Sins of the Lost (26 page)

Chapter 74

Alex watched Seth’s advance across the office. Her brain screamed at her to run, but her feet were rooted to the floor. She schooled her features into a calm that couldn’t be further from truth and cleared her throat.

“Seth,” she said again. “What are you doing here?”

“I gave you what you wanted,” he said. He spread his hands wide and smiled, oblivious to the weapons trained on him. “Your world is safe. From me, at least.”

“I know,” she said. “Thank you.”

“And now it’s your turn.”

“My turn?”

“To give me what I want,” Seth said, coming to a halt in front of her, mere inches away. “What we both want.”

What we—?
The question died unformed as she tipped back her head to meet the black void of what had once been his gaze. Her innermost self went still. She’d forgotten what his power looked like. No. Scratch that. She’d never seen his power look anything like this.

“Now that I have my power back,” he continued softly, “I can make you like me.”

Apprehension dug its claws into her shoulders.
“
I don’t understand.”

“Immortal, Alex. I can make you immortal, so we can be together always.”

All around her, hands holding weapons wavered and then steadied. At her side, Roberts took a step forward, scowling. She put out a hand, stopping him, and regarded Seth. He couldn’t be serious . . . could he? Was it even possible?

“You need to clear the office,” she told her supervisor.

“There’s no way—”

“Staff. This is between me and Seth. You can’t do anything.”

“There is no goddamn way—”

“You heard the lady,” Seth said.

His voice held a dangerous edge that made Alex’s fingers dig into Roberts’s arm. The entire room seemed to wait. Roberts turned his head away from Seth and dropped his voice to a bare whisper. “Do you really think he’d . . . ?”

She wanted to say no. Wanted to believe the man she had loved was incapable of violence. But this wasn’t him. This wasn’t her Seth. Not anymore. This was the divine being from the Vancouver alley that she’d tried to save . . .

And failed.

“Just go,” she told her staff inspector. “Please. I’ll be fine.”

Roberts’s struggle with angry denial played out across his face. “Damn it, Alex—”

His arm ripped from her grasp as he lifted from the floor. He flew past and slammed against the wall of his office, ten feet away. A collective gasp ran through the office. Alex stepped forward to go to her supervisor’s aid, but a single word stopped her in her tracks.

“Stay,” said Seth.

She obeyed, afraid of what he might do otherwise. Heart hammering, she watched Roberts put a hand to the back of his head and bring his fingers away covered in blood. He scowled and climbed to his feet.

“I’m not leaving you with him, Jarvis.”

Still blinking at the speed with which her supervisor had been tossed back—had Seth even
moved
?—Alex opened her mouth to argue. She snapped it shut again as, one by one, pistols held in trembling hands throughout the office turned to point at their owners’ skulls. Fingers curled against triggers. Panic rolled through her, and she whirled back to Seth. “Don’t!”

Seth stared past her at her supervisor. “It’s not up to you, Alex. It’s up to him.”

“They’ll leave, I promise. Just—don’t.” She looked over her shoulder. “Staff,
please
.”

Roberts’s gaze held hers for a moment longer, his eyes wide with shock, sharp with denial. Then his shoulders sagged. He nodded.

“Put your weapons away,” he ordered, his voice hoarse. “And clear the room. Alex, we’ll be—”

“The building,” she interrupted. “Clear the building.”

Thank God it was Saturday, with so few people at work.

“I can’t—”

Raymond Joly’s weapon came up again, this time to point at the head of the administrative assistant who had taken shelter beside him. The woman’s face lost all hint of color. Sweat broke out on Joly’s forehead in his effort to redirect his hand, but to no avail.

“The building,” Roberts agreed, his face as white as the assistant’s. He limped forward from the wall to join the others, pausing at Alex’s side.

“You’re sure about this?” he asked. Then, turning his face away from Seth, he mouthed,
“ETF?”

She shook her head. She couldn’t risk it. Wouldn’t risk it. If Seth could exert the kind of control he’d just demonstrated, not even the highly trained Emergency Task Force could do anything. And if he spoke the truth about making her the same as him, making her—God, she couldn’t even
think
the word—then there was no telling what kind of power he’d have to bring to bear to do so, or what havoc such power might wreak.

