Sins of the Warrior (30 page)

Verchiel cleared her throat.

“I saved her because we’re supposed to be better, Verchiel.”

“Better than what, the Fallen? But we are.”

“Are we?”

The Highest recoiled from the question. “You can’t seriously be comparing us to the ones who abandoned Heaven…”

Mika’el threaded fingers through hair badly in need of a trim. In his spare time. His voice curt, he said, “At least the Fallen are honest about who they are, Verchiel. Can we say the same about ourselves? We’ve been at war or on the edge of it for so long, we’ve forgotten the very reason for our creation. We’re supposed to celebrate life, to protect it, not decide who is entitled to it and who is not.”

Verchiel was silent for a long moment. Then she cleared her throat. “We didn’t start the war, Mika’el.”

He closed his eyes. “I know.”

“Nor can we save everyone. Thousands have already died, and millions more will be lost. We cannot stop that.”

“I know that, too. But sometimes, when you hold a single life in your hands, it’s different. In that moment, in that decision, you define yourself. You define who you will become. If I had let Seth take Alex when it was in my power to stop him—” Mika’el broke off. He opened his eyes again to meet the Highest Seraph’s pale blue gaze, trying to find the words to tell her of the guilt that threatened to consume him from the inside. Guilt for deeds he had not yet committed…but knew he would.

“I need to be more than that, Verchiel,” he said quietly. “If I am to do what I must, I need to know we are all more than that.”

“I thought you could use this.”

Alex looked around from the sliding door to find Father Marcus holding out a steaming cup to her.

“Tea,” he said. “With a little extra something.”

She would have preferred the something without the tea, but she took the cup from him anyway. A single sip made her eyes water. She coughed.

“A little?”

He shrugged. “I wasn’t really measuring.”

Alex sipped again, grateful for the heat of the whiskey sliding into her belly. Wishing it could fill the hollowness residing there. She shifted to make room for the priest beside her. Hands behind his back, he looked out into the night, to where Emmanuelle’s friends stood guard at the edge of the lawn, and Emmanuelle herself still sat at the edge of the water.

“So Hugh told me quite a tale,” he said.

“He told you the truth.”

Silence. A sigh. “I’m sure you believe it to be so, Alex, but—”

“Look,” Alex interrupted. “I don’t mean to be rude, Father Marcus, but I’m not up for a theological debate right now, and I really don’t give a rat’s ass whether you believe what Hugh told you or not. It doesn’t change anything either way. The One is still dead, and we’re still in the middle of Armageddon with no one but
her
” —she jabbed a thumb in Emmanuelle’s direction— “who can do a goddamn thing about it.”

Father Marcus rocked back and forth on his heels. “I was eighteen when I entered the seminary,” he said, “but I was certain of my calling even before then. The Lord has been my father and the Church my family for my entire life. Together, they form the very basis of my existence.”

Alex suppressed a surge of impatience. Christ, couldn’t he take a hint? He hadn’t given her nearly enough whiskey to take the edge off this kind of conver—

“Hugh told me about your sister,” the priest continued. “And your niece.”

She blinked at the sudden change in direction.

Marcus turned his head to look at her. Pale blue eyes swam with an intense sadness he made no effort to hide. “I’m sorry for your loss. I’m not sure I could endure such pain.”

Alex stared out the door again, swallowing the knife in her throat. She gritted her teeth. Forced back the memories. Heard, in her traitorous mind, Jen’s quick, warm laugh. For a moment, every fiber of her being ached to feel her sister’s hug again, and every atom cried out at knowing she never would.

“That is why I must question Hugh’s story,” he said softly. “Do you see? Because if he’s right—and if I believe him—I lose the only thing that makes it possible for me to survive. I lose everything I ever lived for. Everything that defines me. I lose my faith.”

“It’s no wonder we’re in such a mess,” Alex muttered, only just refraining from rolling her eyes.

Marcus’s expression turned offended. “I beg your pardon?”

“Every religion on the face of the planet is run by people who think their faith defines them, Marcus. People who think their way is the only way. The true way. Why? Because it makes them feel safe. Like someone’s in control. But you want to know the truth?”

