Authors: Linda Poitevin
Chapter 9
Lucifer looked up at the sound of a tap on his office door. His aide, Samael, stood in the opening, an aura of apology surrounding him. Lucifer scowled.
“Still nothing?” He tossed down his pen. “Bloody Heaven, how hard can it be to trace them?”
Samael leaned a shoulder against the door frame, his reluctance to venture inside clearly written across his expression, right beside the scars that served as Lucifer’s permanent reminder about who truly ruled Hell.
“I warned you this could take a while,” he said. “They’re Nephilim. Without Guardians we can eavesdrop on, we have no way to trace them other than through the woman.”
Lucifer’s nostrils flared, and the hand he rested on the desk curled into a fist. Across the room, Sam shifted. Lucifer didn’t bother telling him it was the thought of the woman that irritated him and not Sam’s news. He liked the former Archangel this way: a little nervous, a little cautious, a lot respectful.
No, Sam wasn’t the issue. The woman, on the other hand . . . now,
she
infuriated him. The defiance, the sheer insolence . . . His fingers curled tighter. Killing his child, maiming herself so she could not bear another . . .
He glowered at his aide. “Have we made
any
progress?”
“We’ve located where the woman works, and we’re watching her around the clock. It’s just a matter of time until she reaches out to her sister.”
“
Watching
her? Why in bloody Heaven would we sit back and
watch
? Take her, damn it.
Make
her tell you where to find the sister.”
“That might not be wise. The Archangels have been watching her, too. At first it was only Aramael, and I thought it was personal, but now Mika’el is hovering over her. We don’t know what his interest is, but if we take her and he wants her . . .”
His aide’s voice trailed off.
“Bloody Heaven!” Lucifer thrust back his chair and rose, stalking to the window. Weariness wound through him. What was the Archangel up to now? The warrior had been
such
a thorn in his side. The only being in all of Heaven, other than the One, powerful enough to take him on and not be decimated in the process. First rallying the Archangels to force him across that damnable Hellfire barrier, then derailing his attempt to mold his son, and now returning to interfere yet again.
Bracing a hand on either side of the window, he stared out at the gray, brittle landscape. The gardens that defied his efforts to recreate Heaven had declined yet further. Nothing remained but the withered corpses of what he’d intended. Bitterness filled him, settling like dry dust on his tongue.
For the first time in his existence, disquiet slithered down his spine. A possibility he’d denied for more than six thousand years took form low in his belly, gelled into certainty.
I’m going to lose it,
he thought.
I’m going to lose it all.
Maybe not now, maybe not even soon, but eventually.
It was inevitable.
For an instant, the realization paralyzed him. Held him as a fly might be held by a spider, passive and unmoving, tangled beyond hope in strands of unbreakable silk. He shook off the suffocating cling of the metaphor. Loss might be inevitable, but it wouldn’t happen yet. Not if he could help it.
Not until he had ensured humanity’s absolute, total destruction. He spun back to face Samael.
“What about the Nephilim? Are we at least ready for them?”
“We’re working on it. The city we chose has been abandoned for a long time. It’s not an easy task readying it without drawing attention to ourselves.”
“You’ve had human interference?”
“Not in Pripyat itself, no. We caused the radiation levels to spike, so they’ve shut the area down tight. The only way in is through checkpoints, and we control those. Making arrangements for supplies without alerting the Guardians has been interesting, but so far we’ve managed. The pregnant humans, however, are another matter. We’ve had to assign a watcher to each of them to prevent them from ridding themselves of the babies.”
“Can we not just move them to the site right now?”
“And end up fighting the war with Heaven in the midst of your unborn army? That might not be the wisest course of action. We’re better off waiting until after the births. We’ll only need a few Fallen to tend the children then, and the rest of us can draw the host away from them. Keep them occupied. Besides, we’re not sure what the radiation levels in the city might do to the mothers. If they became ill, they might not be able to carry the babies to term.”
“But the infants themselves won’t be harmed.” A statement, not a question, and one that dared contradiction.
Samael shook his head. “Not as far as we can tell. We’ve harvested a few over the last week as test subjects. So far they seem to be thriving.”
“And how long before the rest are born?”
“Only a week.”
Lucifer gritted his teeth at the placating tone of his aide’s voice and resisted the urge to throw something at him. Such as his desk. “Fine. Then that’s how long you have to find the Naphil’s sister.”
Fleeting exasperation crossed Samael’s face, and then he nodded. “I’ll see that the trackers step up their effort.”
“No. Not the trackers. You.”
“Me? But I—”
“The others don’t know how important this is. You do. The Nephilim need a leader. They need this child I will father. If their place is as ready as you claim, then you’re free to pursue this for me. Find the Naphil’s sister, Samael. And don’t come back until you do.”