“I’m sure,” she told Roberts.

The slow sickening of his expression told her his thoughts had followed hers. He understood the risk would be too great. Anguish filled his face. His throat worked with the effort to speak, but in the end he simply gave her shoulder a squeeze and followed the others out of the office, taking his cell phone from his jacket pocket as he did so. His voice, gruff and authoritative, floated back to her as he gave instructions to clear the building.

And then there was only Seth.

Alex lifted her eyes to the awful emptiness of his.

Deep within her, her soul whispered a name.

Aramael.

Chapter 75

Mika’el stood shoulder to shoulder with Verchiel in shared silence. The space that had been occupied by the One and Lucifer was now empty—bereft and oddly expectant at the same time. As if it couldn’t make up its mind whether the Creator was really gone or had only wandered away for a moment and would return. Much like the hole in Mika’el’s soul.

He squared his shoulders. “You’ll have to advise the others,” he said. “They’ll have felt her leaving.”

“Alone?” She cast a startled look at him.

“I need to ready the Archangels.” He realized he still held his sword clenched in a near death grip and shoved it back into its sheath. “And an army. The Hellfire will come down soon if it hasn’t already.”

Her hands twisted into her robe. “Of course,” she said. “Because it’s just us now. You and me, leading all of Heaven.”

He stiffened, hearing a note in her voice that he didn’t like. Verchiel went to the One’s chair and ran her hand over the back of it. She gazed out the window. Mika’el waited, bracing for what he suspected would come next. The Highest didn’t disappoint.

“It won’t work,” she said. “We’re not strong enough to fight a war and still hold all of this”—she waved—“together.”

“Don’t,” he said. “Not yet.”

Verchiel heaved a sigh. “We have to talk about it, Mika’el. She might be our—”

“I said not yet.”

“Then when?” She turned to him, annoyance creasing her brow. “It could take us weeks to find her. We haven’t heard so much as a whisper from her for six thousand years—or about her, for that matter.”

They’d been watching for her? His mind answered the question even as it formed. She was the daughter of Heaven. One of its biggest losses—and greatest regrets. Of course they’d been watching for her . . . just as he himself had meticulously avoided doing so. He stalked past the Seraph, headed not for the door and the waiting throng, but for the glassless window and the eminently more manageable concerns of war. Verchiel’s voice followed him.

“I know this is difficult for you, but at least let me begin looking.”

Grief, guilt, and utter despair wrangled for the upper hand in his chest. He stepped through the floor-to-ceiling window and into the gardens.

“Mika’el!”

Unfurling his wings, he left her behind.

Her, but not the memories of Emmanuelle.

Chapter 76

Striding into the war council chambers, Mika’el unsheathed his sword. He laid it across the table with the others. Six Archangels fell silent. Six sets of eyes watched grimly. He didn’t prevaricate.

“What you’ve heard is true,” he said. “She’s gone.”

There was a collective inhale, and then chaos.

A dozen questions came at him in what seemed to be a single breath, battering against his ears, his skull, his already bloody heart. Resting his hands on the table, he dropped his head, waited for the accusatory voices to die down. They ended with a single harsh question rising above the others.

“Why in bloody Hell didn’t you stop her?” Raphael demanded.

Mika’el lifted his head to glare at him. “Because she wanted this. It was the only way she could stop Lucifer.”

The others blinked at him.

“She took him with her?” Azrael asked. “He
let
her?”

“Yes. To both questions.”

Another jumble of voices ensued. Again he waited. Again one voice rose above the others.

“So that’s it. Hell’s ruler is gone. The Fallen are on their own,” said Gabriel.

“No.” Aramael pushed back his chair and stood, his hands fisted. “No, they’re not. Seth will take his place.”

“We don’t know that for certain,” Mika’el said, “but given Seth’s lack of cooperation so far, yes, it’s possible he’ll step into the void.”

“Not possible. Definite. I know him better than you do, Mika’el. He’ll feel we forced him into this, forced him to give up Alex. He’ll be bitter and angry, and this will be his way of getting back at us.”

“Even if you’re right, it changes little. We’ll still be fighting the same war whether Seth is a part of it or not.”

“Except the
Fallen
,” growled Aramael, “will have a leader.”

