Sins of the Warrior

by Linda Poitevin

  Roberts pushed up from his chair. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “Really I am. But the decision is made.”

  “So now what?” She threw her hands wide. “I’m supposed to give up? Stop looking and leave Nina to die out there on her own? She’s seventeen, Staff. She’s just a kid!”

  Roberts snatched up the phone and hurled it across the room. It shattered against the wall, scattering fragments of plastic and wired components across the carpeted floor. “Goddamn it, Alex, do you think I don’t know that? Do you think this is easy?”

  The office door opened and Tim Abrams, another detective, poked his head in. His gaze swept over Alex and their staff inspector, settled on the destroyed phone, and flicked back to Alex. Without a word, he withdrew again.

  Alex stood frozen in place. She sensed Roberts wasn’t finished yet, and she waited for his words even as her every muscle, her every cell, screamed denial. He had more to say, but she didn’t want to hear it. Didn’t want him speaking the unspeakable things that had been slowly building in him—in all of them—over the last two weeks. Even in herself.

  Especially in herself.

  She closed her eyes.

  “Nina is gone,” he said, his voice raw. “Even if you could find her again, even if you could get her away from whatever she’s with, even if you survived trying, you can’t save her.”

  Alex’s head jerked from side to side, pulled by the invisible strings of repudiation. You’re wrong, she wanted to say. There’s a way. There has to be a way.

  “She’s my niece,” she whispered instead. She’s Jennifer’s little girl, and she’s all I’ve got.

  “I know.”

  Hands settled onto her shoulders and squeezed. Gently, compassionately.

  “I know,” her supervisor repeated. “And if she were mine, I’ve no idea what I’d do. But you have no choice, Alex. I can’t give you a choice, because we need you. Here. With your head in the game. Because you’re the only one who has any fucking idea what’s going on in the world right now. You’re all we’ve got.”

  Alex bit down on the inside of her bottom lip, using the pain to distract herself. To keep from letting in the quiet panic that underscored Roberts’s words, or from giving in to the tears burning behind her eyes or the gathering rawness in her throat. He was wrong, of course. Not about her being needed, but about her not having a choice. She’d been making choices for weeks now, always for the greater good. Making them, living with them, suffering their consequences.

  No, there was always a choice.

  The question was whether she was strong enough to make this one.

  “Call Henderson,” Roberts said wearily. “Talk to him. Please.”

  Alex pulled away and walked out.

  CHAPTER 5

  RESTING HIS ELBOWS ON the desk, Mittron pressed fingertips to his temples and massaged the ache forming there. On the far side of the office, Samael paced the length of the peeling, graffitied wall, muttering under his breath. The near-ceaseless din of thousands of children screaming for attention floated in through the broken panes of the room’s only window.

  What a Hellhole. The noise, the stench of decay, the complete lack of any creature comforts. Conditions were nothing short of abominable, and beyond unsuitable for Heaven’s former executive administrator.

  Mittron pressed harder against the thumping in his skull. Dear One in—

  Right. He sighed. The One wasn’t in Heaven anymore. She wasn’t anywhere. Both she and Lucifer were gone, leaving him to deal with eighty thousand Nephilim brats and a handful of idiots who thought they could run the universe. Not to mention a crazed Principality that was, without doubt, stalking him even as he sat here. His heart gave an uncomfortable thud at the thought.

  He’d been expecting Bethiel on his doorstep every moment of every day for the last two weeks. Ever since he’d told Samael how to open the gates of Limbo, knowing the Principality he’d unjustly imprisoned there was among the Fallen loosed upon the universe…

  Mittron shuddered, his brain caught in the incessant loop that had him jumping at shadows, imagining the rustle of wings behind him, anticipating the bite of a sword through his flesh at every turn. Bethiel, free to come after him. Free to carry out the roared threat that had reached Mittron’s ears over and above the clang of Heavenly metal intended to imprison the Principality forever.

  “By all that is holy and righteous, Seraph, I swear I will find you if it takes me all of eternity!”

  Mahogany-dark hands slammed, open-palmed, onto the desktop before him. Mittron jolted in his chair, swallowing—just barely—an involuntary and undignified shriek of terror. He stared past his fingers at Samael, looming over him.

  “Are you even listening to me?” the Archangel demanded.

  Mittron linked his hands together and lowered them to the desk. He took a long, deep breath, gluing together his nerves. “Of course I’m listening. Seth refuses to take up the reins and now you want to dump him.”

  Samael glared at him, his gaze narrowing. Seeming to decide Mittron wasn’t being entirely flippant, he stood tall and stalked the room’s perimeter again.

  “Well, he’s of no bloody use to me if he’s going to moon over the Naphil the way his father did over the One. Hell needs a ruler, not a spineless, weak-kneed—” Samael shoved a chair out of his way. It hit a wall and splintered.

  Mittron winced. He wished the Archangel had cooled off after his meeting with Seth before coming here. Too little existed in the way of usable furniture in this godforsaken place to begin with. He couldn’t afford to lose any of it to tantrums. Samael kicked aside a chair leg and rung.

  “Bloody Heaven,” he snarled, whirling to face Mittron. His outstretched wings smashed a new hole in the rotted ceiling. “It’s not like I’m asking him to actually fight in the war. I’m not even asking him to take over the strategy. All he has to do—”

  “All he has to do,” Mittron interrupted, “is play by your rules.”

  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 warra
nt. 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.”

  CHAPTER 6

  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.”