Sins of the Son: The Grigori Legacy Page 7

  “Even now you engage in some kind of cat-and-mouse game with your former consort,” he accused, “and to what end? The hope he might yet change? That he might see the error of his ways? The mortals you created are suffering because of him, One. I’ve witnessed their torment every day since leaving your side, and now—now you tell me you would have sacrificed your own son for him?”

  Mika’el stopped pacing and looked down on her, and then, his voice hoarse, laid bare the depth of his own and Heaven’s anguish.

  “Why?” he asked. “Why choose Lucifer over all the rest of your creations?”

  For a very long time, the One stared past him, her face white and marble-still. Above them, a passing breeze rustled through the treetops, carrying with it the song of a distant bird.

  “Is that what you think?” the One asked at last.

  Mika’el could not answer past the thickness in his throat, could not tell her it was what all her angels thought. What they’d always thought.

  His Creator shook her head. “You’re wrong, Mika’el. It is not in my nature—not in my capacity—to favor any one life over another. Every living thing in this universe is a part of me, created from me. Who I am, what I am, demands I love them all.”

  “But Lucifer is evil, damn it—how can you continue to love him when you know what he has done? What he is capable of?”

  “Because I must,” she snapped, taking up the pacing Mika’el had abandoned. “Because I am the One, and all life flows from me, and I cannot value that life based on whether or not it meets your standards any more than I could based on Lucifer’s.”

  Mika’el’s head snapped back at the comparison and the One paused before him, reaching to grasp his hands.

  “I’m not saying you’re like Lucifer, Mika’el. I’m saying my love is not defined by worth. It simply is.” Her voice softened. “As for the mortals, remember that much of the pain they endure is inflicted upon them by their own hands and those of their fellow humans. Not by Lucifer’s, and not by mine. Each and every soul on Earth has the capacity for both good and evil, and the capacity to choose between those paths.”

  “And you,” Mika’el grated, “have the same capacity for choice. It is wrong to let this continue, One. No matter how much you love him, you cannot continue to sit back and do nothing.” A sudden idea occurred to him, reaching down to squeeze his heart in an iron fist.

  No. That would be impossible…

  “You can stop him, can’t you?”

  The One released his hands and returned to pacing. Slower steps this time, with a measure to them—a precision—that made the thought-fist tighten a little more.

  “One?”

  A dozen feet away, the Creator of the universe stopped, her back to him. She sighed, and then, voice quiet, said, “The short answer to that would be yes.”

  …unthinkable…

  “And the long answer?”

  “The long answer, Mika’el, is it’s not that simple.”

  TEN

  Alex slipped her carry-on bag from her shoulder. Setting it on the tiled floor in front of her, she scanned the airport throng for the woman who was to meet her. Fiftyish, Elizabeth Riley had told her. Gray hair pulled back, glasses, wearing trousers—she’d actually called them that—and a white blouse because Alex would be arriving on Thursday and she always wore a white blouse on Thursdays.

  Of course.

  The crowd parted for a moment. Alex spotted a woman beside a car rental booth who matched Riley’s general description but looked more like a hippie grandmother than a police psychiatrist. Her “trousers” were of the baggy, multi-pocketed cargo variety. The white blouse involved appeared to be unbleached cotton. And she wore Birkenstocks.

  Alex hesitated. Surely not.

  Just before the people around her merged again into a living wall, the woman peered over wire-framed glasses perched on the end of her nose and raised an eyebrow in her direction. Shouldering her bag again, Alex threaded her way over to her.

  “Dr. Riley?”

  The gray-haired woman tipped back a head that didn’t quite reach Alex’s shoulder. Sharp blue eyes settled briefly on her scarred throat, and then lifted. The hippie grandmother held out her hand. “Detective Jarvis. It was good of you to come all this way.”

