Sins of the Lost

by Linda Poitevin

  Horror swirled in her chest, slammed into her belly, rose again in her gorge.

  Still clutching the sword, she lunged toward a sink.

  Chapter 85

  Alex braced one hand against the smooth porcelain sink and used the other to carry cold water to her face, her throat, the nape of her neck. Nausea still churned, but the retching had finally stopped—although that could simply have been because there was nothing left to purge. She eyed her wan, dripping reflection. While the physical shaking had also ended, her insides continued to vibrate at a pitch that would have shattered her if she’d been made of crystal.

  She looked at the forearm supporting her. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to wash the blood from it—or from any of the other injury sites. It was as if, on some visceral level, she needed to retain evidence of her wounds. The only evidence she had of what she’d become. What Seth had made her. Her mind veered away from the idea, and she splashed another handful of water over her neck. Beyond the washroom door, the sounds of sword fighting continued.

  Swords. With all the power these beings possessed, who would have imagined they’d resort to swords for battle? She looked at the blade she had propped against the wall by the sink. Simple, unadorned, crafted for nothing more than service. She turned off the tap and tore a length of rough brown paper towel from the dispenser to dry herself. Tossing the paper into the garbage, she turned to check on Aramael.

  Outside and across the hall, a door thudded shut.

  She stared at the washroom door just a few feet away. Was the fight over? No—she could still hear the clang of metal on metal. Then who—

  The door cracked open, and Seth stepped inside. Hysteria bubbled up in her chest as he stared at the prone Aramael. She shoved it ruthlessly back down, swallowing against it. Seth looked up and smiled at her.

  “There you are,” he said. “I thought they might have taken you away.”

  His matter-of-factness hit her like a bucket of ice water, erasing the vestiges of panic, replacing it with a vast, disorienting disbelief. After all he’d done, he behaved as if none of it had happened at all. As if none of it mattered. Was he really that unfeeling? Had she made that monumental a mistake in saving him from Michael and the others in Vancouver?

  She shifted to block the sword from his view. “What do you want?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “A little gratitude for the gift, to begin with.”

  “Gift?” She choked out a laugh. “I’ve lost everything I ever loved, everything I ever cared for, and now I get to live forever? How in hell is that a gift?”

  “You haven’t lost everything, only the distractions.” He put out a hand to brush the hair from her face. “You still have me, remember? It’s what we always wanted.”

  Another blast of ice water. He thought—he’d convinced himself—oh, dear God. She breathed carefully around the knot unraveling in her chest. Forced her hands to remain at her sides and not strike out at him while she worked through her realization and its terrifying consequences.

  A stalker. Seth Benjamin, son of the One and Lucifer, bearer of immeasurable power, had become nothing more than a classic, delusional stalker—on a cosmic scale. Even now he was convinced she wanted to be with him for eternity. He had arranged for exactly that. Horror bubbled up in her again, this time on a whole new level, a whole new scale.

  Seth’s arms slid around her.

  I’ll never escape.

  He buried his face in her neck …

  I can’t escape.

  … murmured her name …

  Not even through death.

  … whispered, “I love you, Alex Jarvis. Forever.”

  “Leave … her … alone,” grated a hoarse voice.

  Aramael. For an instant, sheer, wanton relief surged in Alex’s breast. He was conscious. He could hold off Seth until the others arrived. But then Seth went still—terrifyingly so—and euphoria turned to panic. Dread.

  Aramael could never survive another fight. Not wounded as he was. Seth would kill him this time, finish what he had begun. Pain squeezed through Alex’s chest. No. She wouldn’t let him. She put her hands up to Seth’s face, forced herself to hold it. To hold his attention. To lie.

  “I love you, too,” she croaked.

  Sudden joy flared in Seth’s black eyes, and he cupped her face gently, reverently. Locking her gaze on his, she tried to project the adoration he craved from her and not let him see the desperation crawling along her every fiber, turning her inside out.

  Oh please oh please oh please don’t do anything more to him.

