Sins of the Warrior

by Linda Poitevin

  Iridescent eyes narrowed. Long seconds passed. “You actually mean that.”

  “You’ve no idea.”

  More seconds, and then Emmanuelle released the knob again. “I’m listening.”

  Alex walked to the window. Like the one in the living room, it overlooked the beach, gray and deserted in the sullen, late afternoon. Michael wouldn’t want her to tell Emmanuelle the whole sordid tale. He would probably be pissed at how much she had already let slip. She stared out at the white-capped water. But what if Emmanuelle was wrong? What if he didn’t return? Who would tell her then? Hell.

  She took a deep breath, centering herself. Readying for the memories. Trying to decide where to begin, how much to tell. A line from Alice in Wonderland surfaced in her mind—a line that had so tickled Nina’s fancy that the little girl had quoted it for days after Alex read her the story: “Begin at the beginning,” the King said, very gravely, “and go on till you come to the end: then stop.”

  She pushed away the pain tangled up in the memory of her niece. “Did you know a Power by the name of Aramael?” she asked.

  “One of seventeen tasked with capturing the Fallen who interfere with mortals. I don’t know him personally, but I know—wait. You used the past tense. He’s—?”

  “Two weeks ago, trying to protect me from Seth.”

  “You again.” Irritation laced Emmanuelle’s voice. “What the Hell is so special about you?”

  “I was his soulmate.”

  Shock rippled through the room. Outside, in the hallway, another door opened, then closed.

  “That’s impossible,” Emmanuelle said. “An angel and a mortal? It could never happen.”

  “An angel and a Naphil,” Alex corrected. “And thanks to Mittron, it did happen.”

  “Mittron! The Highest Seraph…that Mittron?”

  “I sincerely hope there’s only one of him, so yes. That Mittron. Only he’s not the Highest Seraph anymore. He was exiled to Earth—” Alex realized she was jumping ahead. Begin at the beginning, she reminded herself. She took another breath. “Aramael’s brother, Caim, was one of the imprisoned Fallen. He escaped Limbo—” She broke off at a noise of dissent behind her. Flashing a dark look over her shoulder, she repeated, “He escaped Limbo with Mittron’s help and started killing people in Toronto, looking for a Naphil soul. He thought one might be able to carry him back to Heaven.”

  Emmanuelle raised an eyebrow. “The serial killer a couple of months back—that was Mittron’s doing?”

  “It was. And it was my case. Aramael was assigned to be my partner—”

  “Your police partner?”

  Alex glowered at her. “If you keep interrupting, we’re going to be here all bloody night.”

  Emmanuelle’s chin lifted, but she waved at Alex to continue.

  “Aramael was to hunt Caim, and to act as my guardian at the same time.” Alex turned to the window again. This was where the story became difficult…and stayed that way. She stared into the fading light that marked the end of day.

  “Right from the start, there was something between us. I saw his wings, he had trouble focusing on Caim’s presence when I was near. When Caim eventually came for me, Aramael lost control and killed him, ending the pact between your—between Heaven and Hell. I was injured in the fight and would have died if Seth hadn’t brought me back.”

  “Wait. How does Seth factor into this?”

  “He was the one who found out about Mittron’s involvement. He told Aramael about the soulmate connection and stayed to help.”

  “Go on.”

  “Aramael was exiled, and Seth returned to Heaven to fulfill his role as Appointed in the secondary agreement your parents made. You know about that?”

  “About my brother being the ultimate pawn in my parents’ game intended to decide humanity’s fate through his own choices?” Emmanuelle’s mouth twisted. “I’m aware.”

  “He enlisted Mittron’s help instead. To become mortal.”

  “That’s what he was supposed to do.”

  “Adult mortal,” Alex clarified. “So he could be with me.”

  Emmanuelle expelled a long, slow breath. “I see.”

  “Something went wrong with the transition,” Alex continued when the other woman said nothing more. “He retained his powers and his immortality, but lost all language and knowledge of who he was. Your mother’s solution was to send an assassin after him.”

  “Aramael.”

  Alex shot her a guarded look of surprise.

