Sins of the Warrior (27 page)

The former Archangel’s mouth compressed. Seth took up the washcloth from beside the bandages and sponged roughly at his side. The wound that had plagued him for so long, the one inflicted by Alex, seeped fresh blood.

“You seem to have things well in hand,” Samael responded with a careful lack of inflection. “But I’m happy to call her back if you’d prefer.”

Seth hurled the bloodied rag at Samael’s head. It missed, landing against the window with a wet splat and leaving a crimson smear behind.

“Fuck you!” he growled. “And fuck this whole godforsaken place. I had her, Samael. No thanks to you, I found her and I
had
her. She was close enough to touch. I could smell her.
Taste
her. And then fucking Mika’el shows up, and some random female throws a fireball at the wall, and
what the fuck happened?
”

Samael looked away.

Seth’s jaw clenched. “First Alex’s whereabouts, then Zuriel’s death”—he watched Samael’s eyes flicker—“yes, I know about Zuriel. And now this. You’re keeping an awful lot of secrets from me, Archangel.”

“I’m your aide, Appointed. It’s my job—”

“What are you hiding from me, Samael?”

“I didn’t think it necessary—”

Seth’s fingers closed around Sam’s throat, lifting him from the ground and applying just enough pressure to ensure the other knew he was unimpeded by his latest injuries.

“I asked,” he said, “what you’re hiding.”

Sam swallowed. Seth held tight for a count of three, then loosened his grip a fraction. But only a fraction. He wanted his aide conveniently in hand in case Samael decided not to cooperate as much as Seth thought he should.

“Your sister,” Samael said. “The female is your sister.”

Seth dropped him out of sheer shock.

There was nothing graceful about Mika’el’s arrival in Verchiel’s office. Uncontrolled, definitely. Borderline catastrophic, perhaps. But not graceful. He sprawled amid scattered books and broken shelves, clinging desperately to the remnants of consciousness, hoping against hope that Verchiel was in residence.

Robes rustled near his head. A cool, soft hand brushed back his hair. “Dear Heaven, Mika’el!” Verchiel gasped. “What happened?”

Even if he could have found words to explain, he couldn’t have uttered them.

“Never mind. I’ll get help.” More rustling. A door opening. And then a bellow for assistance that shook the venerable old building to its very foundation and startled Mika’el’s eyes wide.

That
had been the soft-spoken Highest Seraph?

A dozen pairs of feet came running into the room.

“Don’t move him,” Verchiel barked. “Not until we assess the injuries.”

Her voice drew nearer as she gave more orders. “Galadriel and Arkiel, clear away the rubble. Nariel, we need water and bandages. Tsekiel, send for Gabriel.”

Mika’el raised his head to protest. Verchiel’s hand, still cool but not so soft this time, pushed it back down and held him in place.

“Go quickly, Tsekiel,” she added, “and tell no one else of this.”

Irritation sparked at the Seraph’s high-handedness, then it gave way to a soul-deep gratitude for her calm presence. Her sureness. The simple fact that, for once, a decision was not his to make.

Gentle hands lifted him from the floor, carried him, deposited him carefully on a hard surface. With a sigh, Mika’el gave himself over to his kin and let himself slip—finally, blessedly—into the unconsciousness that would allow him to heal. To return to Emmanuelle.

And to Alex.

IN THE WAKE OF
Hugh’s departure, Alex carefully put the full width of the room between her and Emmanuelle. It wouldn’t do her any good, but she found comfort in the space. Especially in view of her first question.

“Michael?” she asked.

Emmanuelle’s expression darkened. She stepped into the room and closed the door. “Gone. His injuries will heal faster in Heaven.”

“But he’ll be all right? He won’t…”

“Die? No. His immortality is intact.” Emmanuelle leaned against the wall, tucking fingertips into the front pockets of her black jeans and crossing one booted foot over the other. “You care for him.”

The hairs on the back of Alex’s neck prickled at the phrasing.
For
, not
about
.

“We’ve been through a lot together, so yes, I care what happens to him.”

Emmanuelle studied her. “He cares for you.”

Alex shoved away the memory of a spark. An unbidden awareness. She snorted. “Only as far as my usefulness to the cause is concerned.”

“Recruiting me to step into my mother’s shoes, you mean?” The dark head shook. “Not going to happen. I’d already be out of here if he hadn’t made me promise to watch over you until he returns.”

