Sins of the Lost gl-3 Page 5

  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. Seth. 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 y
ou 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.”

  “Maybe not, but she’d have an excellent chance of destroying Hell.”

  “That could be a problem,” Lucifer conceded. “If I cared any more about Hell than I do Heaven.”

  Samael’s breath left him in a hiss. So. They were back to that, were they? He scowled. “Damn it, Lucifer, if we’re to survive, this has to be about more than just the mortals.”

  “Again you assume I care.”

  Samael stared at the One’s former helpmeet, at his slumped shoulders and closed eyes. He thought he had seen the Light-bearer’s every mood, every frame of mind, but this—this was new. And it bore far too great a resemblance to defeat for his liking.

  “With all due respect,” he said, “those of us concerned about our continued existence do care. Wiping out the mortals is one thing, but what about the ones who followed you, who remain loyal to you? We deserve—”

  Lucifer’s eyes snapped open, purple fire burning in their depths. “You deserve what? My undying gratitude? My return loyalty? For fuck’s sake, Archangel, when will you get it through your head that I don’t care? I can’t care. Not about you, not about the others, not about myself. My entire existence is about her. For her. Because of her. Heaven and Hell and the whole damned universe could implode, and it wouldn’t matter to me because I just. Don’t. Care.”

  Thick, bitter betrayal rose in Samael’s chest and sat heavy on his tongue. “So that’s it? We’re just supposed to admit defeat? Throw away our lives for you without trying? That’s what you want from us?”

  Across the room, Hell’s ruler held up one hand, rubbed thumb across fingertips and formed a fist. His gaze locking with Samael’s, he tightened his fingers until the knuckles stood white against his already pale skin, then spread his fingers wide. Agony shocked through Samael, driving him back against the door, holding him there.

  Through streaming eyes, he watched Lucifer rise and stroll across the room. The Light-bearer stopped before him, placing a hand on the shoulder he had once ruined.

  “No, Samael, I do not want an admission of defeat. Do you know why? Because my definition of defeat differs from yours. You do know what I would consider that to be, don’t you?” His fingers squeezed, and the pain of a thousand knives sliced down Samael’s arm and across his chest. Lucifer leaned in, close enough for the warmth of his breath to stir against Samael’s ear. “Well?”

  “Mortals,” Samael ground out from between clenched teeth. “Allowing mortals to live would be defeat.”

  “Exactly. And your deaths, Sam? The deaths of each and every Fallen One who chose to follow me? How do you think I would define those?”

  “I don’t—”

  Another tightening of Lucifer’s grip.

  Samael’s knees gave way, but he couldn’t fall. Couldn’t escape the hold on his shoulder pinning him upright. His sweat-slicked hands scrabbled at the doorknob.

  “Think hard,” the Light-bearer encouraged.

  “Sacrifice!” he choked. “Death is sacrifice!”

  “Necessary sacrifice,” his tormentor clarified. “Excellent. You do understand.”

  With a final, vicious squeeze, Lucifer released him. Samael slid to the floor, fighting back the black that threatened, the nausea that would surely bring further punishment. He listened to Lucifer’s retreating footsteps. The creak of leather told him the Light-bearer had settled into the chair behind the desk; the scratch of quill tip against paper said he continued writing.

  Bit by bit, the pain receded. When it became bearable, Samael groped for the doorknob, pulled himself upright, and opened the door enough to slip into the corridor. Lucifer’s voice stopped him halfway through.

  “One last thing, Archangel.”

  Samael looked over his shoulder. Cringed. Waited.

  “Just so we’re clear, death as sacrifice for success is infinitely preferable to that which would accompany defeat. You’ll want to remember that.”

  Samael stood in the corridor for a long, long time, staring at the closed door, waiting for the vestiges of pain to ease. Slowly the terror that had claimed him under Lucifer’s grip gave way to cold fury.

  Necessary sacrifice? Was the Light-bearer serious? He really expected all of them, all of the Fallen who had followed him out of Heaven and believed in him, to throw themselves on the swords of their kin as sacrifice?

  Samael exhaled a long hiss into the silence.

  Of course he did.

  He always had.

  He’d told him so, when the Pact had been shattered and the remains of peace between Heaven and Hell had hung in tatters: “War was never my priority. I’ve never pretended otherwise.”

  Samael hadn’t wanted to believe him then. He’d clung to the certainty that, when the time came, Hell’s ruler would come to his senses and lead them in the war to reclaim their rightful home.

  Now, however . . . Samael put a hand to his shoulder. Now he believed him.

  And there wasn’t a bloody thing he could do about it.

  Because while the others might welcome battle as much as he did, might even turn their backs on Lucifer’s idea of success for the chance to return to Heaven, they would never be able to pull it off without a leader. Jockeying for control would begin immediately, and Samael didn’t kid himself for a moment that he was powerful enough to replace Lucifer as ruler. If he had the backing of a half dozen Archangels the way Michael did, perhaps. But alone? Not a chance. Once the infighting began, Hell would be awash in the blood of its own occupants.

  Footsteps approached on the other side of Lucifer’s office door, jolting Samael back to the present. If the Light-bearer found him standing out here dithering over his future, there would be questions. And, when he couldn’t or wouldn’t answer, more pain. Or worse.

  He needed to stop worrying about a future if he intended to live long enough to have one. More importantly, he needed to find a Naphil.

  Chapter 14

  “It didn’t go well.”

  A statement, not a question.

  Head tipped back against his chair, Mika’el didn’t bother opening his eyes. “No,” he said. “No, Verchiel, it did not go well. Did we really expect otherwise?”

  He listened to the Highest Seraph settle into one of the chairs on the opposite side of the desk.

  “What did she say?”

  “She told me to grow a set and talk to Seth myself.”

  Silence. Then what sounded like a muffled snort. Cracking open an eyelid, he found Verchiel struggling to hide a smile. He scowled. “The world is ripping itself apart, and the one mortal who might have helped me hold it together has refused. I fail to see the humor.”


  Steady blue eyes regarded him. “It’s not humor that makes me smile, Mika’el, but admiration. You’re the most powerful warrior in all of Heaven. You led the battle against Lucifer himself. Do you know of any other being, mortal or otherwise, that might have the nerve to tell you what she did? This Naphil has great courage.”

  He closed his eyes again, this time pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t need her courage, I need her cooperation.”

  “Then earn it. Speak to Seth. Perhaps he will surprise us.”

  “Neither of us believes that. The Appointed has twice tried to avoid his responsibility. We have no reason to believe he will do otherwise now.”

  He avoided adding what he privately thought, but peering through his fingers at Verchiel, he saw the same concern—no, the same certainty—written across her face, too. Seth, son of their Creator, was weak. Very possibly too weak to do what they needed of him. Which would leave them all—Heaven and Earth alike—in an unspeakably fragile position.

  Verchiel’s chin lifted. “Even if you’re right, even if he refuses you, at least you’ll have tried. Perhaps the woman will be more inclined to step in then.”

  “I have no time for perhaps, Seraph. I need certainties.”

  “Fine. You certainly won’t solve anything sitting behind your desk.”

  Sheer surprise at the tart rejoinder made him drop his hand. “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me, Mika’el. The One has given you a task. No matter how distasteful you find it, you cannot avoid the inevitable forever.”

  He glowered at her. “There’s another complication.”

  “Is that possible when things are already so complicated?” Verchiel asked wryly.