  “I said leave her!” Aramael snarled.

  Seth’s jaw went rigid beneath her touch. She tightened her hold, clinging to him, clinging to hope, searching for the right thing to say. If she could make him believe her, if she could keep him focused—

  His fingers wrapped around her wrists. He pulled her hands from his face and pushed her away. Blue crackles snapped in the air around him. He turned. Over his shoulder, Alex saw Aramael standing tall and straight, his wings spread as wide as the tight space would allow. She caught her breath. He looked so capable, so confident. Had he recovered? Was he—

  A fresh trickle of phosphorescence welled from the hole in Aramael’s armor. His glorious, powerful wings trembled ever so slightly. Hope morphed into despair and sent cruel tentacles to wrap around her soul. She grabbed for Seth’s arm, but he shook her off, forcing her back a step. Stumbling, she put a hand out to steady herself against the counter. Her fingers closed over the hilt of Aramael’s sword.

  “Take it,” the Archangel Gabriel’s voice whispered through her.

  “Again, Archangel?” Seth snarled at Aramael. “How many times do I have to kill you?”

  “How many times does Alex have to say no?” Aramael countered. “I won’t let you take her.”

  Alex lifted the heavy, hardened steel blade. Gabriel had said it would slow down a Fallen One, but that’s not what Seth was. He wasn’t an angel at all but something other. Something more. What if it didn’t work against him?

  The blue crackles came together, weaving themselves into a wall before Seth. “Then you’ll die,” he told Aramael. “Again.”

  Over Seth’s shoulder, Alex met her soulmate’s calm certainty. Aramael’s mouth curved upward in the slightest of smiles. He knew what she considered. Nodded his approval. Blinked his good-bye. He turned his attention back to Seth.

  “So be it,” he said.

  Alex stretched a hand toward him. No. Oh, God, no …

  Aramael threw his wings and arms wide. Hardened feathers splintered the wall tiles and tore through a metal stall door with a screech, then swept toward Seth. Power struck crackling energy with a force that gusted outward, shattering mirrors, sinks, toilets. And then Alex swung the sword with all the strength she possessed, down in an arc toward Seth.

  “You owe him,” whispered the memory of Gabriel’s voice.

  The blade sliced through the flesh between Seth’s ribs and hip. An unearthly bellow ripped through the washroom. The clash of divine energies exploded into a blaze of white.

  Aramael dropped like a stone.

  Chapter 86

  Mika’el’s blade sliced through collarbone as if it were butter, cleaving all the way down to the center of the Fallen One’s chest and shattering the hardened sphere of immortality hidden within. He tugged the sword free with grim satisfaction. The third kill in a fight only fifteen minutes old. Samael truly had forgotten the power with which he dealt.

  A hand settled on his shoulder, and he looked into Gabriel’s piercing, deep blue eyes. Impeccably trained, the others closed around them in a protective ring, blocking them from harm while they spoke.

  “The woman is safe?” he asked.

  She nodded. “But we have another problem. A Guardian is seeking our help. A Fallen One is wreaking havoc in a crowded gathering place not far from here—a mall, he called it.”

  “All right. We can take care of those remaining here. You go
—and Gabriel, fly there. Use your physical approach to draw him out and away from the mortals.”

  “I’ll be seen.”

  Thou shalt not interfere with the human race.

  His grim gaze swept over the wreckage surrounding them. The cardinal rule might have had its place once, but no longer. Not after this. “I’m pretty sure our secret is out.”

  Gabriel nodded, turned, and launched herself through what little remained of the exterior wall. Mika’el turned back to the fight, but before he could choose a target, a small hand tugged on his sleeve. He glanced down at the ethereal, almost translucent figure of a Guardian, its fierce look of concentration a measure of the effort it took to achieve even this much physical form.

  “It’s all right,” he told it. “Gabriel has gone to the mall. She’ll look after the Fallen One there.”

  “But I haven’t come from a mall,” the Guardian objected as he turned away. “There is a museum a short distance from here. Two Fallen Ones have attacked the patrons there.”

