Sins of the Warrior

by Linda Poitevin

  A muscle in Michael’s jaw flexed, and he stared over her head. “I’m not accustomed to feeling helpless,” he said. “Or to not knowing what to do.”

  “Then do what you set out to do. Find Emmanuelle. Convince her to return to Heaven.”

  Michael’s mouth thinned. “And you? What about you?”

  “I’ll help. I said I would.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I know.”

  For long heartbeats, they stood in silence, Alex coming to terms with the inevitable, and Michael—no. It didn’t matter what Michael thought. He had a job to do. A war to win, a god to find, a Heaven to save. Alex had a job, too, if the world was to stand a chance of survival for those who remained behind. Those such as Henderson, and Elizabeth, and—

  Michael’s hand moved beneath hers, turning until their fingers linked. She looked up at him, jolted from her dark reverie.

  “When did you decide?” he asked.

  “About ten seconds ago,” she admitted. “The entire world is falling apart, Michael. If I stay here, it won’t matter very much in the long run, but maybe I can make a difference there, with—in Hell. Maybe I can influence him.”

  “And maybe you overestimate your powers of persuasion.”

  “Most likely. But either way, he’s not going to stop until he has me.”

  Michael pulled his hand from hers and walked to the French doors on the far side of the living room, an entire world away. Bracing his hands against the frame, he stared out into the night. His glossy black wings were half-unfurled behind him, their quiver mirroring the tension Alex read across his shoulders, in the set of his head.

  “I wish I could argue with you,” he said. “You know that, right?”

  Turning from his reflection’s gaze, she went back to bed.

  *

  “In,” Seth ordered the unknown Fallen who’d knocked at his door. He frowned at the charts spread across his desk—a battle plan Samael had sent over for his approval. Whatever issues he might have with his aide, he had to admit the Archangel was a brilliant strategist. Not to mention a formidable adversary.

  He scrawled his signature across the bottom of the top chart and then looked up, expecting delivery of his tea tray. Instead, he found a Cherub staring at the floor, hands gripping one another so hard that his knuckles had turned white. Seth straightened.

  “You are—?”

  “S-Sintiel, lordship.”

  Seth waited. The Cherub stayed quiet but for shallow, labored breathing interspersed by audible swallows.

  “And?” Seth asked.

  The Cherub jumped. Ruby eyes flicked up to Seth’s, then down again. Sintiel swallowed again. Seth sighed.

  “Why are you here?”

  “Zuriel, lordship. You left orders that you wanted to know when she returned.”

  Oh, for the love of—Seth broke off the thought. He set his pen on the desk, refraining from the impulse to bounce it off the Cherub’s skull.

  “Am I to understand she has?”

  Sintiel nodded. Shook his head. Nodded. Then ducked the stylus pitched in his direction.

  “She returned,” he said hastily, “but Samael…Zuriel…Samael…”

  Seth’s blood ran cold. A buzzing sound began deep in his brain. “Samael what?”

  “He killed her.”

  Seth’s heart began a slow folding-in on itself, each beat labored, shuddering, excruciating. Alex. Buzzing filled his skull, and the world receded to a pinpoint of light. He clawed his way toward it, fighting the agony that tried to pull him under.

  “Samael killed Alex?”

  “Who is Alex?”

  The Cherub’s question penetrated as nothing else could have, snapping Samael back into himself. He stared at Sintiel.

  “What?”

  “You said Samael killed Alex. Who is Alex?”

  “He didn’t kill her?”

  Sintiel shrugged both shoulders and spread his hands. “I have no idea. I just know he killed Zuriel. Do you wish me to—”

  “Get out,” muttered Seth.

  “Pardon?”

  “Get out!” A roar this time.

  The Cherub scrambled for the door, tripping in his haste, colliding with the frame, falling over the sill. At last the heavy oaken door closed behind him with a thud. Stillness filled the room. Seth sank slowly to his knees, his head and shoulders bowed, fists resting on his thighs. Great shudders shook his frame. He gulped for air, squeezing his eyes shut until he saw starbursts of light.