  Emmanuelle shrugged. “He was the obvious choice. With no connection to Heaven, he wouldn’t trigger the failsafe clause my father insisted on. What happened next?”

  “I found Seth first. I helped him regain language, but he still remembered nothing. Then Lucifer got to him, Michael intervened, and the two of them decided that Seth’s role as Appointed would continue, with all parties involved keeping their distance from him.”

  “Except you.”

  “Except me. And I was succeeding, damn it. He wanted to choose humanity’s survival.” Alex leaned her forehead against the cool window. She closed her eyes under the weight of the memories.

  “And then?” Emmanuelle prompted.

  “And then your father—Lucifer—came to me. I thought he was Seth.”

  “Came to—” Emmanuelle’s jaw dropped. “Bloody Hell. You mean he raped you?”

  It took three swallows before Alex could support her nod with actual words. “And impregnated me and made Seth think I’d been with Aramael. He”—she drew a shuddering breath—”Seth stormed out. He was going to kill a man…a homeless man. For no other reason than to show that he chose his father’s side. We were all there. Me, Aramael, Lucifer, Michael, and all the Archangels. The Fallen had already bred an army of Nephilim—eighty thousand of them—and Lucifer intended his child, the one I carried, to lead them. I had to stop them, Lucifer and Seth both, so I did the only thing I could. I took the knife from Seth and killed Lucifer’s child.”

  “You—”

  Alex heard booted feet approach, then fingers grasped her shoulder and pulled her around. An astounded Emmanuelle stared at her.

  “You stabbed yourself? And you didn’t die?”

  “I did die.”

  Emmanuelle’s eyes widened a tiny fraction. “Seth brought you back a second time.”

  “Yes. And then he made his choice.”

  “I don’t understand. If he chose—”

  “Me.” The word emerged as a croak, forced from a throat rigid with remembered pain. And there was still so much to tell. Alex clenched jaw and fists, and made herself repeat, “He chose me.”

  Emmanuelle’s mouth flapped soundlessly as understanding settled in. She groped behind her for the wooden chair and slumped into it, legs akimbo, elbows resting on knees.

  “The idiot gave up everything for you. Heaven, his power, responsibility…everything. No wonder it felt as if the world was going to rip itself apart.”

  She’d felt that? Then why hadn’t she returned to Heaven? Why…? Alex stifled the questions. Her own story first, and then Emmanuelle’s. If the other would tell her story.

  “The One couldn’t control it,” she said. “The harder she tried, the weaker she became. She needed Seth to take back his powers, but he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t give me up, not even to save the world.”

  “You asked him to?”

  “I didn’t want to hurt him, but to allow him to choose his own happiness over the entire world? I could never have lived with that. But he didn’t understand, and the more I pressed, the angrier he became. The more controlling. Then one of the Fallen got to him and convinced him there was a way he could have it all—his power, control over Hell…me.”

  Arms folded over her belly, Alex glanced at Emmanuelle and found her watching with an unreadable expression that reminded Alex all too much of Seth. She shivered.

  “So he took the power back and came after me. He and Aramael fought.” Alex heard Emmanuelle’s indrawn his
s of disbelief, but she pressed on. Doggedly, hoarsely, knowing if she stopped now, she might not continue. “Aramael was injured. He—his immortality—”

  Christ almighty, this was hard. She swallowed. Hardened her voice. “His immortality was pierced. I called for Michael, but before he could get there, Seth got to me. He turned me immortal.”

  Emmanuelle catapulted from the chair so fast that Alex flinched.

  “Stop,” the god—goddess?—ordered. “Just stop. You called Michael—and he came? From where?”

  “Heaven.”

  Emmanuelle stared at her, then paced the floor in short, heavy strides, her boots thudding against the painted wood surface, both hands holding the hair back from her face. “It’s impossible,” she muttered.

  “Which part?” Alex asked wearily.

  “All of it. No one can call an angel across two realms. Not even another angel. And immortality?”

  Alex shrugged at her disbelief. “Do you want me to finish?”

  “What more can there be?” Emmanuelle growled.

