Sins of the Son: The Grigori Legacy

by Linda Poitevin

  Hell.

  Alex headed for the file cabinet. One crisis at a time, she told herself. Communication first, then worry about the rest. She tugged Riley’s keys from the lock, no longer caring what observations the psychiatrist might have made. Not after what she’d just figured out for herself.

  Heaven’s contingency plan was screwed unless she could find a way to fix him.

  SETH WATCHED FROM his window as Alexandra Jarvis walked to the waiting vehicle and got in. He touched his throat, tracing lines like those he’d seen on her. Pain. He frowned at the sensation—at the idea it contained which he couldn’t quite grasp. The vehicle below began to move away.

  He curled his fingers into his palms, discomfort fluttering in his belly. He wanted to go with her but held himself still. While he didn’t fully understand the later she had spoken of, he did know her promise to return. And, though he couldn’t have said how, he did know her. Knew her touch, knew her eyes, knew the feeling—named or not—that had surged in his breast when he met her gaze.

  Which was more than he could say about anything he’d seen or experienced since he’d opened his eyes and stared at Dr. Riley for the first time.

  The car carrying Alexandra Jarvis disappeared around a corner and Seth moved his hand from his throat and placed it against the grated window. He also knew the energy he’d found waiting inside him when Alex had left his room, the energy that let him think himself to her side. Stretching his mind ever so slightly, he tested it again. Metal and glass dissolved beneath his touch to let in the fresh, salt-tinged breeze. The discomfort at his center gave way to another feeling—again unnamed, but this time simply right.

  Breathing deeply, Seth settled in to wait.

  “DR. RILEY?”

  Tearing her gaze from Melanie Chiu’s draped form on the steel table, Elizabeth took in the grim expression of Aaron Warner, the obstetrician who had joined her. A pallor underlay his skin and he still wore bloodied scrubs.

  “What happened?” she asked, tipping her head toward the table.

  “Beats the hell out of me,” Warner muttered. He shook his head, staring past her at Chiu’s covered body. “I’ve never seen anything like it. A week ago the ultrasound said she was only six months along, but that baby was as fully developed as any I’ve ever delivered. And it came so damned fast—”

  His voice trailed off into silence, broken only by the sound of a trolley passing by in the corridor outside. Warner swallowed.

  “It ripped her apart from the inside,” he finished hoarsely. “It broke her pelvis, for God’s sake. She bled out before we could mop up enough to see what to clamp. We just couldn’t move fast enough.”

  “And the baby?”

  “A girl. She’s fine. Perfect. Tested ten on both Apgars.” Scraping off the cap he still wore, Warner tossed it onto a pile of soiled linens in the corner, then placed his hands on his hips. He scowled at the bed. “What the hell was this, Dr. Riley?”

  Elizabeth crossed her arms against a sudden chill. “I wish I could tell you. Ever since Melanie was admitted, she insisted she didn’t have sex until the second of September. That’s three weeks ago yesterday.”

  Warner flicked her an impatient look. “That’s impossible.”

  “I know.” She sighed. “There had to have been some kind of trauma she was hiding; something she blocked out.”

  “You still thinking rape? Maybe someone gave her GHB.”

  “Maybe, but it’s unlikely. If it was Rohypnol, she would have remembered flashes by now, at least of the events leading up to the rape. There’s also the possibility of incest. Whatever it was, chances are we’ll never know. Not now. Do you know if anyone has called Child Services about the baby?”

  Warner nodded. “Pediatric wants to keep her for a few days of observation, but someone is coming to start the paperwork tomorrow. Did you want to speak to them?”

  “What’s the point? With Melanie gone, I can’t offer them anything.” Elizabeth stepped out of the way of a maintenance worker wheeling a bucket and mop into the room. “But if her family ever shows up, make sure someone calls me.”

  ALEX SET HER suitcase on the desk and surveyed the hotel room, from dingy walls to dingier carpets to questionable-looking bed linens. It sure as hell wasn’t the Ritz, but she’d chosen it for its proximity to the hospital, not its level of luxury. Besides, she’d stayed in far worse when working undercover.