  Alex lived, but in the moment he’d thought otherwise—that one instant—his world had ended. Become an eternity of emptiness that had taken away his breath, his heart, his soul. A void that had reflected back to him what he was without her.

  Nothing.

  His heart threatened to shatter all over again at the very thought. Seth let out a long, shaky breath. He opened his eyes and stared at the desk with its battle charts in front of him.

  Fuck Samael and his be patient.

  Fuck the war with Heaven.

  And fuck his injury.

  He would cross over into the human realm and find Alex himself. Not a week from now. Not tomorrow. Today.

  Now.

  CHAPTER 37

  “You need to eat.”

  Alex gave a little start at Michael’s gruff words, then looked down at the pile of crumbs—formerly an uneaten slice of toast—on her plate. She pushed away the plate and her cold coffee, then drew the newspaper toward her.

  Death toll climbs, its headline blared. More news about Slavutych and the man-made disaster engineered by Lang and his cronies, all because they wouldn’t listen to her. Didn’t want to hear.

  Michael cleared his throat.

  “I’ll have something later,” she said.

  “Alex—”

  “I forgot to ask why Bethiel was here last night.” She pushed the newspaper away again. “Does he have a lead on Nina?”

  Michael regarded her in tight-lipped silence from his post in the living room. Then he shook his head. “Not your niece. Mittron. He’s heard rumors in Hell that the former Highest might be overseeing the care of the Nephilim children.”

  The Fallen…and Mittron? Her gaze strayed back to the newspaper headline. Of course. She should have thought of that herself. It made sense, him aligning with Seth, because where else would he go? It also made sense that his would be the mind behind the New Children of God, and the hundreds of people flocking to help raise Lucifer’s Nephilim army. After engineering the Apocalypse and plunging the world into Armageddon, he’d more than proved his capacity for such machinations.

  And Bethiel could stop him from doing further damage.

  But if she told Bethiel, he would stop looking for Nina.

  The coffee machine gurgled. Alex flexed cramped fingers, then leaned her elbows on the counter and cradled her head in her hands. Christ, she was tired of making impossible decisions. Her life vs. the world’s continued existence; Nina vs. the hundreds stupid enough to answer the call to Pripyat. Was there anything she wouldn’t have to sacrifice?

  “I know about Pripyat.” Michael’s voice at her elbow made her jump again.

  A headache born from lack of sleep pressed against the back of her eyes. Her fingertips traced an endless circle on the cool, granite countertop as she struggled to separate herself from the words she had to speak. From their impact.

  “You’ll have to tell Bethiel,” she said.

  How much would she have to sacrifice?

  Everything.

  “Not yet,” said Michael.

  Her gaze flashed back to him. “But—”

  “Your niece has only a few days left. Let him continue looking for her.”

  She swallowed a lump in her throat. “Thank you, but no. Not if it means more people will die.”

  “More will die,” Michael said, “but we can’t let the Fallen know we’ve found the Nephilim. Not until we have Emmanuelle.”

  Relief swamped Alex. Guilt r
ushed in after it. Bethiel would continue looking for Nina. Countless others would die because of that. And her only consolation in any of it was that, for once, the decision wasn’t hers.

  It was Michael’s.

  She tried to find words to thank him, but they eluded her. She nodded and reached again for the newspaper. At that instant, the condo’s front door burst open, and her hand slammed against the plate instead, sending it flying in a spray of toast crumbs as Henderson strode in, Riley hot on his heels.

  The plate hit the floor and shattered.

  “We’ve found her,” Henderson said. “We’ve found Emmanuelle.”

  *

  It took every fiber of willpower Seth possessed to remain where he was. To watch. Wait. Not go to the woman emerging from the door down the street. The woman whose very existence consumed him.

  Alex lifted her hair free of her coat collar and let it fall in a blond cascade over her shoulders. Seth caught his breath. His heart hammered in his chest.

  She was so beautiful.

  So alive.

  So vibrant with the gift he had given her.

