Sins of the Lost gl-3

by Linda Poitevin

We all did.

  “Rest,” he said. “Get your strength back. I’ll have one of the Virtues bring you tea.”

  His Creator didn’t reply.

  Chapter 67

  Alex steeled herself, opened Homicide’s door, and stepped inside. A dozen heads swiveled instantly in her direction. Shit. With it being Saturday, she’d hoped fewer people would be in. But given the state of affairs in the city, she supposed she shouldn’t be surprised. Roberts had warned everyone there would be ample overtime. A woman emerged from the file room at the back of the office. Even, apparently, for the civilian staff.

  Steeling herself for the fourteenth time since entering the elevator in the parkade, she forced her feet to carry her into the room. She stopped at the edge of a gathering and nodded at the television they’d been focused on before her arrival.

  “Anything important?” Please, please, please don’t let it be a rerun of me surviving the explosion in Ottawa. She’d watched the newscast a dozen times last night after Seth left. It had become more damning with every viewing. Anyone who knew her would recognize her, and judging by the silence that greeted her just now, everyone here had.

  Her colleagues exchanged glances, and then Joly spoke up. “You haven’t heard this morning’s news?”

  She shook her head. She usually listened to the radio on the way into work, but not today. She hadn’t been able to tolerate the noise. Not with so much already going on in her brain.

  “The better part of New York State’s shoreline was hit by a freak wave sometime around two a.m. Up to fifteen feet in some places. There are dozens missing, including a Boy Scout troop.”

  Alex blinked, trying to process his words. “New York City, you mean?” she asked. “The coast?”

  Joly shook his head. “Lake Ontario.”

  “A freak wave. In Lake Ontario.”

  “From Irondequoit to Lost Nation State Forest. That’s where the scout troop was camping. They’re calling it a . . .” Joly looked to his partner for help.

  “A meteotsunami,” Abrams supplied. “A tsunami caused by weather rather than an earthquake.”

  “Except there was no storm,” Bastion added. “Nothing to cause it. Just the wave and more than a hundred miles of shoreline submerged.”

  And now she had the answer to the question that had kept her awake most of the night. Until sheer, crippling exhaustion had sucked her into sleep—around the same time as that wave had struck New York State. Seth had taken back his powers. He was gone. In spite of the veiled threat he’d made as he’d stormed out—“We’re nowhere near done”—he’d come around. Seen her point. And left without saying good-bye. Damn, but she hadn’t expected that.

  “You’re not going to pass out are you?” Joly peered at her in sudden alarm. “You just went the color of the walls. Are you supposed to be here today? Shouldn’t you be at home resting or something?”

  Alex huddled into the coat she hadn’t yet taken off. “I’m fine,” she said gruffly. “Just tired. I should go check in with Roberts.”

  Her fellow detectives stepped back to make way for her. She passed between them, trying not to feel like she was running a gauntlet. She worked with these people. She knew them. They might have questions, but she was still one of them, wasn’t she? They’d still have her back, wouldn’t they?

  Bastion’s voice stopped her. “Jarvis. What Joly told you yesterday. He’s right. We’ll find her for you. Your niece, I mean.”

  Tears she hadn’t been able to find the night before flooded her eyes. Gritting her teeth so hard they hurt, she nodded blindly, not daring to turn, and somehow found her way to Roberts’s office door. Her supervisor looked up at her tap, scowled, and beckoned her inside.

  “You look like death,” he informed her when she pushed the door open. “Why are you here?”

  “Could you stay home?”

  He sighed and waved her to a seat. “Fine. I needed to talk to you anyway.”

  Her heart stumbled. Jen? She hadn’t called the hospital to check on her, hadn’t been able to work up the stomach for it. The thought of her sister tied to a bed—

  “Jarvis?”

  She realized Roberts had been speaking to her. “Sorry, I didn’t hear.”

  “I asked who you pissed off in Ottawa. You’ve been seconded to the RCMP antiterrorism unit. They’ve set up a—”

  Alex bolted upright. “That son of a bitch. I told him I wouldn’t go!”

