sent it crashing to the floor, he put his hand to his side. It closed over nothing. He hadn’t brought his sword, hadn’t thought he would need it. And if he’d had it, he still couldn’t have gotten to his foe without pulling out of the mortal realm, something he and Samael both knew he wouldn’t do in full view of dozens of people.

  As if he’d read his thoughts, Samael bared his teeth in a mock grin, sketched a salute in his direction, and strolled around the corner. All sense of his presence disappeared. The man with the newspaper looked around at Mika’el, his expression confused.

  Bloody Hell. Mika’el picked up the chair and slammed it back into place at the table. A murmur of alarm washed through the restaurant. The waitress reached for a telephone behind the counter. Reining in his fury, he strode through the crowded restaurant and pushed out onto the sidewalk. He scanned the street for the newspaper man, but he, too, had disappeared.

  Bloody, bloody Hell.

  What was the sole Fallen Archangel doing watching the Naphil?

  ***

  Mittron, former executive administrator of Heaven, sagged back into the grimy building entrance, staring at the posters of barely clad women plastered against the glass. He struggled to think through the fog that had become his brain. To sort out the unexpected turn of events.

  He’d spent weeks making his way here, using every spark of ingenuity he possessed—in his coherent moments—to find the woman. To discover where she lived, where she worked. To see if maybe, impossibly, the connection he’d tried so hard to sever between her and her soulmate might have survived. Because if it had, if she could call Aramael to her in a time of need, if enough of the immortal survived in the former Power to do for Mittron what he had done for Caim …

  He inhaled shakily, pressing palms against the rough brick behind him. So many ifs. And such a crude plan, born of desperation and a far cry from the beautiful, intricate schemes he had once woven. He hadn’t held out any real hope that it would work. He’d just needed to focus on something—anything—to keep the insanity at bay.

  When he’d found Aramael—now an Archangel with the ability to take his life a thousand times over—already camped out on the Naphil’s doorstep, it hadn’t just been fortuitous, it had elevated crude to possible. Desperation to a soul-consuming need for oblivion.

  But now Mika’el and Samael hovered around her, too? What purpose could either of them possibly have for a Naphil? Especially one so far removed from her bloodline as to have been rendered useless? A faint whisper touched the edge of his consciousness, and his fingers spasmed into fists. No. Not now. Not yet. He needed to think, to focus.

  He gritted his teeth against the wound reopening in his soul. He would have to leave soon, before the whispers became wails. Before they turned to the mind-destroying screams of every soul lost to the Fallen, his to bear for eternity, underscored by the anguish of the One he had betrayed.

  Grinding already lacerated knuckles into the brick, he slammed his head back against the wall, trying to mask mental agony with physical pain. Needing to think clearly for a few minutes more.

  Mika’el and Samael didn’t matter. This was about the woman. He needed to catch her alone. Force her to call for Aramael the way Caim had done. If Aramael’s connection remained strong enough, he would be able to do for Mittron what he had done for his own brother and put him out of his misery, end the suffering inflicted by their Creator.

  But he had to move soon. He didn’t know how much longer his mind would survive. So many of the human drugs had already lost their efficacy, and he was running out of new ones to try. If he couldn’t mask the voices anymore, his Judgment would become the torture the One had intended. An eternal, soul-shattering persecution he would never escape.

  Another moan, this one his own. He clamped his teeth down on his tongue. The metallic, salty tang of blood filled his mouth. Through a haze of tears, he focused on the building into which the Naphil woman had disappeared. Screw Mika’el and Samael and Aramael. If she returned, if she came outside again now, before the pain took over and immobilized him completely, he’d take the chance.

  A shriek broke through the incessant buzz of voices. He slammed his head against the brick again but felt nothing. No impact, no pain, no distraction. He’d run out of time. He had to find relief while he still could. Winding fingers into his hair, he pressed bloody, scarred knuckles against his skull. Forced air into his lungs. Stay focused. It helps. Think about the woman … about Aramael … Mika—

  Anguish shredded his already tattered core.

  Sometimes focus helped.

  Sometimes it didn’t.

  Sobbing, he staggered down the street.

  Chapter 13

  The outrage that had powered Alex’s exit from the café deserted her by the time she stepped out of the elevator on the fourth floor, leaving her deflated, shaking, and wanting nothing more than to go home to Seth.

  Or to puke her guts out.

  Leaning against the corridor wall, she rested hands on knees and stared at the thinly carpeted floor.

  And if I do go home? What do I tell him? That the Heaven that turned its back on him—tried to kill him—needs his help? That they want him to take back what nearly destroyed him in the first place?

  Her head sagged. Hell, she couldn’t even tell him why. She hadn’t stuck around long enough to find out what lay behind the Archangel’s announcement, because whether or not Michael had been willing to tell her more had been a moot point. She hadn’t been in any shape to hear it.

  She shuddered. She couldn’t get involved again. Not in the battle between Heaven and Hell. She’d nearly died the last two times—had died, for all intents and purposes. She didn’t think she could survive a third time, even if Seth could bring her back again.

  Which he couldn’t.

  Unless he took back those damned powers.

  The cell phone at her waist vibrated. Taking it from its holster, she stared at the caller ID. Home. Set
h. Hell. Her thumb lingered on the answer button, moved sideways, pushed ignore. She replaced the phone, then, inhaling deeply, stepped into the chaos that was Homicide.

  ***

  “That’s it?” Lucifer asked. He didn’t look up from his desk.

  Samael risked a scowl at the top of the Light-bearer’s head. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  Lucifer continued scrawling in yet another of the damnable journals in which he recorded his every move, his every thought. “That’s all the news you have. Speculation about the Appointed, garnered from a human, no less. Nothing about the Naphil’s sister or niece.” His tone remained conversational. Even. Too much so.

  Samael shifted, assuring himself that he did so for comfort and not as a way to move closer to the door. “No, but—”

  “Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear enough with regard to my expectations.”

  “I understand the woman and her sister are a priority, Lucifer”—bloody Heaven, how he hated that placating tone in his voice—“but this is important, too. If Mika’el is right and Seth is able to take back his powers—”

  “What my son does or doesn’t do has no bearing on me.”

  “I disagree. Any battle with Heaven is already weighted against us—heavily. If they convince him to take back his powers and align himself with them, it could very well have great bearing.”

  At last Lucifer laid aside his pen and the journal in which he’d been writing. He sat back, eyes closed, resting one elbow on the chair’s arm. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “Exactly how many times must we go over this, Archangel?” he asked wearily. “I don’t care about Heaven. I have what I want—or I will, if you can focus long enough. Once the Nephilim army is in place and my child born to lead it, the One will be able to do nothing to stop humanity’s annihilation. With or without Seth on her side.”