Sins of the Warrior (4 page)

Glittering golden eyes pinned him.

“You would do well to remember who controls the drugs keeping your demons at bay, Seraph.”

The veiled threat took away Mittron’s breath, and he waited for a new surge of panic to abate. For the memory of Judgment to release its grip on his throat.

“
I find you guilty of treason, Seraph…I therefore sentence you to witness the consequences of your actions. You will live among the mortals you have failed and feel the agony of each and every soul lost to the Fallen Ones as if that agony were your own.
”

The words were branded forever on his soul. A sentence imposed on him by the One that meant the voices of millions of souls followed him everywhere. Had become a part of him. Cried out to him in their misery and unrelenting sorrow, until their suffering had driven him to the verge of insanity and beyond. Until Samael had plucked him from the human jail cell and provided him with the drugs that all but silenced them.

Mittron would do anything to prevent their return. He and Samael both knew that. But Mittron also knew his mind was clearer now, almost as clear as it had been when he still held the revered position of Highest Seraph, Heaven’s executive administrator.

It was also sharp enough to see how Samael’s problem might cancel out his own. He lowered his hands to his lap and surreptitiously wiped sweat-slicked palms against his robe.

“I intended no offense, Samael,” he said, careful to keep his tone neutral, “but I don’t think you came here looking to have me soothe your wounded ego, either.”

The former Archangel’s scowl deepened. “I presume you have a plan of some kind to back up your lack of diplomacy?”

“I do. I think you should send someone to find the woman.”

“I don’t need you to tell me that. Seth made it patently clear I have no choice.”

“But not to bring her back.”

One of Samael’s eyebrows ascended. “The drugs have addled your brain, Seraph. Sending someone to kill the Naphil would be akin to signing my own death warrant. Or is that your intent?”

“My intent is to give you a ruler who isn’t distracted by things that have no place in your Hell. Without the Naphil—”

“Without the Naphil,” Samael growled, “Seth would become so immersed in misery he’d be even
more
useless than he already is.”

“Not if he thought one of Heaven had killed her. Revenge is a powerful motivator.” Mittron suppressed a shudder at the truth of his own words—and the accompanying image of the Principality he’d condemned in order to save himself.

Samael’s expression stilled. Frustration slowly turned to thoughtfulness, narrowed to speculation, and then, in a blink, shifted back again. He shook his head. “It won’t work. I’d never find a Fallen One I could trust not to run to Seth with the plan, and if I go after her myself, the entire war effort will disintegrate. Seth is in no shape to take control yet. I’m the only thing standing between him and utter chaos.”

Mittron took a deep breath. There. That was it. The invitation, the opportunity. The chance to put things right.

“There is one who might be trusted,” he said slowly. Carefully. “One with no connection to Hell.”

“You want me to ask one of
Heaven?
”

“He’s not of Heaven, either. At least, not anymore.” Mittron pushed back from the desk and began his own tour of the office, his steps measured. Controlled. Even if the tremble in the hands he locked behind his back was not.

“His name is Bethiel, of the Principalities. He uncovered evidence of my plan to trigger the Apocalypse, and I arranged his exile to Limbo. The evidence has since been destroyed, so he has no way to prove his innocence or return to Heaven, but he’ll want no part of Hell, either.”

“Then why would he help me?”

“He doesn’t know the evidence has been destroyed. Or that it’s not in your possession.”

“And when he finds out?”

Mittron met his gaze calmly. Samael tipped his head to one side and crossed his arms.

“I see. Bethiel solves my problem, and I solve yours, is that it?”

“Yes.”

Samael leaned a shoulder against the frame of the window overlooking the square below. He jerked his chin toward the commotion. “Noisy, aren’t they?”

Mittron’s head throbbed agreement. “You have no idea.”

Samael unfolded his arms and passed a hand in front of a broken pane, healing the glass. The din from the children below became half. He stared out for another few seconds, then he chuckled.

“Do you know, I think your plan might actually work, Seraph. I’m beginning to see the value of having saved your ass. I’ll have a chat with your Bethiel and see what he says.”

Beginning to see the value?
Mittron pressed his lips together as Samael strolled toward the door.
Patience. You’re not quite done with him yet. Not if you’re to get what you deserve
.