  Alex suppressed a sigh at the but unnecessary hanging unspoken between them. Riley had made it clear during yesterday’s phone call she considered Alex’s trip across the country to be a waste of time, and that she was thoroughly annoyed at Alex’s refusal to share any information over the phone. Better to have her annoyed, however, than to even begin trying to explain a man who didn’t really exist. At least not before she confirmed it was Seth.

  And figured out how she might explain him.

  She accepted Riley’s handshake. “It was good of you to meet me,” she responded. “I hope it wasn’t too much trouble. I really could have taken a cab.”

  Riley peered again over her glasses, her bright eyes determined. “No trouble at all, Detective. It will give us a chance to talk.”

  Which is why a cab would have been so much better.

  Alex inclined her head.

  “Do you have any other luggage?”

  “Just this, thanks.”

  With a tight nod, Riley headed for a bank of exit doors at a pace that belied her short stature, Birkenstocks flapping on her feet. Alex followed, hard-pressed to keep up.

  Twenty minutes later, they merged with the traffic on the freeway. Perched on a cushion behind the wheel of a hybrid SUV, Dr. Riley peered over her glasses at the road ahead. The interrogation began.

  “So, you recognized our John Doe from the photo on the poster.”

  A steady flow of vehicles passed them, going in the same direction as they were. Alex glanced at the speedometer: sixty kilometers an hour, just over half the speed limit. The drive could take a while.

  “I believe so, but I won’t be certain until I see him.”

  “The photo was an accurate likeness.”

  Alex chose not to respond and instead looked out her window at a flock of seagulls wheeling in the sky. A steady click-clack signaled Riley’s intent to change lanes.

  “How well do you know John, Detective Jarvis?”

  “Alex. Please.”

  “Very well. How well do you know John, Alex?”

  “Not well. We were…acquaintances.” Such an inadequate word to describe someone who had pulled her back from the brink of death.

  Elizabeth Riley made an impatient noise beside her. “Perhaps I should point out that for someone in your rather precarious position, this kind of evasiveness won’t help your cause.”

  Alex shot a sharp glance at the psychiatrist and met a brief, cool look before Riley returned her attention to the road.

  “You didn’t think I’d ask questions?” Riley asked. “A detective from the other end of the country calls to inquire about my mystery patient, refuses to answer any of my own queries, and then informs me she’s flying out the next day in person. Believe me, I asked a lot of questions.”

  Staring out her window, Alex cursed her own shortsightedness. Of course Riley would have checked into her. She would have done the same thing in the doctor’s place—had done, albeit belatedly, when Aramael had joined their serial-killer investigation a few short weeks ago under the guise of being her new partner, Jacob Trent. Although she suspected Riley’s questions may have resulted in a somewhat different outcome than hers had—one that didn’t end with finding out the subject of her queries was an angel tasked with capturing demons, for instance.

  Riley took an exit off the freeway and pulled up behind the traffic at a stop light. “Don’t you want to know what I found out?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “You’ve been through a lot recently, Detective. Your stability is somewhat in question.”

  The traffic light changed and they moved forward again, Riley maintaining a precise, three-second gap between her and the vehicle in front.

&
nbsp; Alex shot her companion a dark look. “My stability is fine, thank you.”

  “Not according to Dr. Bell. He was surprised to learn you’d come out here without mentioning it to him.”

  “I’m on leave, and what I do on my personal time is none of Dr. Bell’s business.”

  “So this is personal, then.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Not at all,” Riley denied. “As long as you understand that not being here in an official capacity means you have the same standing as a civilian in this matter.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning you will be extended no special privileges, no professional consideration.”

  “Unless I cooperate?” Alex guessed dryly.

  “There. I knew you would understand.”

  “You’re very used to getting your own way, aren’t you?”

  “Trying to analyze the analyst, Detective?”

  Alex lifted an eyebrow. “Trying to interrogate the interrogator, Doctor?”