  “Samael breaking all the Fallen out of Limbo and turning them loose on Toronto, one at a time, until Michael agreed to let him have Seth. Me wounding Seth with Aramael’s sword. Aramael dying in my arms.” A tear slid down Alex’s cheek, its trail first hot, then cool on her skin. She blinked back the others that would have followed. “And now all of this. Seth has stepped into his father’s place in Hell and wants me to join him there. Mittron is overseeing the raising of the Nephilim children—in Pripyat, we think—and the angels are losing the war against Hell because they have no will of their own to drive them.”

  On the other side of the room, now, Emmanuelle clenched and unclenched her fists, her entire body rigid, nostrils flaring.

  “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

  “I know we have nowhere else to turn.”

  A harsh laugh ripped from Emmanuelle. “How rich is that?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You don’t need to.” Emmanuelle reached for the doorknob. “I’m going for a walk.”

  Alex gaped at her. One moment she’d thought she was getting through to their potential savior, and then it was like someone had flicked a switch. What the hell had she said? “But—”

  “Stay in the house. You’ll be safe here. Not even my own mother could find the place.” Emmanuelle stepped into the hallway and sent a last, cold glare over her shoulder. “If she’d ever bothered to try.”

  CHAPTER 45

  “SISTER?” SETH SNARLED, SPITTLE flying from between his teeth. “I have a sister and you didn’t think you should inform me? What the fuck, Samael!”

  Samael scowled back at him, wiping away the blood dripping into his eye from a split eyebrow—an injury sustained from connecting with the desk rather than Seth’s hand…for a change. He tried to muster his thoughts.

  He’d expected Seth to be surprised by Emmanuelle’s presence, but not by her existence.

  “No one ever told you?” he asked.

  Seth wheeled away and stalked the perimeter of the room. “No! Yes. I don’t know.” He raked a hand over his hair. “I think Mittron hinted at it once, but no. No one told me. Bloody Heaven!”

  Samael would second that. He wiped his fingers against his sleeve. “It doesn’t change anything. We can still—”

  “Are you out of your mind? It changes everything.” Seth gestured at his oozing, bloody wound. “I barely managed to stand against a single Archangel today, Samael. There’s no way in all of Creation I can stand against my own sibling.”

  He paced away, shaking his head. “No. No, we’re done. The war is over. We negotiate another treaty. They give me Alex, and we leave the mortals alone.”

  Samael gaped at him. “You can’t be serious. What about your father’s legacy?”

  “My father is dead,” Seth snapped. “I owe him no loyalty. His Nephilim army is legacy enough.”

  Samael bit back an oath, trying for calm. Reason. “The rest of Hell, then. You can’t expect the Fallen to remain tied to this—this—”

  “Hellhole?” Seth suggested, a flicker of dark amusement in darker eyes. “Fine. We’ll redecorate. You can choose the curtain fabric. Happy?”

  Samael’s hand itched to draw the sword from his scabbard. Seth’s stillness dared him to try. Samael curled the hand into a fist instead, squeezing until the blood left his fingers.

  “This is not what we agreed.”

  “And you haven’t delivered Alex as we agreed, either. Let’s do you a favor and call it even, shall we?” Seth sank into the chair behind his desk with a grimace of pain, but the tension across his shoulders and the watchful expression told Samael he was far from incapacitated.

  Samael swallowed his response.

  Seth smiled. “Much better,” he said. “Now go to my sister. Tell her I want to talk. You have twenty-four hours. And, Samael…”

  Samael was already at the door, shaking with a gut-wrenching rage unlike anything he’d ever felt before. He stopped. He didn’t turn.

  “I suggest you do a better job of this task than you did of finding Alex,” came the drawl, so arrogant and so like Lucifer’s that it made Samael’s skin crawl, “or I’ll begin to think you’re not really on my side.”

  Without answering, Samael stepped into the corridor and closed the door behind him. Then he put his fist through the stone wall opposite. Seth’s faint chuckle floated through the wood between them.

  “Twenty-four hours, Samael,” he called. “I’m counting on you.”