She pointed out the window to the figure crouched on the beach. “
That
is the truth. That’s our reality. A god who doesn’t want to be a god, and who’s no more in control of this mess than anyone else in the universe. You don’t want to accept that? Fine. I can’t say I blame you. But let’s be honest about why. It’s not that you
can’t
accept it. You just choose not to.”

Marcus drew himself tall, visibly bristling, his lips pressed together in denial. But before he could refute her words, a bellow from outside filtered through the partly open door. Alex jerked her head around. Her gaze swept the beach, and in an instant—a heart-stopping, world-altering instant—she took in the scene unfolding there. Emmanuelle, on her feet and racing across the sand, her two bodyguards on an intercept—

No. They weren’t intercepting Emmanuelle, they were running toward two angels who had appeared. One, an Archangel, armored and armed. The other—the other was Bethiel, with a bundle in his grasp. A limp, unmoving bundle.

Nina
.

“Holy Mother of God,” Father Marcus whispered beside her.

Alex dropped the whiskey-laced tea and wrenched open the door.

The angels arrived on the beach without warning. Two of them, in a rush of wind and sand and feathers that brought Emmanuelle to her feet in a single, fluid movement. Instinctively, without conscious thought, she brought her energies to bear and ran toward them, zeroing in on the one with the sword. He deflected the first surge of power, but not before it knocked him to one knee.

“Hold!” he roared. “I am Raphael of the Archangels, sent by Mika’el!”

With more effort than she would have liked, Emmanuelle caught back a second, more deadly blast. Damn, but she was out of practice. She waved off Wookie and Scorpion, both halfway to the angels already, and leaned forward, hands on thighs, drawing air into lungs that felt like they trembled as much or more than the rest of her. She glowered at the angel she’d fired at.

“Bloody Hell,” she spat. “I could have killed you! What in Creation were you thinking, dropping in out of nowhere like that?”

Raphael regained his feet. “No time. The Naphil—where is she?”

“Why? What do you want with her?” Emmanuelle tensed again. She had nothing but his word that Mika’el had—

The clouds parted overhead. Bright moonlight lit the intruders, glistening off wet smears on the Archangel’s black armor, the slash that laid open his cheek. Her gaze flicked to the other angel. No armor on this one, but his clothing, too, bore evidence of battle. She straightened. What in Hell was going on?

Before she could ask, the sliding glass door from the living room crashed open and the woman bolted across the porch and down the stairs. Half a dozen of the house’s occupants followed, taking up positions along the deck rail. The woman ran full at the angels, dodging Scorpion’s outstretched hand.

Emmanuelle gathered herself for battle, cursing again the promise she’d made to her soulmate, knowing Mika’el would never forgive her if anything happened to the woman. But instead of attacking, the Archangel Raphael stepped to one side and allowed the woman to stagger past him. She stopped before the other, swayed on her feet, dropped to her knees. Despair rolled off her in waves.

The woman lifted her hands, and the angel deposited his bundle in her arms with the utmost tenderness. The blankets fell away to reveal the pale, form of a young girl, barely alive, too far gone even for Emmanuelle to save A moan broke from the woman, deep and guttural. Primal in its agony.

The sound slammed into Emmanuelle, burying itself in her gut. Her hands fell to her sides. She stepped forward, driven to offer solace by a force she hadn’t known existed, a need she hadn’t known she possessed. A hand on her arm stopped her. She looked over her shoulder and met Mika’el’s gaze.

He’d returned.

“It’s her niece,” he said quietly, his own voice raw with grief. “She was taken by Lucifer, and now she has died in childbirth.”

Taken
. Emmanuelle’s stomach rolled at the horror behind the word. Behind her father’s actions.

“But she’s so young,” she whispered.

“She was seventeen.”

Bile rose into her throat. “Bloody Hell, Mika’el, what have my parents done to this world?”

Immense sadness met her in his gaze. “What you said they would, Emmanuelle. They’ve put it at great risk. Perhaps beyond salvage.”

She swallowed. He had been blind to the One’s faults for so long, it must kill him to admit her mother might have been less than perfect; that she might have played a role in the events unfolding now. She looked back to the woman.

“Let me help her,” she said. “I can ease the pain…”

He shook his head. “She wouldn’t want that.”

Emmanuelle shored her defenses against the continued onslaught of agony radiating from the woman. “Her mind—it might not survive.”

