Sins of the Lost Read online

  “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.

  “Samael is watching her.”

  All hint of amusement dropped from the Highest Seraph’s expression. “What possible interest could he have in her?”

  “If I knew, I wouldn’t be sitting here racking my brain for answers instead of going after the Appointed.”

  Verchiel raised a brow at his thinly veiled snarl. Then she frowned. “Wait—you haven’t left her unguarded?”

  “Samael would have taken her by now if he wanted to do so.”

  “Unless he noticed you hovering around her.”

  “He did see me, but only today. He could have taken her anytime before—” Remembering how Aramael had watched over the woman before him, he stopped. He rotated a quarter turn one way and then the other in his swivel chair.

  “There has to be a reason Hell is interested in her,” Verchiel pressed. “We can’t afford to take chances, not with the state things are in right now.”

  She had a point.

  “I’ll put a watch on her.” Seeing her shoulders straighten, he held up a hand. “No. I know what you’re thinking, and it’s out of the question.”

  “This isn’t just any Fallen One we’re talking about. It’s Samael. If he makes any kind of a move, none less than an Archangel can stop him.”

  “There are five other Archangels.” Well, four that he could use, because putting Raphael anywhere near his traitor of a brother would be just plain stupid.

  “None of whom have any experience inhabiting the human realm. Aramael was a Power before he was an Archangel, Mika’el. He has walked among the humans before, and is less likely to draw attention to himself.”

  “He still feels a connection to her.”

  Her lips pursed. “Another reason it should be him. The others will follow orders as best they can, but in their eyes, the woman remains tainted by her bloodline. None will fight harder to keep Samael away from her than he will. None will give up his own life for hers.”

  “Is that what we want? An Archangel giving up his life for a Naphil?”

  “Of course not. But if Hell is interested in her, then you can’t risk her, either. Not until you know why they’re interested.”

  Twisting the chair back and forth again, Mika’el studied her. “You never used to be this”—he hesitated to use the word cold—“pragmatic.”

  “I never used to be responsible for Heaven trying to save the world, either. I don’t like what I suggest, but neither do I see a choice.”

  Verchiel rose with a rustle of robes. Crossing to the door, she reached for the handle, then looked over her shoulder. “And, Mika’el, just so you’re clear, you will need the Naphil’s courage. If we’re to convince Seth to return to his rightful place here, with us, you’ll need all the courage she possesses and more.”

  Chapter 15

  The scuff of boot against rock snagged Aramael’s attention. He looked down the mountainside to see Raphael emerge from a crevice. The Archangel’s dark skin was almost indistinguishable from the black armor he wore, making him little more than a massive shadow amid the many other shadows.

  Albeit one with a sizable grudge.

  Raphael paused and stared up. Aramael couldn’t see his eyes, but he felt his gaze—and the animosity behind it. He returned to his vigil, resting his right hand on the hilt of his sword. Raphael’s glowering looks over the last few days had made it clear their previous encounter hadn’t been forgotten. Frankly, Aramael was surprised it had taken him this long to get around to a confrontation.

  The other Archangel crested the hill, the reflection of the distant flames of Hellfire dancing across his burnished face.

  “News?” Aramael asked, careful to keep his voice even. Mika’el would be pissed in the extreme if two of Heaven’s protectors went at each other; Aramael had created quite enough conflict in the world without starting something else here now.

  “You know that’s not why I’m here.” Raphael stopped a half dozen feet away.

  Aramael’s fingers contracted on his sword’s pommel. He stared out across the barren wastelands and the band of Hellfire beyond, the last, thinning barrier between two armies sworn to fight to the death. If Lucifer ever got around to taking the first swing.

  “I don’t suppose an apology will do any good, but in the interests of maintaining peace, I’m sorry I called you a bastard. As I remember, the circumstances were somewhat extenuating.”

  If that’s what one wanted to call being ripped out of the human realm by force and handed over to the Seraph responsible for engineering his downfall.

  Raphael shifted his stance, settling his feet more firmly into the sparse, arid soil. “I’ve been called worse, Power. That’s not why I’m here, either.”

  Aramael raised a brow at the other Archangel’s use of his former designation. So that’s what this was about. “Issues with my promotion?” he inquired.

  “Issues with your track record.”

  “You think Mika’el made a mistake.”