  His entire soul swelled with pure, unadulterated joy…

  And then another figure emerged behind her, tall and powerful, with a commanding presence as unmistakable as the huge black wings rising behind him. Mika’el.

  Fucking Hell.

  Swiftly, Seth pulled back, further down the street. He tamped down his powers, smoothed over his aura, stilled his vibration. Held his breath. Mika’el paused on the doorstep, scanning their surroundings. He nodded, and Alex descended the stairs and crossed the sidewalk to get into a car waiting curbside. Mika’el waited until her door closed and then stepped back into the building.

  Seth hesitated. His injury tugged at his side. The crossover into this realm had taken more effort than he would have liked. While he had no doubt he could still take on Heaven’s greatest warrior, it would be wiser not to seek battle if he could avoid it.

  The car with Alex in it pulled away from the curb.

  Panic licked at Seth. He couldn’t lose her. Not again. Not when he was so close. But any use of power to follow her would only reveal his presence to—

  His gaze settled on a bright yellow car parked across the street, with Yellow Cab emblazoned in black on its side, a matching sign capping its roof, and a bearded man napping in the driver’s seat. A half-dozen strides took him to the vehicle. He pulled open the passenger door and slid in beside the driver, who startled awake and stared at him, bleary-eyed.

  “Hey, you can’t be in the front sea—”

  Seth turned to him, and the cab driver’s objection died mid-word. The man swallowed and raised both his hands.

  “I’m not looking for trouble, man.”

  “Good. Neither am I. I am, however, looking for a driver.” Seth pointed down the street. “The blue car. Follow it. Carefully.”

  The cabbie hesitated. Seth turned to him again.

  “Now,” he said, and in the space of seconds, they were in motion.

  CHAPTER 38

  “THIS IS IT,” SAID Henderson. He pulled over to the side of the road and slipped the sedan’s gearshift into park. “Formerly the most notorious biker bar in the Lower Mainland, owned and operated by the Hells Angels themselves.”

  “Formerly?” Alex looked out the windshield at the only building visible for miles along the flats.

  Squat, wooden, and ugly, the Blackwater Bar & Grill wasn’t exactly the kind of place that invited a casual passerby to come in and sit awhile. The stain had worn off most of the cedar siding, leaving it weathered in an unattractive patchy way; the covered porch that ran the width of the building had pulled free of the wall at one corner; and the ‘l’ in the first word on the electric sign had burned out, resulting in an unfortunate—but most likely apt—name change.

  And if all of that wasn’t enough to discourage most people from stopping, there were the motorcycles lined up along the front of the building. Fifty of them—Alex had counted—all Harleys.

  It was no wonder Heaven hadn’t been able to locate Emmanuelle here.

  “Ownership changed ten years ago,” Henderson answered. “A numbered company. We were never able to find out who was behind it, but I suspect we know now.”

  Alex reached for the door handle. Henderson’s hand closed over her wrist.

  “I don’t care how reformed the organized crime guys say these shitheads are—you are not going in there alone.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Right up until they identify you as a cop.”

  “Hugh—”

  “At least take this,” he interrupted. He held out a small pistol. “It’s my spare.”

  She patted the sword across her lap. She’d balked at continuing to carry it, but Michael had pointed out that Emmanuelle—if she was at the bar—would recognize it for what it was.

  “It might tip the scale in your favor,” he’d told her. “At least make her listen to what you have to say.”

  Alex had raised both eyebrows at that, but she’d kept her questions to herself about just how much hostility she should expect from his soulmate, because it really hadn’t mattered. Emmanuelle had to listen, and if the sword could help make that happen, then she would carry it.

  She gave Henderson a lopsided smile. “I have this, remember?”

  “Against fifty-odd bikers, reformed or otherwise?” Henderson snorted. “I don’t think so. Take the gun, Jarvis.”

  Alex sighed. “Fine.” She stuffed the pistol into her pocket. “Satisfied?”

  “No, but it will have to do.”

