Sins of the Lost gl-3

by Linda Poitevin

  Be careful what you say, what you tell them. Protect our secrets.

  All valid warnings, but if they’d called her to Ottawa, it was almost certainly too late for careful. And far too late for secrets.

  She followed the young man down the hallway. Her cell phone vibrated with another call from Jen—the fourth one this morning. Thumb poised over the buttons, Alex hesitated. Then, as the administrative assistant stopped in front of a door and looked askance at her, she smothered her guilt and touched the button to ignore the call. Jen hadn’t left a voice message with any of her other calls, so it wasn’t urgent. It would wait until tonight.

  Stepping past the assistant, she entered the room and scanned its occupants. Three men, one woman, all seated at a small, circular table; all wearing suits and the vaguely harried expressions of those who carried too much responsibility. She recognized none of them.

  But she did recognize the logo of the Toronto coroner’s office on the DNA report laid out on the table.

  One of the men, middle-aged and balding, with the lean look of a habitual runner, stood. “Detective Jarvis, I didn’t realize you’d been injured. I hope the trip wasn’t too much for you.”

  She touched fingertips to the healing cuts on her face. “It’s nothing,” she said. “Superficial.”

  He nodded. “Well, thank you for coming. I’m Stephane Boileau, aide to the minister of public security. This is Frank Allan from CSIS, Vic Hamilton from the RCMP, and Madeleine Renault from the GOC.”

  The Canadian Security Intelligence Service, the national police force, and the Government Operations Centre responsible for coordinating the country’s emergency response management. Oh, yeah. The time for secrets had definitely passed.

  Alex shook hands with everyone and then took the only empty seat.

  Stephane Boileau slid a pair of wire-framed glasses onto his nose and pulled a notebook toward him. Turning to a clean page, he jotted down a note. Alex waited. At last he looked up.

  “Detective, I trust you understand that what we’re about to discuss here is highly sensitive.”

  “I’m fairly adept at keeping secrets, Mr. Boileau.”

  He peered at her over the glasses, then nodded. “Bon,” he said in French. Good. “Then we begin. You know why you are here, of course?”

  Because I know things you don’t. “Not exactly, no.”

  “There have been a number of unusual occurrences across the country. The serial killer in Toronto, an amnesiac man who disappeared from a Vancouver hospital, the DNA match between the children born of these pregnancies and a”—Boileau looked down at the papers before him—“a claw. These things, along with the freak earthquake that hit Vancouver . . .” His voice trailed off and he raised his eyes back up to hers. “Detective, your name seems to be the one common thread between these incidents. We’d like to know why.”

  “You forgot to add the scrolls to your list.”

  Boileau and the others exchanged a flurry of glances. For a shot in the dark, her accuracy was impressive. Boileau cleared his throat.

  “You know about the scrolls.”

  She nodded.

  “And did you know they’re missing?”

  “Missing?”

  “The Church reported the theft to Interpol yesterday, but they’ve been missing for more than a week.”

  Hell. She’d known it was just a matter of time before those damn things bit them on the ass.

  Resting his elbows on the table, Boileau folded his hands and leaned forward. “I’ll be blunt, Detective Jarvis. We’re dealing with a highly nervous population. That makes us nervous, too. We know what’s in the scrolls and what the DNA evidence tells us, and we know that—somehow—you’re connected to everything that’s happening. If we’re going to keep a lid on this, however, we need to know more. We need to know everything.”

  Alex stared out the window. The drizzle that had started while they were in the taxi from the airport had settled into a steady, miserable downpour. She grimaced, picturing her umbrella on the closet shelf at home.

  “Well?” Boileau prompted.

  “You must have theories,” she said, knowing full well she attempted to sidestep the inevitable. Maybe she should have let Aramael come into the meeting with her after all. Maybe he could have done one of those memory-wipe tricks and made all of this just go the hell away.

  “Detective—”

  She shoved back the chair and stood. Arms crossed, she paced the width of the meeting room. “What if I told you it was true?”