  “I think he has a lot on his mind and might not have thought this through as well as he should have. I think you’re more liability than asset.”

  A flare along the fiery border drew their attention. Aramael stared in its direction, waiting. Brilliant yellow turned red, and the ripple of tension across his shoulders faded. If the flare had turned blue, it would have meant an attempted breach. But red was good.

  He looked back at the other Archangel, who still stared across the wasteland. “Was there something else, or was that the only insult you wanted to deliver?”

  “It wasn’t an insult. It was a statement of fact. You’re a liability, and I’ll be watching you. We have enough to worry about in this bloody war without having one of our own screw things up for us. One misstep, one hint that you’ve lost control …” Raphael made a snick sound as he drew a finger across his throat. “Am I clear?”

  Seeming satisfied his message had been delivered, he started down the hill. Aramael held back a fuck you and waited until the other had taken several steps. Then he cleared his throat. Raphael slowed, stopped, and looked over his shoulder.

  “The decision was Mika’el’s,” Aramael reminded him. He was all for keeping the peace, but he’d be damned if he wouldn’t respond to whatever Raphael wanted to start. “The One sanctioned it. Like it or not, I’m one of you now, and—”

  The other Archangel’s blade pressed against his throat before he could finish. Aramael froze, staring into the vicious golden eyes inches from his own.

  “You are not one of us,” Raphael hissed. “We have passed through Hellfire itself, and we bear the scars on our souls to prove it. You might wear the armor and carry the sword of our kind, but you will never be one of us. Ever. Do you understand?”

  Even if he’d wanted to nod assent, the finely honed metal nestled below Aramael’s jaw discouraged him from doing so. Wordlessly, he held Raphael’s glare until the Archangel sheathed his sword. Stalking down the hillside once more, Raphael flicked a last glower over his shoulder.

  “Remember what I said, Power. I’m watching.”

  Chapter 16

  “All quiet?” Mika’el asked as he topped the rubble knoll where Aramael stood.

  Aramael shrugged. He adjusted the armor chafing under his arms. “One flare-up that settled down,” he said. “And one visit from Raphael. The latter was by far more exciting.”

  Mika’el settled a foot on a boulder and leaned forward, bracing his forearms across his armor-clad thigh. His lips quirked. “He’s a little gruff, but to coin a human phrase, his bark is worse than his bite.”

  Aramael shot the Archangel a sidelong look, remembering the edge of steel against his throat. “I some
how doubt that.” He returned his attention to the distant strip of Hellfire. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “When you chose me to take Samael’s place among you, did you consult the others?”

  “The decision was mine to make.” Mika’el’s words held no arrogance, only a statement of fact. “There was no need for consultation.”

  “Did you know they would”—Aramael sought the right word—“object quite so strongly?”

  “I figured you were a big enough boy to handle it. You aren’t the only one in Heaven to lose a brother to Lucifer’s allure, Aramael. Raphael would have had a difficult time with anyone replacing Samael. You just raised more issues for him than another might have. As for the others, they’re understandably protective of one of their own. Give them time. They’ll come around.”

  Raphael—and Samael? Aramael turned his attention back to the band of Hellfire. He hadn’t expected that. A grudging sympathy edged out the memory of Raphael’s sword. His presence would have hauled a lot of unwanted memories back to the surface for the other Archangel—along with an accompanying sense of betrayal with which he himself was all too familiar.

  “I don’t suppose you could have thought to mention this to me at the time,” he said.

  “My job is to protect Heaven and the One, not your feelings.”

  “Seems to me you’d do a better job of it if you weren’t pitting your own warriors against one another.”

  Mika’el went silent for a moment. “No Archangel would turn against another,” he said finally, “but your point is taken. I’ll speak to Raphael.”

  More silence. Aramael’s gaze narrowed on the other Archangel, who still stared into the distance. “You didn’t come here just to check up on me.”

  “No.” With a heavy sigh, Mika’el straightened up. “No, I’m not here to check up on you. We’ve run into a complication. Samael is watching the woman.”

  “The—” Aramael’s heart jolted. “You mean Alex?”

  A scowl crossed the other’s features. “The Naphil, yes. We’ve no idea why he’s interested in her, but I think we can safely assume it’s not a good thing. We need someone to watch her.”