  A second attack? Hell. Mika’el caught Zachariel’s eye and the Archangel raised an eyebrow. Mika’el nodded. Stepping back from the battle, Zachariel launched himself in Gabriel’s wake. The wisp of a Guardian followed.

  Mika’el raised his sword. Two Archangels remained, along with nine Fallen. The odds were still firmly in their—

  “Mika’el!” Raphael’s voice pulled his attention away from the battle yet again.

  Mika’el looked toward him, then followed the tip of the other’s head. Another Guardian had shimmered into form along the wall, and two more were taking shape on either side of her.. In an instant, Mika’el understood.

  “Stop!” he roared.

  Silence dropped over the assembly, broken only by the harsh breathing of winded fighters. And Samael’s chuckle.

  “You’ve figured it out.”

  “How many?” Mika’el demanded. “How many have you sent out?”

  “As many as I needed to. One more activates every three minutes until I say otherwise.”

  “Call them off.”

  “Not until I have what I came for.”

  “I can get more help,” Mika’el said. “Heaven still outnumbers you.”

  “You can,” Samael agreed. “It wouldn’t bother me in the least to fight the entire war right here on Earth. But are you sure that’s what you want?”

  Mika’el bit back what he would have liked to reply and again growled, “Call them off. We’ll talk.”

  “We have nothing to talk about, warrior. I’ll call off my soldiers when I have Seth safely away from here. Not a minute before.”

  Impotent fury snarled through Mika’el. He’d been outmaneuvered, and every soul in this room knew it. Viciously he sheathed his sword and motioned for a reluctant Raphael to do the same.

  “Fine,” he growled. “Go. Take your new leader and—” Breaking off, he spun on his heel, his gaze raking the destruction around them. He swung back to a calm Samael. Too calm to have lost what he’d come for. “Where is he?”

  “Claiming what’s his, I should imagine.”

  Claiming—the woman.

  Before Mika’el could move, Samael’s sword came up, blocking his way.

  The traitorous former Archangel tsked. “I wouldn’t,” he said. “The next Fallen releases in two minutes.”

  Fists clenched, Mika’el glared at the angel who had once fought at his side. Naphil or not, the woman deserved better than this, and yet he could not go to her. Could do nothing to save her. Not without unleashing Armageddon itself, here and now.

  Samael smiled, smugly, unpleasantly, arrogantly. He lowered his sword and sheathed it. “I knew I could count on your sense of honor, Mika’el. It has always been your greatest weakness. One day it will be your undoing.”

  “And arrogance yours,” Mika’el retorted. “Now collect your prize and—”

  A bellow cut him off, filled with rage and a deep, gut-wrenching anguish.

  Without a word, Samael bolted for the back of the office where Gabriel had stowed the Naphil. Mika’el followed.

  Chapter 87

  Bloodied sword still in hand, Alex stared down at the two figures lying amid the wreckage. Water from the broken toilets swirled across the floor, running crimson where it mixed with blood, trickling into the emergency floor drain with a hollow musicality. Seth writhed in agony; Aramael lay motionless. Shattered glass and porcelain littered the room.

  From beyond the washroom, she heard the sound of footsteps running, then the door burst open. A Fallen One skidded to a halt in the opening, his gaze going first to the bodies on the floor, then to Alex. Jaw hanging open, he struggled visibly to piece events together.

  He staggered aside as Michael shoved past him into the washroom. Seth’s convulsions slowed, and he groaned, a low, agonized sound that twisted inside Alex’s belly. She backed away until she came up against the wall. Gripped the sword tighter, needing to hold onto something concrete, something real.

  Something to connect her to the soulmate she knew without doubt she had just lost. The agony of grief squeezed inside her chest until she gasped.

  Michael’s gaze burned into her. “What happened?”

  “I—he—” Alex closed her mouth, gritted her teeth, and shut herself off from the part of her mind that wailed its anguish. She’d been here before, in this place of loss. She’d handled it then—a mere child of nine—and she would deal with it now. She raised her chin and met the emerald blaze of Michael’s eyes. “He wanted me to be with him. Forever. Aramael tried to stop him, but he wasn’t strong enough. I had no choice.”

