Sins of the Lost

by Linda Poitevin

  “You and what army?” he asked. “The Fallen are aligned with him.”

  “They wouldn’t be if they knew he planned to sacrifice them.” The Fallen One dropped his feet to the floor and leaned forward. His voice became grim. “Lucifer’s obsession with wiping out humanity has taken over. He doesn’t care if Hell and all its occupants are destroyed in the process. He doesn’t care if he is destroyed in the process. If the Fallen knew—”

  “Then why not tell them?”

  “Because there would be a thousand would-be rulers vying for control. The infighting would destroy us as surely as Lucifer’s lack of interest will.”

  “You could rule yourself.”

  “I might have been an Archangel at one time, Appointed, but even if I remained so, I know my limitations. I’m no ruler.”

  “And you think I am.”

  “I think you could be, yes.”

  “There’s just one flaw in your plan. I already have what I want right here.”

  “You mean the Naphil?”

  “Alex. Yes.”

  “The woman who is even now at Aramael’s side instead of yours.” The Fallen One smiled. “Of course you have her.”

  Seth glowered as his visitor rose from the chair, but before he could form a satisfactory retort, the Fallen One placed one hand over his forehead and the other over the ribs broken by Mittron’s elbow. Seth froze.

  “A reminder of that which you were once capable of yourself,” said the Fallen One. “And what another might have done for you if he so wished. Consider it my gift.”

  Agony seared through Seth. Arching against the bed, he clutched at the covers. “Bloody fucking Hell!”

  He grabbed for the Fallen One but connected with nothing but his own ribs. His hand clamped in place, he fought for breath—and to push back the darkness hovering at the edge of his brain. Slowly the pain ebbed, receded, disappeared. Eyes closed, he probed his injuries with cautious fingers, increasing the pressure until he was certain.

  The Fallen One had healed him …

  … whereas Aramael had not.

  Chapter 39

  “This seems a rather extreme way of avoiding talking.” Elizabeth Riley’s voice contained a dry note. “Even for you.”

  Alex finished tugging the T-shirt over her head. She settled it into place around her midriff as she turned to face the psychiatrist. “And so you tracked me down here to make sure I didn’t get away?”

  “No. I tracked you down because I wanted to be sure you’re all right.” Riley indicated her face. “Those must sting.”

  “Less so now that they’ve finished poking at them.” Alex peered at her reflection in the mirror over the examining room counter. She suppressed a shudder at the dozen or so cuts inflicted by Aramael’s wings. What kind of feathers were as sharp as razors? She turned away. “They look worse than they feel.”

  “Are they from your attacker?”

  “No.”

  Riley waited.

  Alex shrugged into her blazer, lifted her hair free, and reached for her coat.

  Riley sighed.

  “You’re not going to volunteer a thing, are you?”

  Alex took her pistol from the coat pocket and slid it into the holster at her waist. “You really expected otherwise?”

  “No, but I hoped once you—” Riley broke off and shook her head. “Damn it, Alex, you have to know that I’m not your enemy. I’m trying to help you.”

  “Then go home.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Yes,” Alex said. “You can. Your credentials far outweigh Bell’s. Tell the captain you’ve met with me, done all your mumbo jumbo stuff, and decided that I’m fine. Sound of mind, sane, however you want to put it. And then go home.”

  “I would have already done that if I thought it was true.”

  Alex slid her arms into her coat. “Meaning what? You think I’m nuts?”

  “I think you’re under a tremendous amount of stress. I think it would help you to talk.”

  At last Alex stopped and gave Riley her full, undivided attention. The Vancouver psychiatrist stared back implacably. Alex shook her head, feeling oddly sad, weirdly compassionate. She’d been in Riley’s shoes not that very long ago, she reminded herself. That place of knowing but not wanting to know, seeing but refusing to accept. A place most of the world would likely find itself in the days to come.