Chapter 10
Verchiel found the One seated beneath an arbor in the rose garden, eyes closed, so still that she might have been one with the wood. Loath to disturb her, Verchiel paused, studying the lines in the beloved face. Lines she was certain hadn’t been there before. Her heart squeezed in on itself.
She looks so . . . fragile
.
Her hesitation deepened. Perhaps she should leave, come back later.
“Come,” her Creator said. “Sit with me.”
“If I’m disturbing you . . .”
A moment’s silence, then the One’s eyes opened, and some of the lines smoothed away from her forehead. She patted the bench beside her. “Not at all. I was just containing my son’s folly. Again.”
Verchiel crossed the sweep of lawn and settled on the seat. “How is that coming?”
“It isn’t. Every time I think I have it under control, it finds another escape. I’m not sure how much more the planet can take without self-destructing.”
“And you? How much more can you take?”
“A good question.” The One pulled a spray of roses toward her, inhaling deeply. “I suppose as much as I must. But we’re not here to talk about me.”
Guilt ensnared Verchiel’s voice and held it captive. It was true. She had come in search of the Creator for other reasons. More selfish ones.
The Creator’s hand covered her own in her lap and squeezed. “Tell me.”
“It’s just—” She blinked away the sheen of moisture blurring the garden. “You have always . . . been. The very idea you can cease to do so terrifies me.”
The One’s hand pressed hers. “Not cease, Verchiel. Alter. I’ll still be here, just not like this.”
“But this—this is how we know you, One, and I don’t know how to go on without that.” Verchiel turned her hand over in the One’s until their fingers linked. “Your counsel, your guidance, your very presence . . .”
“All of that will still be yours. You’ll just have to pay closer attention. I’ll still be a part of you, as all mothers remain a part of their children. My voice will be in yours if you choose to hear it. My counsel and guidance in your heart if you choose to heed them.”
A tear spilled over onto Verchiel’s cheek. With a rueful sigh, the One reached out her free hand to wipe it away.
“Close your eyes,” she commanded.
Verchiel did.
“Now breathe.”
She inhaled.
“Do you smell the roses? The grass and trees and a thousand other scents that mingle with them?”
A nod.
“Those are
my
scents, Verchiel. The scents of my skin, my breath, my very essence. Every breath you take, every inhale, every exhale—that is me. The sun warming your skin and the breeze playing with your hair—those are me, too. Holding you, loving you, cradling you close. And the beat of your heart inside your chest? My very life force, made manifest in you.”
The One lifted her hand, pressing it against a soft, lined cheek. “This, the physical part of me to which you cling, this is but a tiny fraction of what I am, my angel. I am so, so much more than what you can touch or see or feel. I am everything. All you have to do is want to understand that.”
Verchiel sat. Listened. Strained to feel what the One described to her. She shook her head.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, “for not being strong enough.”
“Hush, child. After all you have been, all you have done, you have nothing for which to apologize. You are as strong as you need to be. The rest will come in time.”
Verchiel pressed a hand against the ache in her chest. This struggle was her own. The One did not need the extra burden of her doubt; she needed her help. Even if helping meant losing her.
“Tell me what you need me to do.”
“Watch over the Archangel Mika’el for me. He takes on too much—more than he needs to—and he’s terrible at asking for help.”
“He doubts Seth.”
The Creator of All looked out over the garden. Her gaze became distant again, her face shadowed with a sorrow that made Verchiel’s own pale in comparison.
“As do I, Verchiel,” she murmured. “As do I.”
Chapter 11
Alex steered down the ramps and around the pillars of the underground parking complex. Fatigue sat heavy behind her eyes, the result of another mostly sleepless night spent staring at the ceiling. Returning to work had seemed like a good idea, but now she wondered how long she could keep it up. Playing at being a cop, pretending everything was normal and not teetering on the edge of total destruction.
Just another day at the office.
Yawning, she rounded the final corner to her parking level. The sedan straightened out again . . .
And bore down on a man directly in its path.
Adrenaline shot through her and she jammed her foot onto the brake, but it was too late. She had no room to get around him, nowhere to go, no time. She braced for the impact. The car jerked to a halt, and she stared in horror out the windshield at—
Nothing.
No one slumped across the hood. No one hurled to the pavement by the collision of steel against flesh. No one at—
A tap sounded at the window beside her.
“Christ!” She whipped around in her seat, then froze. An emerald gaze met hers, holding it with a familiar, shoulder-knotting intensity. She stared at the arrogant features, the watchful stance, the broad expanse of black wings.
Michael.
A hundred possible reasons for his presence flitted through her mind, none of them good. For a second, she considered putting the vehicle back into gear and driving away. She might have done so if she thought she could get away with it.
But she didn’t think one ignored an Archangel.
Reaching for the electric window button, she saw that the glass between them had already dissolved. The desire to run away grew exponentially. She clamped her teeth together.