“
You’re still needed
.” Michael’s words echoed in Alex’s head. He’d known Emmanuelle would flee. Had used Alex to tie her here until he could talk to her. Convince her.

So much for
he cares for you
.

Alex swallowed a pang of disappointment she had no right to feel.

“This isn’t my fight,” Emmanuelle added. “It never was. I’ll keep my promise, but when Mika’el gets back, I’m leaving.”

She straightened away from the wall and reached for the doorknob.

“Is that what you’ll tell your friends?” Alex asked. “When they’re facing the Nephilim or the Fallen—or both—will that be your response?”

Emmanuelle’s hand tightened perceptibly on the knob. “You might want to remember who you’re talking to.”

Alex snorted. “Or what? You’ll strike me down? Be my guest, because you’d be doing me a greater favor than you can imagine.”

Iridescent eyes narrowed. Long seconds passed. “You actually mean that.”

“You’ve no idea.”

More seconds, and then Emmanuelle released the knob again. “I’m listening.”

Alex walked to the window. Like the one in the living room, it overlooked the beach, gray and deserted in the sullen, late afternoon. Michael wouldn’t want her to tell Emmanuelle the whole sordid tale. He would probably be pissed at how much she had already let slip. She stared out at the white-capped water. But what if Emmanuelle was wrong? What if he didn’t return? Who would tell her then? Hell.

She took a deep breath, centering herself. Readying for the memories. Trying to decide where to begin, how much to tell. A line from
Alice in Wonderland
surfaced in her mind—a line that had so tickled Nina’s fancy that the little girl had quoted it for days after Alex read her the story: “
Begin at the beginning,” the King said, very gravely, “and go on till you come to the end: then stop
.”

She pushed away the pain tangled up in the memory of her niece. “Did you know a Power by the name of Aramael?” she asked.

“One of seventeen tasked with capturing the Fallen who interfere with mortals. I don’t know him personally, but I know—wait. You used the past tense. He’s—?”

“Two weeks ago, trying to protect me from Seth.”

“You again.” Irritation laced Emmanuelle’s voice. “What the Hell is so special about you?”

“I was his soulmate.”

Shock rippled through the room. Outside, in the hallway, another door opened, then closed.

“That’s impossible,” Emmanuelle said. “An angel and a mortal? It could never happen.”

“An angel and a Naphil,” Alex corrected. “And thanks to Mittron, it did happen.”

“Mittron! The Highest Seraph…
that
Mittron?”

“I sincerely hope there’s only one of him, so yes. That Mittron. Only he’s not the Highest Seraph anymore. He was exiled to Earth—” Alex realized she was jumping ahead.
Begin at the beginning
, she reminded herself. She took another breath. “Aramael’s brother, Caim, was one of the imprisoned Fallen. He escaped Limbo—” She broke off at a noise of dissent behind her. Flashing a dark look over her shoulder, she repeated, “He escaped Limbo with Mittron’s help and started killing people in Toronto, looking for a Naphil soul. He thought one might be able to carry him back to Heaven.”

Emmanuelle raised an eyebrow. “The serial killer a couple of months back—that was Mittron’s doing?”

“It was. And it was my case. Aramael was assigned to be my partner—”

“Your
police
partner?”

Alex glowered at her. “If you keep interrupting, we’re going to be here all bloody night.”

Emmanuelle’s chin lifted, but she waved at Alex to continue.

“Aramael was to hunt Caim, and to act as my guardian at the same time.” Alex turned to the window again. This was where the story became difficult…and stayed that way. She stared into the fading light that marked the end of day.

“Right from the start, there was something between us. I saw his wings, he had trouble focusing on Caim’s presence when I was near. When Caim eventually came for me, Aramael lost control and killed him, ending the pact between your—between Heaven and Hell. I was injured in the fight and would have died if Seth hadn’t brought me back.”

“Wait. How does Seth factor into this?”

“He was the one who found out about Mittron’s involvement. He told Aramael about the soulmate connection and stayed to help.”

“Go on.”

“Aramael was exiled, and Seth returned to Heaven to fulfill his role as Appointed in the secondary agreement your parents made. You know about that?”

“About my brother being the ultimate pawn in my parents’ game intended to decide humanity’s fate through his own choices?” Emmanuelle’s mouth twisted. “I’m aware.”