  Roberts, his mouth still open to speak, regarded her. Then he stood, crossed the room, and closed the door, shutting out the others’ voices, the ring of a telephone, a bark of laughter that was horribly out of place in her world.

  “Sit,” he ordered. “Talk.”

  She threw herself back into the chair, wincing at the pull of fabric against the stitches on her thighs and abdomen. “Where do you want me to start?”

  Roberts returned to the desk but not his chair. He sat on the edge, one leg dangling, arms crossed, jaw set. “At the beginning,” he said. “And I want all of it. It’s time.”

  It took ten minutes to undo all the good accomplished by Michael’s little memory-wipe trick two days before—and then some. She started with Caim and Aramael, continued with Seth and Michael and Lucifer, finished with the missing scrolls, her visit to Ottawa, and what Boileau had told her about the children at the study centers—now also missing. When she was done, Roberts remained silent for long seconds, hands on hips, staring out the window behind his desk.

  “So let me make sure I have all this straight,” he said at last. “Heaven and Hell are at war on some other plane, but the fighting might spill over to here. Seth, who you’ve been living with for the past three weeks, is the son of God and Lucifer—”

  “The One,” Alex corrected.

  Roberts shot her a dark look. “Whatever. You think he’s taken back his powers, which might have caused the disturbance in Lake Ontario last night, and gone back to Heaven.”

  She nodded.

  “And now we’ve lost track of these Nephilim children, and your niece . . .” He shook his head slowly. “You’re sure it was Lucifer.”

  “Positive.”

  Roberts stared out the window in silence. Then, quietly and succinctly, said, “Fucking goddamn son of a bitch.”

  That pretty much encompassed it, all right. Alex waited through another silence. She’d had weeks to pull together the details she’d just given her supervisor. Weeks to absorb the new reality of her world. He didn’t have that luxury. Roberts scrubbed a hand over his head and swung around to face her. His hands went back to his hips.

  “I think I prefer Ottawa’s alien theory,” he muttered. “At least we might have been able to fight back. But if you’re right about this, about angels and Lucifer and Armageddon—how the hell do we protect ourselves from that?”

  “We don’t. The war is between Heaven and Hell. We have no control over it and wouldn’t want to get involved even if we could. What we need to focus on is the human reaction. World Health can cry virus all it wants, but once the rest of the babies are born—”

  “Wait. There are more?”

  She thought back over her explanation and realized she’d left out that little detail. Probably because it had become so personal now that Nina—she shied away from the idea. Bracing herself to deliver the news, she met her staff inspector’s gaze as steadily as she could while wanting nothing more than to crawl under the desk and hide. From him, from the world, from the chaos, from the pain she knew still waited for her whether she found her niece or not.

  The door opened, and Bastion’s stammer preempted her. “The news—the babies—”

  Without a word, she left Roberts to trail in her wake as she followed her colleague out to join the others. She knew what she would hear before she came in range of the newscaster’s voice.

  Knew, because it had been three weeks since the alley in Vancouver. Three weeks since Lucifer had announced his plans for an army.

  Which meant the Nephilim pregnancies
had reached term.

  All eighty thousand of them.

  Less Nina.

  Chapter 68

  Striding up the boulder-strewn hill, Mika’el scanned the waiting Archangels and jabbed his finger at Uriel. “Report,” he barked.

  The fair-haired Archangel didn’t so much as blink at the peremptoriness. “Major flickers along the entire length, but it’s holding. For now.”

  “Was it down long enough to get a look at the other side?”

  “Word is still coming in, but so far we think in the neighborhood of ten thousand.”

  “Ten—” Michaela’s step hitched. He stopped and scowled. “That’s a fraction of their number. Where in bloody Hell are the other ninety?”

  “Nearly ten thousand are held in Limbo,” Gabriel offered.

  “That still puts them down eighty.”

  “Perhaps they’re just not all waiting along the Hellfire border,” Zachariel said. “We’re not keeping our entire force there, either.”