“Naphil.” Michael’s tone was reserved. Guarded.
Irritation sparked. They were back to that, were they?
“Archangel,” she responded.
Annoyance flared in the green depths. Good. Maybe he’d get the message . . . eventually.
“We need to speak.”
“About what?” Glancing in the rearview mirror, she saw another vehicle pull up behind her. “Wait. I need to move. There’s a café across the street from the main door. I’ll park and meet you there.”
Michael hesitated, most likely weighing the chance she might not show up. The car behind Alex tooted its horn. His gaze flicking toward the sound, Michael nodded, withdrew behind a concrete pillar, and vanished. Alex stared at the emptiness left behind, convinced she would never, ever get used to the disappearing act.
A second impatient toot jolted her back to the present. She waved a hand out the windowless opening—hell, she’d forgotten to ask Michael to undo that particular trick—and took her foot off the brake.
***
She found Michael seated by the window in the back of the crowded café. Sliding into the chair opposite, she shook her head at the waitress’s offer of a menu and asked for a coffee. Michael declined to order anything. With a huff of displeasure, the harried-looking woman stomped off to serve other, presumably higher-paying clients. Michael cleared his throat.
“You look well.”
Alex raised a brow. Small talk? From an angel? She reached past him for the sugar dispenser, taking in the stiff lines of his shoulders, his fists resting on the chipped tabletop.
“And you’re not here to exchange pleasantries,” she replied. “So you might as well get to the point.”
“I need your help.”
“I thought you said my part in your affairs was done.”
“It was supposed to be. Something has changed.”
She frowned. “This morning’s murder?”
It was Michael’s turn to raise an eyebrow.
She cast a look at the crush of breakfast patrons crammed into the restaurant. At the table nearest them, a lone man turned the page in his newspaper, giving it a snap to straighten it out. She lowered her voice.
“One of the pregnant women turned up dead. The baby was ripped out of her. Detective Henderson says there have been others. Five altogether that we know of. If I had to guess, I’d say the Fallen Ones are to blame.”
Beyond a brief flash of annoyance, however, the Archangel looked unperturbed. “I told you, the Nephilim are your concern, not ours. That’s not why I’m—”
She slammed down the sugar dispenser. “Maybe you didn’t hear me right. We’re already dealing with the Nephilim problem, Michael. Women across the globe are terrified of becoming pregnant, demand for DNA testing has soared beyond all capacity to provide it, and religious fringe groups are all over the Internet spouting off about the end of the world being nigh. But this? This is the Fallen Ones
killing
human women. That sounds like direct interference to me. The kind of interference you’re supposed to have rules about.”
Michael regarded her., She scowled back, silently daring him to say what they were both thinking: that the women would die anyway. He sighed.
“Fine. I’ll increase our surveillance. Now can we please move on?”
“To what?”
Hesitation flickered across her companion’s face, just enough to make ice crystals form in her veins. Hell, maybe she
should
have driven away when she had the chance.
I could still leave. Before he tells me why he’s here, I could walk out. Just like that. Stand up, pay for my coffee, and—
“We need Seth to take back his powers.”
The air hissed from her. “Excuse me?”
“His choice has had repercussions—”
“Stop.” Holding up both hands against his words, she leaned back in her seat, as far away from him as the chair would allow. “Why hasn’t Seth told me this?”
Michael’s expression turned wooden. “He doesn’t know.”
“You haven’t spoken to him?”
“I thought it best to speak to you first.”
“Then this conversation is over.”
“You don’t understand. The world—”
“No,
you
don’t understand.” She glared at him. “You wanted to kill him. His own mother wanted to kill him. You would have cut him down where he stood in that alley if Aramael hadn’t helped me get to him, even after you promised to give me time to help him. You lied. To him, to me—” She broke off, remembering their very public location.
“I did what was necessary,” Michael growled. “You don’t know all that’s going on—”
“And I don’t want to. The only reason you’re coming to me is because you know Seth won’t give you the time of day on this. He made his choice, and you made yours.”
“Damn it, Naphil—”
Alex slammed a fistful of change on the table beside her untouched coffee. She stood. “You told me once that I was done with your affairs, and now I’m telling you. I’m done. And so is Seth.”
Iron fingers clamped over her wrist.
“If Seth doesn’t take back his powers—”
“What, you’ll put out an assassination order on him?” she hissed. “Oh, wait, I forgot. You already did that. For God’s sake, Michael”—how ironic that she should invoke the Almighty’s name at a time like this—“you’ve done enough to him. You know that, or you’d be talking to him, not me. Just let him go. Please.”
Michael’s jaw flexed. “We can’t.”
“Then grow a set and talk to him yourself. Because I’ll be goddamned if I’ll do your dirty work for you.” Tugging free, Alex pushed past the man with the newspaper and stalked out of the café.