  “The information in the scrolls?”

  “Yes.”

  Boileau tapped his pen against the table. “What if I told you we already believed it?”

  Tension she hadn’t known she held in her shoulders slipped away with a suddenness that made them sag. She stopped pacing and stared at the others. Not one gaze turned from hers. “Seriously?”

  “Not exactly as written, of course. The scrolls are thousands of years old, after all, written when humans had little to no understanding of possibilities such as extraterrestrials, and—”

  “Extraterrestrials?”

  “Of course. That is your explanation for this, isn’t it? We’ve been studying the possibility for years. Decades, even. It would be arrogant in the extreme to believe ourselves the only life in the universe, after all. And now that the children born of these pregnancies are exhibiting such unusual traits—”

  “Wait,” she interrupted. “Unusual how?”

  The minister’s aide leaned back with a sigh. He exchanged another look with one of his companions, the woman from the GOC, who shrugged in response. Your call, the gesture said.

  “Inhumanly so,” Boileau said. “They’re continuing to mature at a phenomenal rate, their IQs are off the charts . . .”

  She waited, certain he hadn’t finished.

  But it was the woman who continued. “There’s evidence of other traits as well,” she said. “Violent ones. And . . .”

  Alex stared at them, but the four gazes that had so willingly held hers a moment before had settled with steadfast focus on the table before them. “And?” she prompted.

  “And they’ve disappeared,” Boileau said. “Two days ago.”

  Chapter 51

  “You wanted to see me?”

  Lucifer looked up at the owner of the rumbling voice, a former Virtue whose massive form filled the doorway. “Qemuel. Come in.”

  Qemuel’s gaze flicked to the bloodied bundle of rags in front of the fireplace. Then, with a shrug, he strolled over to stand before Lucifer’s desk, his hands folded loosely before him. Every inch a thug, he had always done what was asked of him without question. Unlike certain other Fallen Ones.

  “I have a task for you.” Lucifer tipped back in his swivel chair. “The Naphil you were tracking for Samael a few days ago—do you remember her? Where she lives?”

  “And where she works.”

  “Excellent. I want her sister.”

  “Dead?”

  “Alive. Find her, then come and get me.”

  “I thought Samael was watching her now.”

  “So did I. If you run across him, make sure he doesn’t see you.”

  The former Virtue raised an eyebrow, glanced again at the rags, and unfolded his hands. “Done,” he said. “Should I send someone in to clean that up for you?”

  Lucifer looked over at what remained of Raziel. “Thank you, but no. I’m not done with it yet.”

  With a last shrug, Qemuel ambled back out the way he’d come in.

  * * *

  Seth stood up from the computer and stretched tall to rid his back and shoulders of their kinks. How mortals put in entire days sitting at one of these was beyond him. Why they did it, even more so. He glanced at the clock. Ten fifteen. Alex would be in Ottawa by now.

  With Aramael.

  He shoved away the insidious thought. He wasn’t going there anymore. Not after last night. Just as he wasn’t reading any more of the trash his father had wri
tten. His gaze fell on the journal lying on the dining room table where he’d placed it after Alex’s departure. It hadn’t been replaced, hadn’t moved.

  “Wherever you are,” he said to the empty room, “you were wrong about her, so you might as well come and get your damned book. I’m through playing your little game.”

  The doorbell rang.

  He stared down the hall. The Fallen—? Giving himself a mental shake, he started for the door. Of course it wasn’t the Fallen One. The too-polite Mika’el, maybe, but not his supremely confident visitor. He pulled open the door.

  “Jennifer?”

  Alex’s sister studied the door frame. “Is she here?”

  “She’s in Ottawa—did she not call you?”

  Jennifer’s looked up and then away again. “No. She’s not answering my calls or my texts.”

  “She’s been—”

  “Oh, don’t you start, too.” She glared at him. “I’ve seen the news. I get that she’s busy, and I get that she’s angry with me. She has a right to be. But she has no right to take it out on my daughter. She could have at least called to tell Nina she couldn’t make it last night.”