And we won’t
.

The former Power didn’t speak the last part. He didn’t need to. The words hung over the table all the same, stark and unforgiving in their truth. Drawing himself up to his full height, Mika’el glowered at him, hating that he was right but still refusing to consider the possibility raised by Verchiel. He would not—
could
not—go there.

“Then we’ll just have to work harder at remaining united,” he snapped. “Starting now. With us. Any objections?”

When no one spoke, he raised an eyebrow at Aramael. Scowling, the other took his seat again. Mika’el nodded.

“Good. Then you each know what you’re to—” He stopped as Gabriel, the only female among their company, cleared her throat. “Yes?”

“What about the Nephilim?”

“What about them?”

“The babies have all been born, and they’ve all disappeared. Do we just leave them out there like that, or—?”

Mika’el understood what she was asking. For a brief moment, standing there in the One’s profound absence, he had wondered the same thing himself. He’d also reached a conclusion. He let his gaze travel the table, meeting each of the others’ in turn.

“The One might no longer be here,” he said quietly, “but her legacy lives on in us. All of us. We uphold her ways, is that understood?”

Slowly, one by one, the Archangels nodded.

“Then as I was saying, you know—”

A chair crashed to the floor as Aramael surged to his feet again. Mika’el sighed.

“Now wh—?” He stopped midword as the other Archangel grabbed his sword from the table, scattering the others—and their owners—in all directions. Mika’el leaned across the table and seized Aramael’s wrist, holding him fast.

“Tell me,” he ordered.

Ferocious eyes fastened on his, and Aramael wrenched his arm away. “Something’s wrong,” he said. “Alex needs help.”

Chapter 77

It took every particle of self-control Aramael possessed to remain at the war council table and not bolt to Alex’s side. His whole being vibrated with her need for him, resonated with his desire to respond to her summons. But with Mika’el scowling that way and Raphael’s narrowed eyes grimly daring him to so much as twitch, he didn’t dare. Getting into a fight with another Archangel—or several of them, for that matter, would only slow him down.

Gripping the tabletop with one hand and his sword in the other, he repeated his words, “Something is wrong. She needs help.”

She needs
me
.

“Damn it, Aramael, you were to sever your connection to her,” Mika’el said.

“The same connection you counted on to protect her from Samael when you thought he was followed her?” Aramael snarled back. Painfully aware of the tension threading through the others, he reined himself in. Made himself breathe. “Let me check on her. Please.”

“This time and how many others?” Mika’el shook his head. “The Hellfire is down, Aramael. An attack is imminent. I cannot spare you.”

You cannot hold me.

He bit back the ill-advised challenge and locked his knees against the need to leave. Whatever had drawn Alex to summon him, it grew more urgent with every second—and it wasn’t going away.

“You don’t understand,” he grated. “I
need
to see her.”

Raphael snorted. “I knew you’d be a liability.”

“Raphael,” Mika’el said.

His golden eyes venomous, the Archangel subsided.

Mika’el studied Aramael for what seemed eternity. “You’re certain she’s in danger?” he asked at last.

“What does it matter? She’s a Naphil!” Raphael exploded. “His only loyalty is to—” He broke off, staring at the hand Mika’el placed on his arm, then at the warrior. “You have
got
to be kidding me.”

“Well?” Mika’el asked Aramael.

Aramael noted distantly that the table had begun to smolder beneath his grip. Alex had called on him only twice when he hadn’t already been there watching over her. Both times her life had been threatened. Neither time had ended well for her.

Putting any of that into words was beyond his current ability.

At his back, his wings quivered under the strain of holding them closed.

Mika’el rubbed at the back of his neck. “One time, and one time only, Archangel. Do whatever you must, but after this, you break your tie to her, do you understand? And be careful. I can’t spare anyone to go with you, and if you’re right . . .”

Aramael nodded his acceptance of the warning. And the risk.

“Go,” said Mika’el.

Released at last, Aramael’s wings shot open to their fullest, knocking aside chairs, taking out a wall sconce, and creating a wind that had the others grabbing to hold the table in place.

“Bloody Hell,” Raphael growled. “You know better than to launch from insi—”

Aramael didn’t hear the rest.