  Michael scowled. “You did this?”

  Suddenly the sword felt wrong in her grip. Awful. Murderous. She tried to hold it out for Michael to take, but her arm refused to lift it. She opened her hand and let it fall. It landed with a thud deadened by the water covering the floor. Seth groaned again, and she looked down at him, at the gaping wound in his side where the sword had bitten so much deeper than she’d expected it to, at the blood pooling beneath him. Despite herself, she felt a twinge of something akin to regret.

  Choices have consequences, the One had told her. She’d spoken of Seth’s choices, but how much of this could Alex have prevented if she herself had made other choices? How much of it would have ended differently? With Seth in Heaven where he belonged, and Aramael still alive …

  Michael stared at her for another second and then turned to the Fallen One. “Take him,” he said harshly. “And call off your dogs.”

  “I’ll take him, all right,” the Fallen One snarled, “but I’ll be damned if I call off my dogs, as you put it. Not after this.”

  Before Alex could blink, Michael’s sword clashed with that of the Fallen One.

  “Yes,” he growled back. “You will. We both have better things to do than engage in a pissing contest right now, Samael. You can’t lead Hell into battle without a leader any more than I want that battle to take place here, so put your goddamn tail between your legs, be glad you have him at all, and go back to where you belong.”

  The two of them stood locked in silent, unmoving combat until the Fallen One finally blinked and Michael stepped back. With a last, vicious snarl, the Fallen One sheathed his sword again. Then he stooped, hoisted the semiconscious Seth to his shoulder, and vanished. Alex slid down the wall to the floor. Her hands limp in her lap and water seeping into her clothing, she stared at Aramael’s body until a pair of black boots blocked her sight line.

  “I have to go. I need to make sure Samael recalls his Fallen. Your rescue people are on their way up.”

  She said nothing.

  “We’ll talk,” he said. “But later. When you’re stronger.”

  He lifted Aramael’s body into his arms. Black wings, dulled by death, dragged through the bloody water pooled on the floor. The arm not supported by Michael’s body hung limp. Vacant gray eyes stared back at her, devoid of all that had been divine, all that had been alive, all that had been Aramael.

&
nbsp; Heat burned behind her eyes. Raw pain sliced down her throat, making her voice harsh. “Michael.”

  Heaven’s greatest warrior stopped in the doorway with his burden and waited.

  “I’m sorry.” She looked away, swallowing against her loss. “For everything.”

  “We’ll talk.” he said. “Soon.”

  Chapter 88

  Mika’el strode down the short corridor, the slain Aramael heavy in his arms, grief heavier in his heart. They had lost so much today. Too much. Stepping into the former office, he found the remainder of the Fallen had left. Raphael stood watch at what had once been the windows, waiting for him. He turned at Mika’el’s approach. Mika’el shook his head at his unspoken question.

  A shadow darkened the other Archangel’s expression. He sheathed his sword and stepped forward, indicating Aramael. “Let me,” he said.

  Mika’el raised an eyebrow. They’d only ever lost one Archangel to death before and so there wasn’t much in the way of precedent, but still, as the choir’s leader, it was up to him to carry their dead.

  Raphael’s bleak golden eyes met his. “I told him he wasn’t one of us.” Raphael’s voice was rough. “I owe him this much.”

  Without comment, Mika’el handed over the body. There would be no burial on their return to Heaven, no ceremony. When Raphael moved between the realms, the energy that lingered, forming Aramael’s corporeal body here on Earth, would dissipate. Aramael would disappear, Raphael would cross over alone, and there would once again be an empty seat at the Archangels’ table.

  “What about Seth?” Raphael asked.

  “Gone.”

  “So Aramael was right. Hell is getting a new ruler.” Raphael shifted his burden. “And we’re down not just a ruler but another Archangel, too. Samael’s screwed us over again.”