Sins of the Angels (33 page)

She clenched her fists and buried the last of her need in a quiet, private place within her. Aramael was right. His priority—
their
priority—had to be stopping Caim. She stepped away from his touch, ignoring the way it followed her until she moved beyond his reach, clinging to his words:
Not while Caim remains free.
Words that left open the faintest possibility of
after
.

After Caim was captured.

After this nightmare had ended.

She drew herself up to speak, but the sound of shattering glass crashed between them. Jen's scream followed.

“
Nina
—no!”

Even before Alex shoved past Aramael into the living room, she knew what she'd find, knew the emptiness she'd seen in Nina wasn't the only thing that had paralleled Martin James. But expectation did nothing to dim the reality of a jagged hole gaping in the living room window, punctuated at its edges by great slivers of razor-sharp glass. Did nothing to lessen the horror of seeing Nina, her bloodied hands hanging at her sides, slowly crumple to the floor, a shard of glass protruding from her belly.

The contents of Alex's stomach rose into her throat and her hands started to shake.
Dear God, no.

“She's still alive,” Aramael said in her ear. “But she needs help.”

As if to confirm his words, Nina raised her head and looked toward Alex, her eyes calm but puzzled. “Auntie Alex?” she whispered.

Alex started forward again. Nina wasn't just alive; she was cognizant, too. She looked to a struggling Jen, held back by Seth from running to her daughter's side and worsening Nina's injuries. Or injuring herself.

Skirting the fragments of glass that had flown into the room instead of exploding outward with the lamp and remainder of the window, Alex snapped over her shoulder, “Call nine-one-one. Tell them we'll need the paramedics and the fire department. Then find a blanket—something warm but not too heavy.”

Jen struggled against Seth and Alex didn't think she'd obey—wasn't even sure she'd heard. But her sister nodded. “Nine-one-one,” she whispered. “And a blanket.”

“Good girl,” Alex said. “Go.”

She turned to her niece. Felt her stomach clench at the sight of the blood-slicked shard protruding from Nina's stomach. Trying to recall her first-aid training, Alex crouched and brushed back the hair from the girl's face. “Ssh,” she whispered as Nina tried to sit. “Stay still, sweetie. Help is coming.”

Nina went quiet and Alex swallowed as she looked into blue eyes once more emptied of all expression.
Not again.
She grappled briefly with despair and then pulled her thoughts to heel as she assessed the damage to Nina, calculating that at least three inches of glass protruded from her niece's belly. She had no idea how many more inches were buried inside her. Hopelessness threatened.

A hand closed over her shoulder and she looked up at Aramael. “You can't—?”

He shook his head. “I'm sorry, I don't have that power.”

“What about Seth?”

Silence.

Hope sputtered out. “I see. No interference, right?”

“I'm sorry,” he said again.

No interference, not even to save a life. That just fucking figured. She stroked Nina's dark hair, fear mingling with fury and the bile of betrayal. She remembered the day she'd knelt in the pool of blood at her father's side and prayed for his life. There had been no angels with her that day and so, she supposed, no possibility she might be heard. But for God to allow two angels to stand by Alex now and forbid them to intervene while they watched life drain from Nina?

A blanket appeared in her peripheral vision, trembling violently. She reached to take it from her sister's hand, standing as she did so. She gave Jen a quick hug and then pulled back to look into the tear-streaked face. “Sit with her,” she directed. “Keep her calm and don't let her move too much.”

“Shouldn't we take out the glass? Do something?”

“The glass may be slowing the bleeding. If we move it and there's an artery involved—” Alex stopped as Jen swayed on her feet. Too much information. “Let's let the paramedics have a look first,” she finished.

A siren wailed its approach. Jennifer nodded and folded herself up to sit beside her daughter, taking over where Alex had left off. Alex spread the blanket over her niece, hoping it would stave off some of the shock. Outside the gaping window, she saw a fire truck lurch to a halt beside the little crowd of neighbors gathered on the sidewalk.

Help had arrived.
Thank God.

No. Thank humanity. Because apparently God, or the One, or whatever the hell Aramael wanted to call her, didn't want to get involved.

 

THE ONE STOOD
for a long time after Verchiel's words had faded into silence, unmoving, giving no indication she had heard any of it. No indication she cared. Verchiel bit her bottom lip to keep from demanding a response. Twisting her hands into the folds of her robe, she waited.

“You're certain,” the One said at last. She turned from her surveillance of the gardens and forests spread below the balcony. For the second time since coming into her presence, Verchiel had to suppress a start of shock at the Creator's appearance, at the weariness in the faded silver eyes. When had the One become so old, so worn? Had the decline been so gradual that none of them had noticed, or had they just not wanted to see it?

Not dared to see it?

“No,” said Verchiel with the honesty that was—or should have been—innate to all angels. “I have no proof yet, only suspicion.”

“Suspicion strong enough to bring to me.”

“Yes.”

“And to involve the Appointed in your concerns.” Verchiel swallowed. “You know about that?”

Sorrow shafted through silver eyes. “Have I been so very remiss that none of you think I pay attention anymore?” The One shook her head. “Yes, Verchiel, I know you asked Seth for his help. Did you really think I wouldn't notice the absence of the Appointed?”

Without waiting for an answer—one Verchiel wasn't sure she would want to give in the first place—the Creator paced the length of the balcony railing and back. She made three such trips before pausing to regard Verchiel again. “Have you told anyone else?”

“Just the Power. I thought it best he be aware.”

The One made another trek along the railing, stopping this time at the far end.

Verchiel waited for as long as patience held out and then cleared her throat softly. “Do you know what you're going to do?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? But—”

“You've said yourself that you have no proof, Verchiel. There's a chance you may be wrong. Until I have evidence to the contrary, I must honor Mittron's potential as I do that of any other of my creations. And if you're right, then choices have already been made that I cannot change.”