“He enlisted Mittron’s help instead. To become mortal.”

“That’s what he was supposed to do.”

“
Adult
mortal,” Alex clarified. “So he could be with me.”

Emmanuelle expelled a long, slow breath. “I see.”

“Something went wrong with the transition,” Alex continued when the other woman said nothing more. “He retained his powers and his immortality, but lost all language and knowledge of who he was. Your mother’s solution was to send an assassin after him.”

“Aramael.”

Alex shot her a guarded look of surprise.

Emmanuelle shrugged. “He was the obvious choice. With no connection to Heaven, he wouldn’t trigger the failsafe clause my father insisted on. What happened next?”

“I found Seth first. I helped him regain language, but he still remembered nothing. Then Lucifer got to him, Michael intervened, and the two of them decided that Seth’s role as Appointed would continue, with all parties involved keeping their distance from him.”

“Except you.”

“Except me. And I was succeeding, damn it. He wanted to choose humanity’s survival.” Alex leaned her forehead against the cool window. She closed her eyes under the weight of the memories.

“And then?” Emmanuelle prompted.

“And then your father—Lucifer—came to me. I thought he was Seth.”

“Came to—” Emmanuelle’s jaw dropped. “Bloody Hell. You mean he
raped
you?”

It took three swallows before Alex could support her nod with actual words. “And impregnated me and made Seth think I’d been with Aramael. He”—she drew a shuddering breath—”Seth stormed out. He was going to kill a man…a homeless man. For no other reason than to show that he chose his father’s side. We were all there. Me, Aramael, Lucifer, Michael, and all the Archangels. The Fallen had already bred an army of Nephilim—eighty thousand of them—and Lucifer intended his child, the one I carried, to lead them. I had to stop them, Lucifer and Seth both, so I did the only thing I could. I took the knife from Seth and killed Lucifer’s child.”

“You—”

Alex heard booted feet approach, then fingers grasped her shoulder and pulled her around. An astounded Emmanuelle stared at her.

“You stabbed yourself? And you didn’t die?”

“I did die.”

Emmanuelle’s eyes widened a tiny fraction. “Seth brought you back a second time.”

“Yes. And then he made his choice.”

“I don’t understand. If he chose—”

“Me.” The word emerged as a croak, forced from a throat rigid with remembered pain. And there was still so much to tell. Alex clenched jaw and fists, and made herself repeat, “He chose me.”

Emmanuelle’s mouth flapped soundlessly as understanding settled in. She groped behind her for the wooden chair and slumped into it, legs akimbo, elbows resting on knees.

“The idiot gave up everything for you. Heaven, his power, responsibility…everything. No wonder it felt as if the world was going to rip itself apart.”

She’d felt that? Then why hadn’t she returned to Heaven? Why…?
Alex stifled the questions. Her own story first, and then Emmanuelle’s. If the other would tell her story.

“The One couldn’t control it,” she said. “The harder she tried, the weaker she became. She needed Seth to take back his powers, but he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t give me up, not even to save the world.”

“You asked him to?”

“I didn’t want to hurt him, but to allow him to choose his own happiness over the entire world? I could never have lived with that. But he didn’t understand, and the more I pressed, the angrier he became. The more controlling. Then one of the Fallen got to him and convinced him there was a way he could have it all—his power, control over Hell…me.”

Arms folded over her belly, Alex glanced at Emmanuelle and found her watching with an unreadable expression that reminded Alex all too much of Seth. She shivered.

“So he took the power back and came after me. He and Aramael fought.” Alex heard Emmanuelle’s indrawn hiss of disbelief, but she pressed on. Doggedly, hoarsely, knowing if she stopped now, she might not continue. “Aramael was injured. He—his immortality—”

Christ almighty, this was hard. She swallowed. Hardened her voice. “His immortality was pierced. I called for Michael, but before he could get there, Seth got to me. He turned me immortal.”

Emmanuelle catapulted from the chair so fast that Alex flinched.

“Stop,” the god—goddess?—ordered. “Just stop. You called Michael—and he
came?
From where?”

“Heaven.”

Emmanuelle stared at her, then paced the floor in short, heavy strides, her boots thudding against the painted wood surface, both hands holding the hair back from her face. “It’s impossible,” she muttered.