  Riley’s lips tightened and she lapsed into silence. Alex turned her attention back to the city passing by outside her window. With the Coast Mountains as its backdrop and the Pacific Ocean on its doorstep, Vancouver touted itself as one of the prettiest urban settings in the world.

  She wondered how long it would stay that way if Heaven and Hell went to war.

  MIKA’EL DIDN’T SPEAK for a long time when the One finished. With every particle of his being, he wanted to reject what she had told him. Deny it. Erase the very words themselves from existence, as if he had never asked.

  He closed his eyes and tried again to wrap his head around her revelation. Complicated? What she suggested she needed to do to full-out stop Lucifer wasn’t complicated, it was incomprehensible. Inconceivable.

  And he could not—would not allow it to happen.

  “No.” His denial dropped into the silence, surprising him with its harshness. He spun to face the One and shook his head. “No,” he said again. “There must be another way.”

  “I’ve been putting this off for six millennia while I sought another way, Mika’el. First the original pact, then the agreement which stands now. I hoped, if I just had enough time, that I might find an alternative. There is none.”

  It took a moment to voice words he would never, in all of eternity, have expected to speak. “Given Seth’s damaged state, perhaps Lucifer would agree to a replacement.”

  The One didn’t ask to whom he referred. She didn’t need to—not with the shadow that stood perpetually between them. “I considered the possibility. Even if he agreed, however, Emmanuelle never would.”

  That she was right didn’t ease his guilt at the relief that washed over him. Nor did it make the prickle of memories easier to bear. Mika’el roughly pushed away all but the here and now.

  “Fine. But this—what you suggest—” He broke off and ran a hand through his hair, his wings vibrating with frustration. He forced down emotion and focused instead on the stark realities contained in the One’s disclosure.

  “It’s out of the question,” he said.

  The One shook her head. “We’re out of choices, my Archangel. With Seth as he is, with the risk he poses, I must act now, while I still can. If my son chooses against us, I will be bound by my word.”

  “And if the roles were reversed? Do you really think your Light-Bearer would feel any such compunction?”

  “What Lucifer would or would not do isn’t the issue. My word, my promise, my integrity—those are what set me apart from him.”

  Mika’el stared at her. “You would really allow him to annihilate humanity if Seth chose against you?”

  The One said nothing.

  It took everything Mika’el possessed to force the next words from his lips. “You’ve always intended this, haven’t you? Always planned to bind with him. To end your presence.”

  “Intended it, no. Known it would be necessary, yes.” The One smiled softly, sadly. “As I said, there is no other way.”

  A thought began to take shape in Mika’el’s mind. An impossible idea that demanded rejection. Except for the fact it wasn’t as impossible as what the One suggested. Wasn’t as impossible as a universe left without its Creator. Mika’el gritted his teeth and lifted his gaze to hers.

  “One other choice remains.”

  The shadows in her eyes deepened. She shook her head. “I cannot.”

  “It is no different than allowing Mittron to proceed with the transition, knowing what you did.”

  “There is a vast difference between allowing Mittron’s free will to unfold and ordering my son’s actual assassination. What you suggest is—”

  “Necessary,” Mika’el grated. “If we’re to stop what you suggest.”

  “You ask the impossible.” The One’s mouth tightened. “I am the Creator of life, not the destroyer.”

  “Is that your final answer?”

  “It is.”

  The idea that had begun to take shape completed itself, sitting in bold simplicity at Mika’el’s center, waiting for him to set it in motion.

  “Then if you won’t order it, I will.”

  “HOW MANY?” VERCHIEL rested her forehead in her hand and stared at the top of Mittron’s desk. No. Not Mittron’s. Hers. For the larger portion of two days now, ever since that cryptic note arrived from the One.

  Effective immediately, you are promoted to the Seraphim choir and charged with the office of Heaven’s executive administrator.

  Verchiel closed her eyes against the impossibility she had yet to absorb and waited for the reply to her question. The Principality who had come into the office—her office—cleared his throat.

