Sins of the Warrior (28 page)

“Which part?” Alex asked wearily.

“All of it. No one can call an angel across two realms. Not even another angel. And
immortality?
”

Alex shrugged at her disbelief. “Do you want me to finish?”

“What more can there be?” Emmanuelle growled.

“Samael breaking all the Fallen out of Limbo and turning them loose on Toronto, one at a time, until Michael agreed to let him have Seth. Me wounding Seth with Aramael’s sword. Aramael dying in my arms.” A tear slid down Alex’s cheek, its trail first hot, then cool on her skin. She blinked back the others that would have followed. “And now all of this. Seth has stepped into his father’s place in Hell and wants me to join him there. Mittron is overseeing the raising of the Nephilim children—in Pripyat, we think—and the angels are losing the war against Hell because they have no will of their own to drive them.”

On the other side of the room, now, Emmanuelle clenched and unclenched her fists, her entire body rigid, nostrils flaring.

“You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“I know we have nowhere else to turn.”

A harsh laugh ripped from Emmanuelle. “How rich is that?”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t need to.” Emmanuelle reached for the doorknob. “I’m going for a walk.”

Alex gaped at her. One moment she’d thought she was getting through to their potential savior, and then it was like someone had flicked a switch. What the hell had she said? “But—”

“Stay in the house. You’ll be safe here. Not even my own mother could find the place.” Emmanuelle stepped into the hallway and sent a last, cold glare over her shoulder. “If she’d ever bothered to try.”

“
SISTER?
” SETH SNARLED, SPITTLE
flying from between his teeth. “I have a sister and you didn’t think you should inform me? What the
fuck
, Samael!”

Samael scowled back at him, wiping away the blood dripping into his eye from a split eyebrow—an injury sustained from connecting with the desk rather than Seth’s hand…for a change. He tried to muster his thoughts.

He’d expected Seth to be surprised by Emmanuelle’s presence, but not by her existence.

“No one ever told you?” he asked.

Seth wheeled away and stalked the perimeter of the room. “No! Yes. I don’t know.” He raked a hand over his hair. “I think Mittron hinted at it once, but no. No one told me. Bloody Heaven!”

Samael would second that. He wiped his fingers against his sleeve. “It doesn’t change anything. We can still—”

“Are you out of your mind? It changes everything.” Seth gestured at his oozing, bloody wound. “I barely managed to stand against a single Archangel today, Samael. There’s no way in all of Creation I can stand against my own sibling.”

He paced away, shaking his head. “No. No, we’re done. The war is over. We negotiate another treaty. They give me Alex, and we leave the mortals alone.”

Samael gaped at him. “You can’t be serious. What about your father’s legacy?”

“My father is dead,” Seth snapped. “I owe him no loyalty. His Nephilim army is legacy enough.”

Samael bit back an oath, trying for calm. Reason. “The rest of Hell, then. You can’t expect the Fallen to remain tied to this—this—”

“Hellhole?” Seth suggested, a flicker of dark amusement in darker eyes. “Fine. We’ll redecorate. You can choose the curtain fabric. Happy?”

Samael’s hand itched to draw the sword from his scabbard. Seth’s stillness dared him to try. Samael curled the hand into a fist instead, squeezing until the blood left his fingers.

“This is not what we agreed.”

“And you haven’t delivered Alex as we agreed, either. Let’s do you a favor and call it even, shall we?” Seth sank into the chair behind his desk with a grimace of pain, but the tension across his shoulders and the watchful expression told Samael he was far from incapacitated.

Samael swallowed his response.

Seth smiled. “Much better,” he said. “Now go to my sister. Tell her I want to talk. You have twenty-four hours. And, Samael…”

Samael was already at the door, shaking with a gut-wrenching rage unlike anything he’d ever felt before. He stopped. He didn’t turn.

“I suggest you do a better job of this task than you did of finding Alex,” came the drawl, so arrogant and so like Lucifer’s that it made Samael’s skin crawl, “or I’ll begin to think you’re not really on my side.”

Without answering, Samael stepped into the corridor and closed the door behind him. Then he put his fist through the stone wall opposite. Seth’s faint chuckle floated through the wood between them.

“Twenty-four hours, Samael,” he called. “I’m counting on you.”

Samael swallowed a roar of pure frustration, refusing to give the Appointed the satisfaction. Just as he wouldn’t give him a treaty, either.