  “Look, Riley, try to understand. The world as we know it is very quickly coming to a grinding, crashing halt. For reasons I can’t begin to fathom, I’m in the middle of it. Yes, it’s tremendously stressful. Yes, under other circumstances it might be helpful to talk. But right now, I can’t. I don’t dare. Because if I start looking too closely at my own mess—” Her voice caught, and she paused to swallow.

  “If I start thinking about everything that’s going on, everything that’s already happened, and what’s still to come, I might fold. And if I consider what it might be doing to me personally?” She shook her head slowly. Shrugged. “I don’t think I’ll survive. So please. There are a lot of people who are going to need your help through this. I’m not one of them. It’s time to leave me alone.”

  Riley’s blue eyes regarded her through wire-framed glasses for a long minute. Then Riley opened the door and stepped aside. “He’s in the waiting area.”

  “I don’t want Ara—Trent, I want Seth.”

  “That’s who I meant.”

  Alex paused in the doorway. “He can’t be. Roberts said he had broken ribs and a concussion.”

  “He did. He doesn’t anymore.”

  Alex stared out into the corridor. She watched two paramedics rolled an empty gurney back toward the ambulance bay. She inhaled carefully.

  “Right,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “Alex.”

  Again she met Riley’s wire-framed gaze.

  “I understand more than you realize,” Riley said.

  Alex walked away.

  Chapter 40

  “Ah, for chrissakes,” a voice above Mittron muttered. “What have you done to yourself, you idiot?”

  Mittron twisted away from the hand cupping his chin, the disgust in the voice. No. Don’t make me come back.

  The cell guard grabbed him again, harder this time, forcing his head one way, then the other, then thrusting him away with a sigh.

  “Christ, your head is a goddamn mess. Wait here. I’ll call the ambulance.”

  He tried not to listen to the man rise, or to hear the metallic clang of the cell door or the retreating footsteps. He wanted to stay in the dark place he’d found, where the voices couldn’t follow. But it was too late.

  The cold of the concrete penetrated first, hard against body parts stiff from lying on it too long. The pain of his battered skull came next, a deep, throbbing ache where he’d beaten it against the bars of his cage as the drugs wore off and the voices returned. Beaten it rhythmically, mercilessly, until the dark finally claimed him. How long had he managed to escape? Not long enough. Nothing short of eternity would be long enough.

  A whisper slid through his brain, heralding their return. All the souls lost so far to the Fallen, to be joined by billions more by the time Lucifer was done. And now, caged and without access to the drugs, he would have no choice but to endure. He lifted his head and smashed it down on the floor once, twice, again.

  Strong hands seized his shoulders and hauled him to his feet, shoved him against the bars. “Would you stop that?” an irritated voice asked. “I can’t talk to you if your brains are scrambled.”

  Fingertips tried unsuccessfully to pry open one of his eyes. Then the hand slapped his cheeks, once on each side, sharp enough to create a new pain that overrode the first. Forcing his arms up to ward off another blow, he mumbled an objection.

  “Then open your eyes,” the voice retorted. “Look at me.”

  He sagged to the floor.

  “Bloody Heaven, Seraph.” The voice’s owner dragged him upright again. Sheer surprise at the address a
ccomplished what pain could not. Mittron’s eyes flew open. A hand patted his cheek. “That’s better.”

  He stared at the burnished, mahogany-dark face inches from his own. “You—what—Samael?”

  “You recognize me. Good. I wasn’t sure you would in your current state.” Samael drew back, wrinkling his nose. “For the record, you reek.”

  Footsteps thudded somewhere down the corridor. Mittron’s visitor shot an impatient look in their direction. “We need to make this quick.”

  More words issued forth from Samael’s mouth, but they became lost in the growing volume of whispers. Mittron put his hands to his ears, trying in vain to block what originated within his soul. Trying to focus.

  “What?”

  Samael pulled his hands away.

  “Limbo. You broke Caim out. Can you do so for others?”

  The whispers—

  “Damn it, Seraph. Can you or can’t you get others out of Limbo?”

  “How many?” he mumbled.

  “All of them.”