  “No, but we have a great deal more there than they have. Sam—” Azrael shot a quick look at Raphael, whose expression had gone stony, then continued. “Samael knows how we think, and he’s too good a strategist to leave their front line so weak.”

  Mika’el flexed his fingers, stiff inside their armored gloves. His glare passed over the group once, twice, and then a third time. He scowled. “Where the Hell is Aramael? Did he not get an invitation to the party?”

  “He did,” Raphael said. “I delivered it myself.”

  Mika’el considered asking if the other Archangel had delivered anything else at the same time, such as an incapacitating beating, but he refrained. Raphael had made his views on Aramael’s appointment clear, but he was still one of them. Still an Archangel. He would follow his orders to the letter, whether he agreed with them or not.

  Aramael, on the other hand—

  He’d deal with that issue later. “I think Azrael is right. The Fallen have been waiting more than four millennia for the Hellfire to weaken, so they won’t be just lounging around somewhere. If Samael doesn’t have them on the front line, where are they? What are we missing?”

  “The Nephilim,” said a new voice.

  Mika’el glowered over his shoulder. “You’re late.”

  “Verchiel had news she thought you would want.” Aramael climbed the last few yards to join them. “Some of the Guardians have reported that the Fallen are watching the pregnant women. They’re stopping them from harming either themselves or the babies they carry. Verchiel has sent word to all the Guardians to check in on their wards and report back to her, but I’d say chances are good that’s what’s keeping the Fallen otherwise occupied at the moment.”

  Of course. Lucifer would be taking no chances with his army. Mika’el stared out over the barren sweep of land below their vantage point. “If that’s the case,” he said at last, “this standoff could end at any moment. Let’s be ready.”

  He watched the others depart, each to his or her own duties, and then, turning toward the Hellfire, he launched himself into the air.

  Chapter 69

  Verchiel dropped to her knees beside the frail figure outstretched on the floor. She placed the back of her hand to the One’s parted lips, exhaling her own breath only when she felt warmth stir against her skin.

  “Who else knows?” she demanded.

  The Virtue who had come for her shook her head. “No one, Highest. When I found her like this, I came straight to you.”

  Thank all of Creation for that. Sliding an arm under the One’s shoulders, Verchiel looked up at the Virtue.

  “You’d be more help getting her up than just standing there, Sachiel.”

  “Oh! Oh, of course.”

  The petite angel stooped to support the One’s other side, and together they lifted her from the floor. Dark eyes, heavy with worry, met Verchiel’s.

  “She’s . . . awfully light,” Sachiel murmured.

  Insubstantial, Verchiel mentally corrected her. The word you want is insubstantial.

  “Put her on the chaise,” she directed.

  Together they carried their Creator across the room. Pale silver eyes fluttered open as they laid her gently onto the chaise longue. The One looked between them, confusion furrowing her brow, and then her gaze settled on Verchiel.

  “My dear, sweet Verchiel,” she murmured sadly. “I think all might truly be lost.”

  Verchiel’s stomach made a sickening lunge toward her toes. She leveled a glare at Sachiel, now at the foot of the chaise. “Mika’el,” she snapped. “Find him. Now. And, Sachiel, not a word to anyone else. Am I clear?”

  The Virtue nodded vigorously and scuttled from the room. Reaching down, Verchiel grasped the blanket folded near the One’s feet. She shook it out and placed it over the tiny figure, tucking it tenderly into place. Then she perched on the edge, beside her Creator.

  “You should rest before you try to talk,” she said. She took the One’s hand in her own, trying hard to still the flutterings of panic in her breast. Did they have time to let her rest, or . . . ?

  “What can I do?” she asked.

  “I’m afraid there’s nothing anyone can do. Not anymore.” Anguish clouded her silver eyes. “I thought I would be all right once Seth took back his powers, but I underestimated the effect on me. I’m worn out, Verchiel. Weak. Lucifer’s army has been born, and now he will destroy everything I have ever created, everything I have ever loved, and I won’t be able to lift a hand against him.”