  She pulled open the curtains and looked out through a window in need of washing. A narrow parking lot separated her from the solid brick wall of the neighboring building. Lovely. Good thing she wasn’t here for the scenery any more than she was for the luxury.

  Leaving the curtains open, Alex tugged the cell phone from her waist and glanced at its display. It was already six o’clock, which made it nine in Toronto. She should give Jen a call, she supposed, to let her know she’d arrived safely and see how Nina was doing. She should, but she really didn’t want to face her sister’s questions about Seth and what she planned to do. Because the truth was, she hadn’t the faintest idea. Knowing Seth had lost his capacity for language was one thing; figuring out how to fix it was quite another. Alex set the cell phone beside her unopened suitcase and scrubbed both hands over her face.

  Even if he could speak, there was still the little matter of his memory—or more specifically, the lack thereof. What would it matter if she could communicate with him if she didn’t know what the hell to tell him? Heaven’s contingency plan, he’d called himself once before, but a plan for what? What exactly was he here to do?

  God, what she wouldn’t give for a little divine intervention right about now. Swallowing against the tightness building in her throat, she pressed her lips together and unzipped the suitcase. No. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t go there. She couldn’t go there. Not when the memories were still so fresh. Not when they made her want to curl up into a ball and cease to function.

  And sure as hell not when the fate of the world might hinge on figuring out what to do about Seth.

  Abandoning the suitcase and scooping up her phone, she headed for the door. Food, she decided. Food, and then sleep, and then a plan.

  Saving the world would just have to wait.

  THIRTEEN

  Elizabeth traveled through the hospital corridors on autopilot, her mind churning at the events surrounding Melanie Chiu’s death. And that baby.

  A shudder rippled through her. The infant had already been removed from the room when she arrived, but she’d gone to the nursery after she’d left delivery. A healthy girl, perfect in every way except one: her apparent age. Elizabeth would have sworn on her own life the baby was at least two weeks old instead of mere hours.

  But that was as impossible as the story that had existed only in Melanie Chiu’s head. Tucking back a strand of hair, Elizabeth wished she had pushed Chiu harder, insisted the young woman delve deeper for the truth. But hindsight was always twenty-twenty, and it was too late for should-haves. Whatever trauma Chiu had hidden from Elizabeth—hidden from herself—they would never know.

  Pushing into her office, Elizabeth tightened her lips at the arbitrary fragility of the human psyche, at how completely a mind could protect itself from memories it couldn’t handle. It never ceased to amaze her how some people could suffer the most horrific of events and emerge relatively unscathed, while others folded like a house of cards. And then there were those like John Doe, whose mind had folded in on itself with a totality she had never encountered. An absoluteness that challenged not just her, but the dozen or more colleagues with whom she’d consulted.

  With a clinical curiosity, she wondered for a moment where Detective Jarvis sat on the spectrum, and then shook her head. She had enough patients on her hands without looking for extras—Alex Jarvis was already under competent care and didn’t need her help. Doe, on the other hand…

  Reaching her desk, she looked down at the name she’d scrawled across the pad of paper. Seth Benjamin. A clue to Doe’s identity, and the begi
nning of a whole new set of questions. Questions such as how he and Detective Jarvis were connected; why Jarvis downplayed that connection after flying three thousand miles to see him; and what other secrets the detective hid, not just from Elizabeth, but from her own doctor. Her fellow cops. Scowling at the way her thoughts kept coming back around to the Toronto detective, Elizabeth settled into the chair and lifted the phone’s receiver. Hugh Henderson answered on the first ring.

  “It’s me,” she announced. “Chiu had her baby. And I have a name for John Doe.”

  Henderson heaved an exaggerated sigh. “You really aren’t going to deal with Daniels on the Doe thing, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Hold on.” Papers rustled across the line and then Hugh said, “Fine. Start with Doe. What do you have?”

  “The detective from Toronto flew in this afternoon. She identified him as Seth Benjamin.”

  A pause, and then, “That’s it? No date of birth?”

  “Just a name.”

  Hugh grunted. “I’ll pass it on to Daniels, but he probably won’t find much. What else did she tell you?”