“Like fucking Heaven, I’ll negotiate,” he hissed at the oaken door between him and the mewling infant in whom he’d placed such high hope. He’d been so damned shortsighted—so sure of himself…

He gritted his teeth.

And he still was.

As long as he could get to the Naphil woman before Seth did, as long as he could make it look as though she’d died at Heaven’s hands, he could still pull this off. Still make that pansy-ass into a fucking leader.

Or die trying.

BETHIEL STAGGERED AS HE
landed and nearly pitched headfirst into the wooden gate marking the entrance to Heaven. His wings trembled with the effort of traveling between the realms. He’d never been to Earth when he was still a part of Heaven, so he didn’t know whether it was supposed to be this difficult—but he suspected not. Proof that Heaven itself knew he no longer belonged.

He shook out his feathers and folded his wings behind him, gazing across the sweep of lawn on the other side of the low, wood-rail fence. The forest he had once wandered stood just beyond, and on the other side of that would be the One’s beloved gardens, meticulously maintained. A shiver rippled down Bethiel’s spine at the thought of seeing them again—them, but not her.

Mittron had much to answer for.

The very thought of the former Highest Seraph brought Bethiel up short, but before the familiar hatred could follow, he recalled why he had come here. Remembered the unexpected compassion that had overwhelmed him when he’d found her. The girl with the pale face and matted hair. The hollow eyes. The bulging belly.

The girl who was running out of time.

He reached for the gate. The instant his fingers brushed wood, a shock of energy jolted through him, slamming him to the ground. Damnation. He’d forgotten about that layer of protection. He would need someone to let him in. He regained his feet and shook the grass from his wings. Studied again the lawn, peered into the trees beyond, scanned the skies above.

Nothing. No one coming to investigate his attempted breach—or to defend against it. Bethiel scowled.

Was Heaven really that far gone?

He stepped up to the gate again, careful this time not to touch it. Then, drawing a deep breath, he shouted, “Mika’el!”

His voice rolled across the expanse of lawn and was swallowed by the forest.

He bellowed again.

More silence followed.

What if Mika’el wasn’t even here? Just because he’d been gone from the condo didn’t mean he’d returned to Heaven. On the other hand—Bethiel sighed. On the other hand, he didn’t know where else to look, and Heaven was at least a place to start.

He shouted until he was hoarse, and then until his voice cracked and failed altogether. Then he retrieved anything he could find on his side of the fence—stones, sticks, and finally handfuls of grass—and pitched them against the energy protecting Heaven’s borders.

It was hardest to throw the grass, because for it to make contact with the fence, he had to stand near enough that the jolts still reached him, singeing his wings and hair. At last, exhausted, he sprawled on his back, parallel to the fence, plucking single blades from the lawn beside his head. He aimed them one at a time at the lowest rail, the odor of burnt feathers acrid in his nose.

“What in bloody Hell do you think you’re doing?”

Eyes closed, Bethiel froze in mid-toss. A voice. Real or—

“I asked,” came a growl, “what in bloody Hell you think you’re doing.”

Real. Definitely real.

Bethiel squinted up at the figure looming over him. Black armor glinted dully in the setting sun, sparking caution in his belly. An Archangel. His gaze sharpened, sweeping over the dents and the dried, crusted spots of phosphorescence mingled with blood. Massive wings extended to their fullest. The metallic whisper of battle-ready feathers. He stopped breathing.

Not just any Archangel, but one just back from the front, ill-tempered and with the heat of battle still running through his veins.

“I won’t ask again.” Metal scraped against hardened leather as a broadsword left its sheath.

“Mika’el,” Bethiel croaked. “I seek Mika’el.”

An ebony face, almost as dark as the armor its owner wore, scowled at him. “One: How did you know he was here? Two: How did a Fallen One manage to get here? Three: Why should I believe anything you tell me? And four: You have thirty seconds to answer before I kill you.”

Any inclination Bethiel might have had toward meekness disappeared with the
Fallen
accusation.

“I’m not Fallen,” he snarled back. “I was falsely imprisoned by Mittron—that would probably be the reason I got as far as I did. And I don’t know Mika’el is here, but I sure as Hell hope so, because he’s the only way I have of finding the Naphil woman before her niece dies giving birth to Lucifer’s child.”