  Samael swallowed a roar of pure frustration, refusing to give the Appointed the satisfaction. Just as he wouldn’t give him a treaty, either.

  “Like fucking Heaven, I’ll negotiate,” he hissed at the oaken door between him and the mewling infant in whom he’d placed such high hope. He’d been so damned shortsighted—so sure of himself…

  He gritted his teeth.

  And he still was.

  As long as he could get to the Naphil woman before Seth did, as long as he could make it look as though she’d died at Heaven’s hands, he could still pull this off. Still make that pansy-ass into a fucking leader.

  Or die trying.

  CHAPTER 46

  BETHIEL STAGGERED AS HE landed and nearly pitched headfirst into the wooden gate marking the entrance to Heaven. His wings trembled with the effort of traveling between the realms. He’d never been to Earth when he was still a part of Heaven, so he didn’t know whether it was supposed to be this difficult—but he suspected not. Proof that Heaven itself knew he no longer belonged.

  He shook out his feathers and folded his wings behind him, gazing across the sweep of lawn on the other side of the low, wood-rail fence. The forest he had once wandered stood just beyond, and on the other side of that would be the One’s beloved gardens, meticulously maintained. A shiver rippled down Bethiel’s spine at the thought of seeing them again—them, but not her.

  Mittron had much to answer for.

  The very thought of the former Highest Seraph brought Bethiel up short, but before the familiar hatred could follow, he recalled why he had come here. Remembered the unexpected compassion that had overwhelmed him when he’d found her. The girl with the pale face and matted hair. The hollow eyes. The bulging belly.

  The girl who was running out of time.

  He reached for the gate. The instant his fingers brushed wood, a shock of energy jolted through him, slamming him to the ground. Damnation. He’d forgotten about that layer of protection. He would need someone to let him in. He regained his feet and shook the grass from his wings. Studied again the lawn, peered into the trees beyond, scanned the skies above.

  Nothing. No one coming to investigate his attempted breach—or to defend against it. Bethiel scowled.

  Was Heaven really that far gone?

  He stepped up to the gate again, careful this time not to touch it. Then, drawing a deep breath, he shouted, “Mika’el!”

  His voice rolled across the expanse of law
n and was swallowed by the forest.

  He bellowed again.

  More silence followed.

  What if Mika’el wasn’t even here? Just because he’d been gone from the condo didn’t mean he’d returned to Heaven. On the other hand—Bethiel sighed. On the other hand, he didn’t know where else to look, and Heaven was at least a place to start.

  He shouted until he was hoarse, and then until his voice cracked and failed altogether. Then he retrieved anything he could find on his side of the fence—stones, sticks, and finally handfuls of grass—and pitched them against the energy protecting Heaven’s borders.

  It was hardest to throw the grass, because for it to make contact with the fence, he had to stand near enough that the jolts still reached him, singeing his wings and hair. At last, exhausted, he sprawled on his back, parallel to the fence, plucking single blades from the lawn beside his head. He aimed them one at a time at the lowest rail, the odor of burnt feathers acrid in his nose.

  “What in bloody Hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Eyes closed, Bethiel froze in mid-toss. A voice. Real or—

  “I asked,” came a growl, “what in bloody Hell you think you’re doing.”

  Real. Definitely real.

  Bethiel squinted up at the figure looming over him. Black armor glinted dully in the setting sun, sparking caution in his belly. An Archangel. His gaze sharpened, sweeping over the dents and the dried, crusted spots of phosphorescence mingled with blood. Massive wings extended to their fullest. The metallic whisper of battle-ready feathers. He stopped breathing.

  Not just any Archangel, but one just back from the front, ill-tempered and with the heat of battle still running through his veins.

  “I won’t ask again.” Metal scraped against hardened leather as a broadsword left its sheath.

  “Mika’el,” Bethiel croaked. “I seek Mika’el.”

  An ebony face, almost as dark as the armor its owner wore, scowled at him. “One: How did you know he was here? Two: How did a Fallen One manage to get here? Three: Why should I believe anything you tell me? And four: You have thirty seconds to answer before I kill you.”