  The One gave a bitter laugh and raised her free hand, frail and almost translucent. “At the rate I’m fading, I won’t have a hand to lift. And all because I waited too long. Trusted too much. Loved too completely.”

  The One’s eyes drifted closed as Verchiel sought words of comfort. But if such words existed, she couldn’t find them. Not when she knew what was in store for humanity and angelkind alike. For all of them. She stared out the window at the gardens, gripping the One’s hand and hoping that her presence brought some modicum of ease, until a small sound from the doorway drew her attention. Sachiel.

  She raised an eyebrow, and the Virtue tiptoed in, glancing anxiously at the resting figure on the chaise.

  “Did you find him?” Verchiel asked.

  The Virtue shook her head. “He and the others are patrolling the Hellfire. I’ve sent a messenger, but it will take time.”

  She would have to handle this on her own, then. Verchiel waited for the tightness in her throat to subside before she dismissed Sachiel. The One’s eyes opened and followed the Virtue’s departing form. Then she withdrew her hand from Verchiel’s and tucked it beneath the blanket.

  “I think I’ll rest for a bit,” she said. “When Mika’el returns, will you send him to me?”

  “Of course.” Verchiel rose and then impulsively, swiftly, stooped to press her lips to her Creator’s forehead. “Just so you know, none of this changes how much we love you,” she whispered, her voice fierce. “Forever.”

  The One turned her head away.

  Verchiel remained beside her for a few seconds more, staring down, hurting for herself and the others, but mostly for the One. To have been so much, so great, so powerful, and then—this. Condemned to fade away with agonizing slowness, knowing that all she had created would fade along with her? It was wrong. Verchiel lifted her chin.

  It was wrong, and it wasn’t going to happen.

  Not if she could help it.

  Chapter 70

  Alex stared at the television screen long after someone—she didn’t see who—switched it off. Silence hung over the room, heavy with unease, thick with disbelief. Beside her, Joly rubbed his mustache, making a harsh rasp of sound in the stillness. Alex inhaled. Exhaled.

  “How many?”

  Roberts’s voice made her jump. She looked around and found him standing gray-faced and grim at the edge of the group.

  “How many?” he repeated. He waved at the television. “Of them.”

  Them. The babies. Babies
who would become soldiers in Lucifer’s army against humanity.

  “A lot,” she said. She hesitated, debating the wisdom of holding this conversation in front of the others. But if the media were already reporting the births, there seemed little point in hiding what she knew from the people she worked with. The people she trusted most in the world. Especially when it was only a matter of time before the numbers became obvious.

  Her gaze swept over her colleagues, returned to Roberts. “Eighty thousand.”

  “Eighty . . .” Joly trailed off. His shock was mirrored in the others’ faces.

  Roberts cleared his throat. “ “Damn,” he said. “And the women—?”

  “All of them.”

  “What the hell, Jarvis?” Abrams shoved himself upright from the desk he’d been leaning on. “How can you know numbers like that? What do you know that you’re not—”

  Their supervisor cut him off. “Not now, Abrams.”

  “But—” Abrams met Roberts’s hard look and subsided with a mutter.

  Roberts turned back to Alex. “This is why Ottawa wants you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you do anything?” he asked.

  “I’ve already told them everything I know, so . . . no. I can’t.”

  Her supervisor studied the floor at his feet. “My hands are tied, Alex. The order is signed by the security minister himself.”

  Damn Boileau.

  “I’m not going. Not until I find Nina.”

  Alex watched Roberts’s mouth compress. At last he nodded.

  “I’ll tell them,” he said. “Is there anything else I need to—”

  A shudder rippled through the floor. Before anyone could do more than look puzzled, Homicide’s main door blasted inward. It sailed halfway across the room, narrowly missing Raymond Joly’s head before landing at their feet. Detectives and office staff alike scrambled for whatever cover was nearest. Almost as one, those that were cops drew their weapons and pointed them at the man standing in the doorway. All but Alex, whose heart turned to lead.