  The voices dropped to murmurs.

  A door clanged. The heavy footsteps drew nearer. More than one set. Cursing his ownsluggishness, Mittron wrestled with Samael’s question, seeking its purpose. Was such a thing possible?

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Suffice it to say I need to raise an army, and they’re the most likely recruits. If I can get them out.”

  Mittron shook his head. His brain smashed against the inside of his skull. “Even if you could, there’s no telling what you’d get. Some of them have been in there for millennia. Their minds—”

  “I’m willing to take the chance. Can you do it?”

  “Why should I?”

  Samael held up a clear glass vial filled with an amber liquid. “Because I can stop the pain,” he said. “Temporarily for now, with this. Permanently if my plan succeeds.”

  “Permanently—you’ll kill me if I help?”

  “If all goes well, I won’t have to. But yes. If necessary, I will do what your enemy will not.”

  Mittron stared at the vial. He fought to still his tremble, to block the voices so that he could think for one moment more. What Samael wanted—opening Limbo and releasing the Fallen imprisoned there—it would be the ultimate betrayal of the One who had created him.

  Another door clanged, closer this time, and the guard who had gone for help gave a shout.

  “Hey! Who the hell are you? How did you get in—”

  A betrayal of the One whom he had wanted nothing more than to serve for eternity.

  Booted feet broke into a run. Samael glanced toward the approaching men. His wings spread wide, filling the cell. He looked at Mittron. “Well? I need a decision, Seraph.”

  The One who had instead chosen to judge him and sentence him to this.

  Mittron reached to grasp Samael’s arm.

  Chapter 41

  Mika’el looked around from his post at the window as the door opened without invitation. He raised an eyebrow at Verchiel. “Let me guess. Another problem?”

  “Is there ever not?” The Highest Seraph slumped into one of the wingback chairs on the other side of the desk.

  Mika’el’s other eyebrow joined the first. Verchiel didn’t slump. Ever. Nor did she chew on her lip the way a dog worried a bone. “I doubt the news will improve with waiting.”

  “There’s been an attack on the woman.”

  “The Naphil?” He became alert. “Was she harmed? Was it Samael?”

  “She’s fine. And it was Mittron.”

  “Mitt—” He gaped. He couldn’t help it. He paced the floor between window and desk, then turned and retraced his steps. “How in all of Hell did he find her? And why attack her?”

  “As far as we can tell, he wanted to goad Aramael into putting him out of his misery. The One’s Judgment has been most … effective.”

  “And Aramael?”

  “Resisted temptation.”

  Thank the One for that. Mika’el traversed the floor again. “Where is everyone now?”

  “Mittron was taken into human custody. Seth and the woman were taken to a hosp—”

  “Seth! How does he fit into this?”

  “He was with the woman. He was injured trying to defend her. Nothing serious, just broken ribs and a concussion. The woman sustained superficial lacerations.”

  “So everything is under control, then.”

  “Not quite. Mittron has disappeared.”

  “I thought you said he was taken into human custody.”

  “And locked in one of their holding cells,” she agreed. “And now he’s gone. The guard saw someone talking to him and then—in his words—poof.”

  “Poof? As in he simply disappeared?”

  “Apparently so.”

  “We’re sure it wasn’t one of ours?”

  “They found a black feather in the cell.”

  Samael. First his interest in the Naphil and now Mittron. What in Hell was the former Archangel up to?

  “I’ll assign someone to look for him,” he said. “Was that all?”

  “Not quite.” Verchiel pressed her fingertips to the crease between her brows. “Seth appears to have healed himself.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Healed himself how?”

  “One minute he was injured, the next he was fine.”

  “Without taking back his powers? That’s not possible. The doctors must have been wrong about their diagnosis.”

  “X-rays confirmed it.”

  “And Aramael didn’t—?”

  “No.”

  “Bloody Hell.” He spun on his heel and crossed to the window again, turned, and started back.

  Verchiel dropped her hand. “Will you please stop pacing!”