  “I’m sorry, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Jennifer puffed up like an angry Cherub. “It was my daughter’s seventeenth birthday dinner last night, Seth. Alex promised her she’d be there. You were both supposed to be there.”

  “I’m sure she just forgot.”

  “That’s the point. Oh, never mind.” Jennifer threw up her arms in disgust. “Just tell her she owes Nina a massive apology for this. Assuming she can spare her family two minutes away from saving the world.”

  Seth watched Alex’s indignant sibling march down the corridor and around the corner to the elevators. He’d never imagined connecting with Jennifer on any level. Odd how he actually found it comforting to know he wasn’t the only one struggling with Alex’s heroic tendencies. About to close the door, he paused as a movement near the end of the hallway caught his attention. He narrowed his eyes. The Fallen One, come to retrieve the journal?

  But the man stepping out of the shadows and pushing open the door to the stairwell was a stranger to him. A great, hulking stranger, perhaps, but unknown nonetheless. Seth shoved away the last threads of paranoia and closed the door.

  Chapter 52

  Samael scuffed a toe against the crumbling stone path. What was taking Raziel so long? He shivered in the damp chill. Lucifer never had managed to get the temperature right in this godforsaken place. Or much else, for that matter. The only creature comfort to be found in all of Hell was in front of one of its many fireplaces. Perhaps Seth would have more luck.

  And more interest.

  He peered down the path. Raziel’s message had said urgent, but if she didn’t show up in the next five—

  A wad of rags sailed out of the trees and landed at his feet. Samael stepped back, wrinkling his nose at the stench of urine and feces rising from the pile. And was that blood he smelled? What the—

  “I believe that’s yours,” a voice said, its very neutrality making it sound deadly.

  Lucifer.

  Ice shot through Samael’s bowels. How—?

  “You really should choose your help with more care, my friend.” Polished black shoes came into view beside the bundle. “She didn’t even try to hold back.”

  One of the shoes prodded at the pile. A pale, slender arm flopped out of the folds and onto the path. Samael closed his eyes. Bloody Heaven. Raziel. Samael was as good as dead. Footsteps circled him. He went rigid, waiting for the first blow. Lucifer chuckled.

  “You think I’d make it that easy for you, Archangel?” His voice had gone soft. “Oh, no. I want to know things first. Such as what it is you’re up to, who else is in on it, whether you’ve managed to disrupt my plan—”

  “Your precious plan,” Samael snarled, his eyes snapping open.

  Lucifer went still. Marble still. He tipped his head to one side, purple eyes curious. “Have you always had such an inordinate desire for pain, or is this relatively new?”

  A bead of sweat trickled down Samael’s temple, trailing cold in its wake. “I only meant—”

  “I know what you meant.” Lucifer resumed his slow circling. “We haven’t seen eye to eye for quite some time now. In and of itself, that’s not such a bad thing, really. I think it’s quite healthy for two intelligent beings to disagree on occasion. My problem—” The footsteps stopped directly behind Samael, and warm breath stirred against his ear. “My problem lies with your continued inability to recall which one of us is in command here, Samael. Especially after I’ve already reminded you. Twice.”

  Cruel hands clamped down on his shoulders. “Now, why don’t we—”

  “Lucifer,” a new voice rumbled.

  Lucifer’s hands squeezed, sending pain streaking through Samael and felling him to his knees. “This had better be—” The hands dropped away. “Qemuel. You found her already?”

  “It wasn’t difficult.”

  “You hear that, Sam?” Lucifer grabbed Samael’s chin and twisted it up and around until he looked him in the eye. “It wasn’t difficult. That makes me wonder what your problem was all this time, you know.” He released him again with a pat on the cheek that snapped Samael’s head sideways. “We’ll take this up again later, Archangel. And if you were thinking of running, please, be my guest. It will make this much more interesting—and we both know I’ll find you.”

