“Seth,” she whispered.
Chapter 71
Lucifer approached the lone figure waiting by the water, crimson robes billowing about her. Innate caution kept his gaze roving the deserted land and seascape, but he saw no other presence, angelic or otherwise. Felt nothing amiss. His hand closed over the folded note handed to him by one of the Fallen a few minutes before. He was still reeling from its receipt. Heaven’s Highest Seraph, requesting an audience with him.
Not even demanding.
Requesting.
He reached the angel at the sea’s edge and stood beside her. “You wanted to see me.”
“Yes. Thank you for coming.”
He raised an eyebrow. Shot another suspicious look at their surroundings. “Please and thank you. Not words I ever expected to hear from the Highest Seraph.”
“She’s dying, Lucifer.”
Shock threatened to drop him to his knees before he shook it off. Don’t be ridiculous. She can’t mean—
The Highest Seraph turned to him, her face lined with weariness, worry, despair. His shock returned, ricocheting through his soul with the speed of an Archangel’s sword and wreaking nearly as much damage. He staggered, caught himself, managed to remain upright. He was the Light-bearer. He would not fall before one of Heaven.
“I don’t believe you,” he said. I can’t believe you. “She is the One, the Creator of All. She can’t just die.”
Destroy herself in the process of ending him, perhaps, but die?
“She can, and she is.”
“But—how?”
“Seth. The powers he gave up were damaging the Earth. Controlling them, stabilizing them, took everything she had.”
“He took his powers back. We all felt it. She’ll recover.”
The Seraph shook her head. “I hoped for that, too, but it’s getting worse. She’s . . . fading. She doesn’t have much time left, and she no longer has the ability to do what she’d hoped.”
“To what, lead Heaven against me?” he snarled. “You think I’m going to feel bad about that?”
“She wanted to bind with you.”
It wasn’t the response he’d expected. It wasn’t even within the realm of what he might have imagined.
“Bind with me?”
“She never stopped missing you, Lucifer. You are her Light-bearer, her helpmeet, her other half. There was—is—no other way she can be with you again.”
Odd, how difficult it had become to breathe. He flared his nostrils. Narrowed his eyes. Regarded the Seraph with suspicion. “What exactly are you asking of me, Seraph?”
“I’m asking you to do what she cannot.”
“Give up my fight, you mean?” He gave a bark of laughter. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Did Mika’el put you up to this? Or was it she herself?”
“Neither of them knows I’ve come to you, and it’s not about giving up the fight, it’s about understanding that there is no more fight. Not for you, and not for her.” Her pale blue eyes regarded him steadily, sadly, seeing far more of him than he would have liked. “Everything you’ve done, everything you are—all of it is because of the love you bear for her. Because you hope—have always hoped—that she would see her folly and return you to her side. But now—Lucifer, if she dies without you now, you’ll have lost one another for eternity.”
The words, stark and untempered, drove the wind from him as nothing else could have done. He walked away, to the very edge of the water washing onto the sand in slow, rhythmic waves. It was a trick. It had to be a trick, because it couldn’t be real. The One couldn’t simply stop existing.
But if he believed, even for an instant, that the Highest Seraph told the truth, that she might be right—
A great, shuddering breath rose in him. He had to know. Had to see for himself. Then he would decide what to do. He turned back to the crimson-robed angel who waited.
“The Archangels?”
“Patrolling the Hellfire, but I have sent for Mika’el.”
He looked out over the water again. There would be risks. A chance that the Seraph lied to him, that this was all an elaborate trap. He examined his heart to see if the knowledge changed anything. It did not. He still needed to know.
“Understand that I make no promises,” he said.
The Highest Seraph nodded. “I know.”
Chapter 72
Lucifer paused on the top step of the One’s quarters and looked back over his shoulder at the gathering—and hostile—masses. Verchiel had assured him no one else would know of his presence here, but they had both underestimated the angelic grapevine. Within seconds of a startled Virtue crossing their path outside the rose garden, hundreds had blocked their route—grim-faced, silent, accusatory, giving way to the Highest Seraph’s authority only with great reluctance.
“Do they know?” he asked Verchiel. “That she’s . . . ?”
The Highest Seraph shook her head. “Not yet.”
He raised an eyebrow. “And do you not think you should tell them they’ll be without their Creator soon? If I were in charge—”
“You’re not.” Steady blue eyes met his. “Be very clear on that, Light-bearer. You are here for the One. Nothing else.”
Her hands twisted into the fabric of her robe, at odds with the confidence in her voice. Lucifer waited for the surge of enjoyment at knowing he inspired such disquiet, but he felt nothing. Nothing except an overwhelming desire to be home. Not home like this—he looked beyond the gathering of angels to the lush gardens and woods—but home with the One whose very life spark he shared. Had always shared. He held his hands out, palms forward, in a gesture of conciliation.