“If I'm right,” Verchiel countered, “you could stop him.”

Of course the One could stop Mittron. She was the One. The Creator of everything. The ultimate power. She had to be able to set things right. It was why Verchiel had left the research to which Seth had assigned her, why she had risked untold disciplinary measures by vaulting over Mittron's head to the greatest power in the universe. But as the One gazed out over Heaven's landscapes once again, her eyes distant and her shoulders bowed, apprehension whispered through Verchiel's veins. This was not the bearing of the Almighty. Interminable seconds passed, threatened to become an eternity.

At last the One turned, her face set, her eyes resolute.

“Even if I could, it's not him I'm worried about.”

Aramael watched Alex slip an arm around her sister's shoulders and hand the other woman a cup of coffee. The niece had been in surgery for almost three hours, but he had no idea if that was good or bad. Seth had been gone for the same time. Again, bad or good?

He thought back to his short—very short—conversation with the Appointed while they waited for the paramedics to load the girl into the ambulance. It had started with his own cryptic warning to Seth, ripped from him despite his better judgment.

“You cannot have her.”

“Who said I wanted her?”

Aramael's wings had flexed involuntarily and only with difficulty had he held back the accusatory words, the demand to know more about the touch he'd interrupted on the sidewalk. The Appointed had eyed him with seeming laziness, but a sharp edge to his demeanor had pierced to the center of the ugliness curling in Aramael's core.

“You do know that you can't have her either,” Seth had observed. “She is mortal, Aramael. And one of the Nephilim. Even if you were permitted a soulmate, it could never be her.”

Aramael lifted a hand to where denial had burned—still burned—acidlike in his chest. He knew. He knew the truth of Seth's words, but knowing shredded all that was rational in him and held the potential to destroy him. The very volatility that made him a Power, that enabled the hunter in him to access Heaven's rage in the span of a heartbeat, now threatened to be his downfall.

The pity in Seth's expression hadn't helped.

Just when he'd felt himself teeter on the edge of reason, however, Seth had looked away and dropped his voice. “How well do you know Mittron?” he asked.

Surprise had jolted Aramael out of his seething. “The Highest? Well enough to know he's a pompous ass.”

Seth's lips had twitched. “An accurate description. But I want to know if you've ever crossed swords with him. Done anything to make him go after you in some way.”

Aramael had frowned. “Not that I'm aware of, no. Verchiel is my handler and I've never had to deal with him directly. Why? What is this about?”

“I'm not sure. A theory. A hunch. Tell me, has any Fallen One ever escaped Limbo before?”

“Never.”

“Doesn't it strike you as strange?” Seth watched him. “The only one to ever escape is your brother. He turns up in a place where it's only a matter of time before he runs into a Naphil whose job it is to capture him. The same Naphil who turns out to be your soulmate. The one Mittron sent you to protect while you hunt Caim.”

Aramael's entire being went still under the sheer enormity of what Seth suggested. He took a lungful of air that felt thick, tasted sour. “That's one hell of an accusation you're not quite making,” he said.

“It's one hell of an accusation I'm trying my damnedest not to even imagine,” Seth retorted in a flat voice. “But I'm seeing way too many coincidences to be coincidental.”

“But why? To what purpose?”

“Damned if I know.”

“Can you find out more?”

“Not here.”

Aramael had looked down the corridor to Alex and her sister. Then he'd pulled himself inward, centered himself, reached out with every scrap of awareness he could scrape together, straining past Alex's presence to search for his brother. Nothing.

Or nothing that he could feel, anyway.

“Go,” he told Seth. “I'll stay with Alex. And the others.”

 

Alex, leaning forward in a chair, elbows resting on knees, looked up from the magazine she wasn't reading. She met her supervisor's scowl and felt her stomach drop. Time to face the music.

Roberts jerked his head to the left and she nodded. She set her magazine aside and reached to give Jen's hand a squeeze. Jen returned the gesture but didn't seem able to let go again, and Alex felt her heart constrict at the rigid lines of control etched into her sister's face.

She extricated herself gently. “I have to talk to Staff Roberts,” she said, pointing. “I'll just be over there, and I won't be long.”

Jen stared at her, visibly swallowed her need, and nodded. With a reassuring pat on her sister's knee, Alex pushed out of the chair and went to join Roberts in the corridor outside the ICU waiting room.

“How is your niece?” he asked without preamble.

“Alive for now. She punctured her bowel. They've repaired it, but it'll be twenty-four hours before we know if they've stopped the infection.”

Roberts's lips tightened. “What the hell is going on, Alex? You leave the crime scene without a word to anyone, your niece is soaked in enough blood to fill a slaughterhouse, she impales herself on a broken window . . .” He trailed off, angry and bewildered.

She scuffed the toe of one shoe against the gleaming floor. “You wouldn't believe me if I told you.”

He snorted. “Trust me, Detective, at this point you have nothing to lose by trying.”

Alex weighed her options. She wondered what the repercussions might be if she simply refused. Then she wondered if she cared. “She was there.”

“Who was where?”

“Nina. She was at the mission. She saw the killer. Saw what he did. That's why she tried to kill herself. Like Martin James.”

“She—James—” Roberts broke off and rocked back on his heels. He remained silent for a long time, staring over Alex's head, a muscle flexing in his jaw. Then he looked down at her again, his gaze flat, steady. “Can she give us a description?”

“No.”

The muscle in front of Roberts's ear twitched again. “I'm posting two uniforms at the elevators and two at each set of stairs. Joly and Abrams are on their way here to sit with you and your family.”

“Staff—”

Roberts cut across her objection. “You need to know something.”