  Terror—utter, paralyzing terror—robbed Samael of the capacity to stand after Lucifer’s departure. Long minutes dragged by, more than he cared to acknowledge, before he felt the blood return to his veins, the tone to his muscles. He dragged himself upright. He’d expected Lucifer to find out eventually, but not this soon. He wasn’t ready—Seth wasn’t ready. Another few days . . .

  He stared at what was left of Raziel. He didn’t have a few days. A few hours, maybe—or as long as he could stay ahead of Lucifer—but that was all. If he was going to pull this off, somehow he had to find the words to tip Seth over the edge now.

  He stepped over the fouled clothing, past the pale arm. He’d speak with Mittron first. The Seraph’s plan to cause Armageddon in the first place had more than demonstrated his ability for scheming. Maybe he could be of more use than just unlocking the gates of Limbo.

  Assuming the drugs hadn’t fried all his brain cells by now.

  Chapter 53

  Alex closed the meeting room door behind her and headed for the elevator. Aramael fell into step at her side as she passed the waiting area. She felt his gaze on her, but he remained quiet. Blessedly so, because she was in no way ready to share all that she had learned in that meeting. She still hadn’t processed it herself.

  The elevator doors slid open at the touch of a button, and they stepped inside. She took her cell phone from its holster and dialed her voice mail. Four messages. One from Roberts, reminding her he expected a call; three from Jen the previous day. At each sound of her sister’s voice, Alex pressed the button to skip the message, swallowing her guilt at doing so. She just couldn’t deal with Jen on top of everything else right now.

  Alex returned the cell phone to its case and closed her eyes, letting her head drop back against the wall.

  Aramael’s voice broke into her attempt to stop thinking. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

  “Ask your Guardians.”

  “I could, but it would save time if you told me yourself.”

  She remained stubbornly silent. Aramael’s clothing rustled as he shifted position. The elevator continued its descent, bumping past another floor.

  Lifting her head, she regarded him. “Why are we bothering with this?”

  “Bothering with what?”

  “Any of it. Tracking down the Nephilim, convincing Seth to take back his powers.”

  Sudden interest gleamed in Aramael’s eyes. “You’ve decided to help with that?”

  Trust him to zero in on that rather than the q
uestion. She scowled. “I’m serious, Aramael. What’s the point of any of it? Humanity has never been so far advanced and so far behind all at the same time. We’re consuming more than the Earth can produce. We’ve created enough weaponry to destroy ourselves several times over. We’re pushing the limits of our very existence—hell, the whole goddamn planet’s existence—past the point of no return, and we know it, but we’re too goddamn arrogant to care. What, in all of that, is worth saving?”

  “Not all of you are like that.”

  She snorted. “There are more than seven billion of us, Aramael. Expecting a handful to be able to sway the masses is like asking us to empty the Atlantic with a teaspoon.”

  The number three over the elevator doors glowed red, then the two, then the letters RC for rez-de-chausée. Ground floor. The elevator jolted to a stop.

  “Maybe this entire war is too late,” she said wearily. “Maybe Lucifer has already won.”

  “You wouldn’t be doing what you do if you believed that.”

  “Being a cop, you mean?” She snorted. “Most days that only makes me wonder more.”

  The elevator doors slid open, and she stepped out, Aramael close behind.

  Alex turned up the collar on her coat against the frigid wind and pulled gloves from her pockets as they emerged onto the street. At least the rain had stopped. Turning right, she headed toward Parliament Hill.

  “The Nephilim children that have already been born are missing,” she said. She stopped at the intersection and gazed across the street at a majestic stone building rising from an expanse of lawn, flanked on either side by similar buildings, together forming the seat of the Canadian government.

  Her companion’s stride faltered. “You’re sure?”

  “Only the governments that will admit to having held them for study in the first place are confirming, but yes, we’re pretty sure. I’m assuming it’s not Heaven rounding them up.”

  “You know we won’t interfere like that. It’s most likely Lucifer. He’ll want to control their upbringing.”