Golden eyes studied him narrowly. “You know I’ll kill you if you lie.”

“I also know no one could make up a story like that if they tried. Not without at least some truth behind it.”

A grunt. The Archangel slid the sword back into its sheath and then reached down to grasp Bethiel’s shirtfront and haul him to his feet.

“Name?” he asked.

“Bethiel. Formerly of the Principalities.”

“Raphael. Still of the Archangels.” The Archangel’s gaze swept over Bethiel’s scorched wings. “Can you fly with those things, or do I need to carry you?”

Bethiel pulled away. Suffer himself to be carried on his one and only return to Heaven? Not.

“I’ll fly.”

They landed amid the One’s rose garden—or what had once been the rose garden but was now a riot of overgrowth. Raphael led the way, striding along equally overgrown paths, past a fountain that no longer functioned, greenhouses standing open and untended, and the One’s former residence, its windows shattered. Bethiel’s jaw tightened. He might no longer be a part of Heaven—nor would he ever be again—but he still felt the loss. The emptiness.

And Raphael’s watchful gaze.

Bethiel looked to the Archangel. “Things go that badly?”

“
Things
,” Raphael retorted, “are none of your bloody business.”

Arriving at a simple stone building, the Archangel raised his hand and knocked on the door. “In,” a muffled voice responded.

A haggard Mika’el stood in the middle of the room as they entered, his back to them and his arms spread wide as a Virtue unwound the bandage from around his chest. He looked over his shoulder, and his gaze settled at once on Bethiel.

“Alex?” he demanded. In almost the same breath he shook his head at his own question. “Of course not. You don’t even know where she is.”

“That’s why I’m here. I’ve found the niece. She has a matter of hours left. The Naphil should be with her.”

Mika’el’s gaze narrowed. “Compassion, Bethiel? There may be more hope for you than I thought.”

“I don’t want your hope. I want you to hold up your end of the bargain.”

“She’s with Emmanuelle. Raphael will take you and the girl to her.”

The Archangel at Bethiel’s side stiffened. “What? But—”

“The girl will be guarded.” Mika’el looked to Bethiel for confirmation, and Bethiel nodded.

“Qemuel,” he said. “Big. Nasty.”

“I’m not ready for a fight,” Mika’el told Raphael. “In a few hours, maybe, but not yet. The girl doesn’t have that long.”

“And this is important enough to pull me away from the battlefront?”

Over the Virtue’s head, Mika’el’s emerald eyes turned bleak. Infinite sadness paired with a commander’s determination in their depths, and his mouth pulled tight. He nodded. “It is that important, Raphael, yes.”

Raphael muttered something under his breath, and Bethiel glanced his way. He took in the temper etched on the Archangel’s face, then the gauntlet resting atop the sword hilt. He inched away. He considered requesting someone less hulkingly volatile, then decided against the idea. If he was heading into a fight with Qemuel, a bad-tempered Archangel on his side would be a benefit, not a detriment.

Mika’el lowered his arms as the Virtue attending him stepped back and stooped to collect the soiled gauze she’d dropped to the floor. Bethiel frowned. Hold on. Mika’el. Bandages…?

He lifted his gaze as the Archangel turned. He sucked in a quick breath.

“Bloody Hell,” he whispered. “What happened to you?”

“Seth happened.” Mika’el reached for a shirt draped over a chair and slid his arms into the sleeves. “He found Alex.”

The Virtue stepped past the Archangel to deposit her armload of bandages on a cloth-covered table. She gathered the cloth’s corners and expertly tied everything into a tidy bundle.

Alex
. Bethiel’s eyes narrowed as the Archangel buttoned up the shirt over the massive scarring that encompassed his entire ribcage. Again, Mika’el referred to the Naphil woman by name. What was it about this woman that inspired such loyalty from angels? Aramael he could understand, given the soulmate connection, but Seth? And now Mika’el? He shook his head. A puzzle, yes, but not one he cared to solve. He had other matters to attend to. He cleared his throat, but Raphael beat him to speech.

“What do I do with the girl when I have her?”

“Take her to Alex. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“And the child? What do I do with that?”

Mika’el murmured his thanks to the Virtue as she carried her bundle past him. She slipped between Raphael and Bethiel, then disappeared out the door they’d left open. When Bethiel looked back to Mika’el, the other’s mouth had drawn into a hard line.