  “Seven hundred and three at last count, Highest,” he said, his voice apologetic, as if he knew the inner turmoil she suffered over her sudden rise in status and didn’t want to burden her further.

  Verchiel squeezed her eyes tighter, ignoring the jolt her heart gave at the Highest title conferred on her. Now was not the time to think about that. Or to panic about it. Lifting her head, she regarded the record-keeper. “We’re certain about this?”

  “Positive.”

  Verchiel tightened her lips. “And those actually born?”

  “Ninety. With another three hundred expected within the week.”

  Dear One in Heaven, he wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Not with the agreement still in place. Verchiel made herself nod with the calm sagacity her new office demanded but she did not feel.

  “You will continue to monitor the situation and report to me,” she ordered. “Increase the record-keepers if you need to. None can go unnoted.”

  The Principality nodded and withdrew in a hushed whisper of pale gray robes, leaving Verchiel to rest her forehead in her hand, close her eyes, and deal with the ramifications of the news he had brought.

  Lucifer and his followers mating with humans.

  Spawning a new race of Nephilim.

  And because of her new position, it would fall to Verchiel to inform the One.

  “You know why he does this.”

  Verchiel jumped at the sudden voice and lifted her head to the angel in the doorway. The last angel she had expected to see. Ever. She stared at her visitor, mouth dry and heart going still in her chest. “Mika’el,” she said at last.

  Heaven’s prodigal son, the most powerful of the Archangels, leaned against the frame, clothed in human garments—blue jeans and a white shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His massive wings filled the space behind him. Without asking permission or waiting for an invitation, he stepped inside and closed the door.

  A panicky part of Verchiel, left over from her Dominion status, wanted to bolt from the room, but her new position as Heaven’s executive administrator held her to the chair. Feigning calm, she waited for him to speak.

  “You know why he does this,” he repeated.

  “Lucifer?” she asked.

  He nodded, folding his arms and leaning against the wall.

  “Does he need a reason other t
han to prove he can?”

  “No, but in this case, he has one. He raises an army.”

  She heaved a sigh and massaged her temple again. “He already has an army.”

  “One he cannot use as long as the Appointed lives. Or if Seth were to choose in our favor.”

  Verchiel’s hand stilled. “He would use the Nephilim against the mortals.”

  “Because we cannot do anything about them,” Mika’el agreed, his eyes grim. “Because the agreement didn’t foresee the possibility. I didn’t foresee the possibility.”

  He straightened, his arms dropping to his sides, and stalked the edges of the room. “The agreement specifies no attack on mortals as long as the Appointed lives, but it never occurred to me Lucifer might resurrect the Nephilim. We held the race in such low esteem, I didn’t consider them to be a threat. Hell, I didn’t consider them at all.”

  Pushing both hands through his hair, he stopped beside a window and stared out. Then he pivoted. “I need your help, Seraph. And your utter discretion.”

  Verchiel blinked. Nodded.

  “The Power who was cast out—I need to find him.”

  “Aramael?” She frowned. “What for?”

  “The Appointed.”

  “The—” Verchiel stopped as she realized his intent. She shook her head. “No. You cannot—we cannot. Mika’el, think of the risk—”

  “I am thinking of the risk,” he said, “and there is more at stake than you know. Especially now that I am aware of the Nephilim.”

  “But there’s still a chance Seth might choose in our favor—” She broke off again, working through a maze of impossibilities. If Seth did choose in Heaven’s favor, Lucifer would simply turn his wrath on the angels and loose the Nephilim against the mortal world in his stead. If Seth chose Hell’s path, the angels would engage the Fallen in an attempt to draw Lucifer’s forces away from his murderous campaign on Earth—and the Nephilim would still move against humankind. And if Seth died—she closed her eyes. No matter how she looked at this, each and every path ended in the war they had sought, long and hard, to avoid.

  “We can’t win, can we?” she asked.