  “Absolutely nothing.”

  “What do you mean, nothing? Does she know him or not?”

  “She says she only knows his name.”

  “But you think she knows more.”

  “A lot more. He recognized her. Called her by name.”

  “I thought he didn’t speak. That he had that aphrodisia or whatever you called it.”

  “Aphasia. And he did. Until he saw her. Her name is the first and only thing he’s said.”

  Hugh sighed. “Hell. All right, tell me where she’s staying and I’ll have a talk with her in the morning. She may be more willing to speak to a colleague.”

  Elizabeth snorted. “I doubt it, but be my guest.”

  “And Chiu? You said she had the baby? How is it? What is it, boy or girl?”

  “Girl. Nine pounds, five ounces.”

  “Ouch. That had to hurt. Chiu is what, ninety-eight pounds soaking wet? Is she all right?”

  Elizabeth leaned back in her chair and stared at the ceiling. “She’s dead. The attending obstetrician said the birth was so fast they didn’t stand a chance. The delivery room was like something out of a horror movie.”

  Hugh went quiet on the other end of the line. Then, softly, he said, “Shit. Poor kid. And the baby?”

  “Alive.” Elizabeth hesitated, loath to say more, as if by not disclosing details, they wouldn’t be true. But Hugh knew her too well.

  “And?” he prodded.

  “The baby was full term.”

  “Didn’t the ultrasound last week put it at six months?”

  “It did.” Elizabeth closed her eyes and massaged at a spot just above the bridge of her nose. “The technician must have screwed up. It happens.”

  And it had to have happened this time, because as Warner had said, the alternative was simply impossible.

  The silence at the other end of the phone drew out so long that Elizabeth opened her eyes again. Frowned. “Hugh? Are you still there? Did you hear what I said?”

  “I’m here. And yes, I heard.” His voice had gone low and gruff, as if he didn’t want to be overheard at his end. “Liz—”

  That damned nickname again. Elizabeth scowled. She really was going to have to break him of that. Before she could frame her usual objection, however, Hugh knocked all thought of nicknames from her head.

  “Liz, Chiu might not be the only one.”

  WORD WAS DEFINITELY getting around.

  Aramael eyed the three Fallen Ones forming a semicircle around him and then sized up his surroundings. With a twelve-foot-high chain-link fence at his back, a deserted warehouse parking lot stretching beyond his stalkers, and not another soul in sight, his chances of escape looked bleak. Weariness crept over him. Three of them, one of him. Bloody Hell. If his last few demises had been painful, this one was shaping up to be downright brutal.

  His predators drew nearer. Aramael tensed, curling his hands into fists. He’d tried a variety of responses to these attacks, and had learned death came fastest when he fought hardest. His ego took less of a beating when he resisted, too. He launched himself at the nearest Fallen One, his fist connecting with a cheek. A foot merged with his rib cage in retaliation, driving out any satisfaction.

  Aramael landed on his knees with a grunt. He staggered upright, but another blow in the small of his back sent him down again. They didn’t give him another opportunity to rise.

  Knowing any attempt at self-protection would only prolong matters, Aramael resisted the urge to curl into a ball. He tried to determine where each of his attackers stood, not because he could do anything to them, but because it distracted him from his bones splintering, his body turning to pulp. The now-familiar red haze began to descend and he braced for the unpleasant sensation of death.

  A gust of wind drove grit into his mouth. Shouts came. Cries of pain that weren’t his. And then…nothing. Nothing but the sound of his own harsh breathing in his ears. His own blood rushing through his veins and dripping onto the pavement.

  He waited for the blows to resume. Then, when they didn’t, for his body to begin its inevitable healing. Bones knit together, internal organs stopped bleeding, ruptured vessels repaired themselves. The haze receded. Aramael cracked open his eyelids and stared at his enemies, scattered on the pavement around him. He frowned. What the hell—?

  When enough of his pieces had moved back to where they belonged, he pushed himself gingerly into a sitting position, surveyed the Fallen Ones, and then raised his gaze to a form perched atop the fence. His jaw went slack. Cold fingers of fear—true fear—wrapped around his belly.