He cleared his throat. “Of course, there’s still the matter of the war itself to consider.”

Hand on the doorknob, Samael looked back at him. Irritation flashed across his features. “The war is my concern, Seraph, not yours.”

“Then you’ve already taken measures with regard to finding her? Excellent,” Mittron said.

“Finding whom? The Naphil? We just had this conversation.”

“Not the Naphil. Emmanuelle.”

Shocked seconds slid by, punctuated by muffled shouts from beyond the window. Samael closed the door again. He leaned against it, wings sagging behind his back.

“Fuck it all to Heaven and back,” he said slowly. “I haven’t heard that name in so long, I’d forgotten her.”

“I suspect that was her intention.”

“She’s still alive?”

“I have no reason to think otherwise.”

“And you think they’ll go looking for her?”

“They have no choice. Without the One to hold them together or free will of their own to drive them, the angels will fracture. They cannot win a war on their own.”

“They still have Mika’el.”

“Mika’el knows as well as anyone he isn’t enough. Not to lead all of Heaven.”

Samael rubbed both hands over his face. “Wonderful,” he muttered. “Just fucking wonderful. I still have ten thousand troops tied up here on babysitting duty. What am I supposed to do, pull them out and let the Nephilim die? What if something goes wrong and we still need them?”

“What if I can give you all but a handful of your Fallen back?”

“You plan to look after eighty thousand infants on your own? I know you think you’re good, Mittron, but not even you can pull that off.”

“Not the Fallen. Mortals.”

The Archangel gaped at him. “You want to use
mortals
to care for the Nephilim?”

“All I need is a computer and access to the human Internet.”

“You’re serious.”

“Quite.”

“And in exchange?”

“I want a place in the new order. Something suitable.”

More seconds. From outside came the roar of an angry Fallen One, pushed beyond the limits of patience, t he high-pitched wails of dozens of children. Mittron offered silent thanks to Samael for repairing the window, but he didn’t interrupt the other’s thoughts.

“The combined realms of Heaven and Hell will need an executive administrator,” Samael said finally. “Someone to oversee things, make sure everyone follows the new rules. The position is yours if you want it.”

Mittron inclined his head. He wanted—and deserved—a great deal more, but it was a start. “I am in your debt.”

“I’m aware of that.” Samael’s smile held no warmth. “I’ll see that you get the human technology this afternoon. How long do you need?”

“Two days.”

“You have one.”

Seventeen dead.

Mika’el slammed the door shut with a force that jarred his teeth and vibrated through the entire building, right down to its stone foundation. He rested his black gauntlet-covered hand against the dark oak. Curled it into a metal fist. Stared at the dark crimson glistening in its joints, the still-wet blood of the Fallen One he had cut down on the field, too late to save the Principality quivering on the end of the other’s sword. Too late to save so many.

Seventeen.

Seventeen more to add to those they had already lost.

How many did that total? Eighty? Ninety? Were they even keeping count anymore?

Should they bother?

Mika’el spun away from the door and strode across the war chamber, stripping off the gauntlets and throwing them into the center of the table. The clatter of metal on wood echoed from the vaulted ceiling. Other pieces of armor followed. Pauldrons, couters, vambraces and rerebraces. He unbuckled the hardened leather scabbard from his waist and laid it beside the growing pile, then hoisted the molded breast and backplate over his head. The door opened behind him.

“Not now,” he growled. He lifted the armor clear and set it on the table with a thud.

“If not now, then when?” a tart female voice responded. “After we’ve lost another eighty-six angels? Or would you rather it be a hundred and eighty-six?”

Verchiel. With the answer to his question about whether they were keeping count.

Bloody Hell
.

He lifted one foot onto a chair so he could remove the armor protecting his knee. “Samael is a skilled strategist,” he said. “I’ve underestimated him until now, but I—”

“We’re losing, Mika’el.”

His fingers stilled. Denial rose in his throat, but it refused to be spoken. Heaven, losing to Hell? The very thought should be impossible. Angels outnumbered Fallen by at least three to one. Victory should have been messy but certain, yet Verchiel was right. Even with half the Fallen still missing, presumably guarding the Nephilim army Lucifer had created, Heaven was losing. And it wasn’t because of Samael’s military strategy.