  He halted midstride. Glared. Then dropped into his chair with an aggrieved sigh. “Maybe we’re wrong. Maybe he’s reclaimed a portion of his powers. Have you checked with the One? She would know better than we do.”

  “That would be the third thing I came to tell you. She refused to see me.”

  “She—” He stared at her. “She has never refused to see anyone. Ever.”

  “I know.”

  An eternity ticked by. At last Mika’el roused himself, pushing out of the chair again. “I’ll speak with the One,” he said, crossing to the door. “But, Verchiel, if this isn’t the Appointed’s own doing …”

  Verchiel folded her hands into her robe. “If it’s not Seth’s doing,” she finished his thought, “then we have a bigger problem than protecting the Naphil.”

  ***

  Aramael stepped in front of the door, blocking Alex’s exit to the waiting area.

  “Move,” she growled. “Or I will cause the biggest scene you have ever witnessed.”

  “Alex—”

  “Now, Aramael.”

  He held his ground. “Something isn’t right about this. We both know it.”

  She did. But she’d be damned if she’d discuss it with him. She squared her shoulders and met him stare for stare. “Now.”

  Gray fire flared in his eyes. Then, in stony-jawed silence, he moved aside. Alex brushed past. In the emergency ward waiting room, Seth stood, tall and impassive, beside windows still boarded over from the shooting the night before. Her step hitched. She stopped. He remained unmoving, waiting. With a steadying breath, she crossed the room. She didn’t skirt the issue.

  “How?” she asked simply.

  “One of the Fallen. Not by request.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  His gaze didn’t move from hers. Didn’t so much as flicker. Yet she knew without a shadow of doubt that he lied to her. Deliberately. Her throat contracted. She looked away. She ran a trembling hand through her hair. Tomorrow. Tomorrow they would sit down and figure things out. Look at their options. Make some decisions. Tomorrow, but not tonight.

  Tonight—she closed the space between them, sliding her arms around his waist and resting her head against his chest—tonight they just needed to
go home. Seth hesitated for half a heartbeat, and then folded her close. Held her fiercely.

  “I’m glad you’re okay,” he whispered into her hair. “And I’m so sorry I couldn’t stop him.”

  They stood that way until Alex extricated herself and wove her fingers through his. Together, they left the hospital.

  Aramael didn’t suggest that he go with them.

  Chapter 42

  Alex slid her gun’s lockbox back onto the closet shelf and, with the same care that had guided all her movements since she’d left the bed, quietly closed the door. Just her coat to put on now and she could leave, be gone before—

  “Stay.”

  She jumped. Closed her eyes. Gathered herself. Then she reached for the coat she’d laid across the hall table. “You know I can’t,” she told Seth.

  “I know you choose not to.” His voice was flat. “I heard your supervisor tell you not to come in today.”

  She shrugged into the gray wool coat. “I have work to do.”

  “With your soulmate.”

  “Damn it, Seth, can we please get past this ridiculous jealousy? For the last time, I chose you, remember?” The cell phone at her waist vibrated. She glanced down, saw Jen’s name on the display, and hit Ignore. One fight at a time was enough.

  Buttoning her coat, she scowled at Seth. “Look, I’m sorry I need protection from a Fallen One I’ve never even met, and I’m sorry Aramael is the one who has to protect me. Hell, I’m sorry any of this is happening. Armageddon, your mother, the Nephilim—I’m sorry about it all. But I can’t change it and I can’t make it go away, and sooner or later we’re just going to have to deal with it. You are going to have to deal with it.”

  “The way you’re dealing with it?” he snapped, his expression turning as dark as his eyes. “You spend your days with the one being I know you still have feelings for, and even when you’re with me we’re not a real couple. Every time I touch you, you pull back. I know here”—he tapped his head for emphasis—“that it’s because of Lucifer. But here?” His hand dropped to cover his heart. “Here, I know how strong the connection between you and Aramael is, and yes, I doubt. I chose you, too, Alex. But I sure as Hell didn’t choose all of this.”