  Dropping to the ground, the Archangel stalked toward him, silent, watchful, grim. Aramael climbed to his feet and, heart thundering, eyed the warrior. Disbelief shocked through him.

  Over his entire existence, he’d rarely had more than a glimpse of any of the reclusive Archangels—other than when Raphael and Uriel had thrown him out of Heaven—but he didn’t remember seeing this one at all. If he wasn’t mistaken…

  The Archangel stopped a few feet away and folded his glossy black wings against his back. Aramael drew tall.

  “I won’t go without a fight,” he snarled. “I don’t care who ordered it.”

  The Archangel raised an eyebrow. “I’ve seen you fight,” he responded. “Forgive me if I’m not that concerned.”

  Aramael glared at him. The Archangel was right. He couldn’t even best a Fallen One and he wanted to stand up to one of Heaven’s enforcers? Even at the peak of his angelic strength as a Power, he’d been no match for an Archangel.

  Especially if this Archangel was who Aramael thought he was.

  “So is this how it ends? She changes her mind and, just like that, I’m exiled to Limbo?”

  “If that were her wish, then yes. That would be exactly how it would end.”

  Aramael wiped at the blood trickling from his nose. Details about the newcomer began to filter through. Wings folded. Archangels only folded their wings when they were relaxed. Expression bland. No Heavenly fire glowed in the green gaze regarding him with such—disdain? Aramael bridled anew and drew himself to his full height.

  “You have issues with me, Black One?” he challenged.

  The Archangel’s wings unfurled ever so slightly at the slur. A reference not to the color of his wings, but to the black souls his kind were said to possess. Souls burned by Hellfire itself when they forced Lucifer across the barrier between Heaven and Hell, into the realm the One had allowed him. An unsubstantiated rumor, but one that nonetheless enjoyed widespread belief among angelkind.

  “Watch yourself, Power,” the Archangel drawled. “I may not exile you to Limbo, but I’d be quite happy to let these three at you again.” He furled his wings. “And to answer your question, any issues I might have are irrelevant.”

  “Then suppose you tell me what is relevant.”

  “My task. And yours.”<
br />
  Aramael frowned. “Task?”

  “Your Creator needs you, Aramael of the Powers.” The Archangel smiled tightly. “And judging by the company you keep, you need me.”

  FOURTEEN

  Alex paused, coffee cup halfway to her mouth, as a man slid into the restaurant booth opposite her. Showing none of her surprise at the intrusion, she ran a cop’s gaze over him. Early forties; closely shorn dark hair salted with gray; an off-the-rack suit sitting across his shoulders in a way that hinted at regular exercise. She raised an eyebrow at the sunglasses hiding his eyes.

  “Vancouver PD, I presume?” She took the sip of coffee he had interrupted, and then set the cup on the table beside the remains of her breakfast.

  Her uninvited companion’s lips curved upward. But only slightly. “You sound like you were expecting me.”

  “Not really. But I’m not surprised Riley sicced you on me.”

  The man hadn’t removed his sunglasses yet, and Alex steeled herself against a surge of annoyance at the intimidation tactic.

  “How did you know where to look for me?” Pretending idleness, she flipped the page of the newspaper she’d been scanning.

  “You needed breakfast. On a cop’s salary, you wouldn’t be going anywhere fancy. This is the closest place to your hotel.”

  Not bad.

  “Hugh Henderson,” he added. “Detective, Sex Crimes. Aren’t you going to ask why I’m here?”

  “I’m guessing Riley hopes you can get more information out of me than she did.” Alex sighed and rested her chin in one hand. “And that you ran Seth’s name and came up dry.”

  The sunglasses reflected her own gaze back to her. After a long moment, Henderson slipped them off and tucked them into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. Light glinted off the plain gold band he wore on his left ring finger. Hazel eyes regarded her coolly.

  “You knew we wouldn’t get anything.”

  Alex nodded.

  “So that’s not really his name, then.”

  Alex moved her hand up to rub a temple. How to phrase this so she didn’t dig her current hole any deeper? And so Henderson didn’t accompany her back to the airport and put her on the next flight home?