Mika’el’s jaw flexed. “I know. And for her sake, I hope it doesn’t. Not with what she faces.”

“Seth, you mean? But she loved him once. Surely that will ease things for her.”

“She tried to love him because I told her to.”

Emmanuelle caught her breath. “You interfered with a mortal?”

“I was trying to save a world.”

“You were trying to save the One.”

He stared over her head, toward the woman and her niece. “Yes.”

She felt it then, the guilt he had so carefully shielded from her. His own pain at knowing what he had caused.

“Oh, Mika’el…” She put a hand out to him, but found only the cold steel of his armor, a physical barrier that mirrored the invisible one between them. Her mouth twisted. Then she remembered, and her heart rate shot up.

“Hell.
Hell.
You have to get her out of here. Now.”

In typical Mika’el fashion, he grasped her meaning without question. His hand went to the hilt of his sword. “You used power.”

“When the Archangel and the other arrived.” Emmanuelle’s gaze skated over their surroundings: beach, sky, water, road beyond the house. Nothing moved, but it didn’t mean nothing would. “I thought the Fallen were attacking. If they were watching for signs—you have to go.”

“I can’t leave if they might be coming here.”

“Are you willing to hand over the woman without a fight?” Even through the armor, she felt him tense. “I didn’t think so. Leave. If she’s not here, they may simply retreat and continue their search for her.”

“And if they don’t?” he growled. “If Seth is the one that comes for her again?”

“I’ll deal with it.”

“Emmanuelle—”

“If she remains, a fight is inevitable, Mika’el. These people are my friends. I won’t put them at risk. Take her and go. Give my people a chance.”

His gaze fastened on hers. “You’ll stay to protect them?”

You won’t run? You won’t disappear again?

“I’ll stay.”

“And we’ll talk.”

She scowled. “We’ll see.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but a bellow of rage cut between them. Emmanuelle jerked her head around in time to see Raphael launch himself at a third Archangel who had appeared nearby. The new arrival, dressed in armor unfamiliar to her, twisted aside, and Raphael’s lunge passed by without touching him. Raphael pulled up short and swung to face him, dropping into a fighting stance, his sword in his right hand, his gauntleted left shielding the immortality in the center of his chest.

“Samael,” he snarled.

Emmanuelle’s heart kicked against her breastbone. The Fallen had found them.

“Little brother,” the other responded, his tone threaded with amusement. “As hot-headed as ever, I see.”

A rush of wind pressed against Emmanuelle’s back as Mika’el’s wings unfolded with a crack that resounded across the water.

“Raphael!” he roared. “Stand down!”

For a long moment, Raphael held his pose without moving, sword trembling under the strain of holding back. Then, his expression dark with fury, he stepped back and lowered his weapon. He didn’t sheath it.

“And still a well-trained puppy, too,” Samael drawled. His gaze, as golden in the moonlight as that of Raphael, turned to Mika’el. His head dipped once. “Warrior.”

“You’re not taking her.” Mika’el’s voice was as inflexible as his gaze.

Samael shrugged. “We all know he’ll have her eventually. Whether we fight over her or not is up to you.”

Emmanuelle heard the slide of metal against hardened leather as Mika’el’s sword left its sheath. Her gaze went to the others who watched, her friends and companions, mortals who had never seemed so fragile as they did now, with Heaven and Hell themselves standing before them. She put a hand out to grasp the cold gauntlet of her soulmate.

“Mika’el, no,” she said.

Samael grinned, teeth flashing white against his skin. “I’d listen to her, if I were you. Do you really want to risk all these fine specimens of mortality?”

He strolled toward the woman, but Raphael’s sword brought him up short, leveled at his chest. Annoyance flashed across Samael’s face. He looked over his shoulder at Mika’el and Emmanuelle.

“You’re wasting time, warrior. I will take the woman from you just as I took Seth.”

“Except you’re alone this time.”

“Am I? Others are out looking for her. All I have to do is hold two of you off until they are drawn to our fight, and then it will be you and my brother against me and a small army. Mortal lives will be forfeit. Many of them.”

Mika’el’s frustration battered at Emmanuelle’s back. Then his murmur reached her ears. “How fast can you clear everyone out of here?”