Verchiel’s obstinacy pressed against his back, insistent, unyielding. Mika’el let his head drop until his chin rested against his chest. His heart, still unhealed from the loss of their Creator, seeped fresh blood into his soul.

“You’re doing your best,” the Highest Seraph said at last, her voice gentling, “but you cannot take her place.”

He rested a forearm across his armored thigh and bowed his head. “I’m not trying to take her place.”

“Fine. Then you cannot be Heaven’s will, and the angels cannot fight without one.”

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, knowing what she wanted from him. Resisting it with every fiber of his soul.

“We don’t know that Emmanuelle can be their will, either,” he retorted. “Even if we find her, there’s no guarantee she’ll listen. Or that she’ll agree to help if she
does
listen.”

“I know that. But she’s our only chance. We have to try.”

His mouth twisted. “I’m sure you
have
tried. To find her, at least.”

Heaven’s executive administrator didn’t bother to deny it. She shifted her stance in a whisper of robes against flagstone. Sighed.

“It’s as if she’s disappeared from the universe,” she murmured. “But if something had happened to her, we would know, wouldn’t we? The One would have felt it, or…”

Her voice trailed off. She didn’t need to finish. They both knew how her sentence would have ended.
Or you would have felt it
.

He would have felt it because he had been Emmanuelle’s soulmate. Had been, was, always would be. And would, without doubt, know if his connection to her had been severed by death. Even if he hadn’t set eyes on her for nearly five thousand years and wasn’t at all sure if he wanted to again.

Not after the way she had betrayed all of Heaven.

Mika’el stripped the quisse from his thigh, shoving away the memories and the ache that accompanied them. “The Guardians haven’t heard or seen anything?”

“Nothing, and they’ve been actively seeking her for almost two weeks. If she’s still on Earth, she’s not using any of her powers, and she’s not among humans who have Guardians.”

Mika’el’s lips thinned. The only mortals who didn’t have Guardians were those who had turned their backs on them, who had chosen be influenced by the Fallen Ones that tried to corrupt humankind, to continue what the Grigori had started six millennia before. If the One’s missing daughter had made her life among such mortals, it didn’t bode well for Heaven’s search. Or for her willingness to return to her realm.

“Well, then? What do you suggest we do?” he asked. “I’m assuming you’re here because you have an idea.”

“We ask for help.”

Mika’el tossed the black steel quisse onto the table and reached for the greave protecting his shin. “From whom? If Heaven can’t find her—” He stopped. “The humans? How in all of Creation can they help?”

“Not just any human. The Naphil woman.”

“
Alex?
” Mika’el added the greave to the pile of armor.

“I don’t understand. How could she possibly find what we cannot?”

“As a police officer, she has a potential network that spans the globe. Her connections will be invaluable in detecting one who has disappeared into the unguarded.”

“Assuming Emmanuelle has any kind of human record.”

“In humanity’s current digital age, it would be almost impossible for her not to have. Not without using her powers to avoid it.”

“And we would notice if she did.”

“Exactly.”

Mika’el rolled the argument over in his mind. Then he shook his head. “Even so, it’s virtually impossible that Alex will be able to find her.”

“Virtually. Not completely.”

“There are seven billion souls on that planet, Verchiel. There is no way—”

“There has to be a way.”

It wasn’t the interruption that stopped him. It was the quiet desperation underlying the Highest’s voice. The thread of despair.

The utter desolation.

In silence, he stripped the remaining armor from his other leg. Verchiel’s pain hung between them, heavy in the air, heavier yet across his shoulders. Damn it to Hell and back. Damn Lucifer, damn Samael, damn the Nephilim, damn the—

Mika’el whirled and pitched the quisse he held at the door. It burst through the four-inch-thick oak and clattered against the stone wall of the corridor beyond. The building shuddered beneath the violence. Verchiel flinched, but didn’t move from her place. No one came to investigate. In all likelihood, no one had been near enough to hear, because they were all assigned to the front, fighting to save their realm, themselves, the seven billion souls the One had left to their stewardship.