  Alex climbed out of the vehicle. Under Henderson’s watchful eye, she removed her borrowed leather jacket and shrugged into the harness that held the sword’s scabbard in place across her back. She slid the jacket back on. Then, catching Henderson’s scowl, she said again, “I’ll be fine.”

  “I still don’t like not having Michael here. If one of the Fallen comes after you…”

  “He’s watching for them. They won’t get within a fifty-mile radius. Besides, I’ll be with Emmanuelle. If I ask nicely, maybe she’ll save me.”

  If she doesn’t strike me down on the spot.

  “Funny,” Henderson growled.

  She closed the car door.

  “Alex.”

  Leaning down to the open window, she met Henderson’s sober brown gaze.

  “Be careful.”

  She straightened up, gave the sword hilt a final tug of adjustment, and shifted her attention to the Blackwater. The deep bass of music thumped across the parking lot. This was it. Their time of reckoning. Time to see if Emmanuelle was in there, to see if Alex could persuade her to talk to Michael, to find out if Heaven stood a chance against Hell.

  To learn whether the world stood a chance of survival.

  No pressure, Jarvis.

  “Ten minutes,” Henderson called after her. “If you don’t call me in ten minutes, I’m coming in after you, understand?”

  Alex flapped a hand at him in response and started down the road toward the bar. She really should tell him about the immortality thing one of these days, if only to put his mind at rest. Except knowing about it would raise a whole lot of other concerns she had a hard enough time dealing with on her own. She wasn’t sure she could handle fielding them from Henderson, too. Or Riley.

  She walked along the narrow parking strip in front of the porch, past the row of gleaming chrome and black that was punctuated with an occasional bright blue or shiny red. She paused beside the bike nearest the door.

  Painted matte black from front to back, with raised handlebars and studded leather saddlebags, it had an understated look that distinguished it from the others. As did the image engraved on the gas tank: a warrior angel, down on one knee, head bowed, both hands gripping the upright sword resting on the ground before him.

  Alex raised her head and stared at the bar’s front door. If she had to guess, she’d venture to say Henderson’s intelligence was good. Emm
anuelle was here, all right.

  She climbed the steps, crossed the porch, and stepped into the Blackwater’s dim, shuttered interior. The door swung shut behind her. Almost instantly, the music dropped into oblivion, and she sensed every head in the place swiveling in her direction.

  She paused to get her bearings and let her eyes adjust to the murky lighting. Her gaze swept the room, spotting two pool tables, one on either side of the door. A row of booths ran the length of the wall on the left, disappearing into the shadows at the back. Mismatched wooden stools sat along the bar to the right. Motorcycle parts and pictures of buxom women dressed—or half-dressed—in Harley gear passed as I.

  And dozens of requisite beefy, bearded, heavily tattooed men and equally tattooed women all surveyed her with varying degrees of suspicion.

  She zeroed in on the barkeeper. He was in his fifties, with his hair pulled back in a ponytail and a winged skull tattooed on his massive bicep—the trademark sign of a Hells Angel. He was also one of the largest men in the place, and his hands were out of sight beneath the counter. Baseball bat? Shotgun? Either way, she’d rather be facing him than have him at her back. She’d start there.

  She walked into the silent room, her booted heels thudding against the wooden floor. At the counter, she took the sketch of Emmanuelle from the pocket where it nestled beside the lonely and completely inadequate pistol Henderson had given her.

  “I’m looking for someone.” She unfolded the paper and set it before the bartender.

  His unblinking gaze held hers. “You got the wrong place.”

  “You haven’t looked at the picture.”

  “Don’t matter. You still got the wrong place.”

  Behind her, chair legs scraped over floorboards. Footsteps approached. At least four sets. Alex tensed, her reflexes on high alert. Reformed or not, these people were still hostile and highly dangerous. For a second, Alex wondered whether—even if she couldn’t die—she would still feel pain when she had the crap beaten out of her. Then, tension strumming across her shoulders, she lifted the sketch and held it in front of the bartender’s face, high enough to put it in his line of sight, low enough to see the flicker of recognition in his eyes.