“Forgive me, Highest. Old habits die hard. Shall we?”
Several seconds passed before she stepped clear of the door and pulled one hand from the crimson folds. “After you.”
He preceded her into their Creator’s simply furnished abode, taking a moment on the threshold to let his eyes adjust to the dimness. Verchiel’s light touch against his back moved him forward, guided him toward the windows on the far side of the room, pressed him on when he would have stopped because his heart had already done so.
She sat in one of a pair of wingback chairs angled before the window, the light enveloping her body. Her eyes were closed, her hands folded in her lap, her face serene. Her demeanor spoke of one who waited, and his breath caught, rough and scraping in his suddenly constricted chest. He searched for but could not find his voice, and cleared his throat instead.
Silver eyes opened. Smiled. And instantly glowed with love.
Lucifer dropped to his knees before her and took her hands in his. Shock rippled through him at their fragility.
“Lucifer,” she said. “Bearer of light and my truth. It is good to see you.”
“And you,” he said. Eyes closed, he pressed his lips to her palms, first one, then the other. Inhaling her, tasting her, absorbing her.
A sigh shuddered through her. Her hands turned in his until she gripped back, holding onto him as he did her. His heart swelled with sweet, aching joy. This. This is what he had missed so terribly, what he had wanted to come home to. Her love, her compassion, her—he felt the One go still beneath his touch and sensed her gathering herself. He remembered what would come next. What had to come next. He tried to pull back, but her fingers clamped onto his, holding fast.
“Lucifer.”
Panic slammed through him. No. He couldn’t let her see. She would never love him if she saw—if she knew—his pull became frantic. Hers was stronger.
“Let me look at you,” she said.
He shook his head. “Please don’t,” he whispered.
One of her hands released his and lifted his chin. Her will surrounded him, pressed in on him, compelled him. He could have resisted. Fragility still underlay the All that had once been her presence, and it would have taken little effort to rise and walk away from her. But he did not. Instead, infinitely sad, he did her bidding and opened his eyes, the windows to his
twisted, damaged, hateful soul. Opened them, looked into hers, and waited for the Judgment he knew was coming. Knew he deserved.
Tears gathered in the One’s silver eyes. He blinked. She cried . . . for him?
“For us,” she said, stroking his cheek. “I cry for us.”
He recoiled. For us. But that meant—
Truth laid open his soul, sudden understanding his heart. For the first time, he grasped the full impact of his actions. She was his Creator—his other half, his better half—and for six millennia he had allowed pride and jealousy to come between them, to divide not just the world, but the two beings who most belonged together. He had sacrificed all that he might have had, all they might have been, in favor of nothing at all. He had given up this—her touch, her presence, her love—for a thousand journals filled with a handful of fading memories, a lifetime of wasted wishes.
A groan surfaced in his core, ripped through his body, turned harsh with agony in his own ears. He—he had done this. Not only to himself, but to the one he loved more than any other. He tried to push away, but the One’s arms went around him, pulling him close and holding him tight. Her presence seeped into him, scraping his soul clean, leaving him raw, bruised, achingly exposed.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered at last, when he could form words again. “I am so, so sorry for what I have done.”
“Oh, my Light-bearer, it is I who should beg your forgiveness. So much I could have done to prevent all that came between us. To have created you as I did, and then refuse to understand you . . .” She rested her forehead against his. “I have wronged us both. Wronged all of my creations with my stubbornness. I am sorry.”
It became his turn to hold her. He did so with tenderness and, as the years that had divided them began to slip away with every beat of her heart against his, a gratitude so intense that it took away his breath. Then, when she finally drew back, he pulled up the other chair—his chair, still sitting where he had left it six thousand years before—and settled into it.
“Tell me what you need me to do,” he said. “I’m ready.”
Chapter 73
Lucifer’s presence in Heaven slammed into Mika’el like a fist, stopping him in midair. He dropped to the ground to get his bearings. A dozen feet away, the Hellfire flickered and danced without sound, its heat making the feathers of his wings smolder. He ignored it, trying to pinpoint the Light-bearer’s whereabouts.
Had there been a breach? Why hadn’t someone sounded the alarm? And Lucifer? It made no sense that the Light-bearer himself would—
Every atom in his body crystallized into ice.
The Creator.
Bloody Hell, he’d left the One unprotected. He’d put every Archangel on patrol, leaving none behind to watch over the One even though he’d known she was weakened. Now Lucifer was here, in his territory, threatening her. Mika’el’s fury surged. He pulled his sword and threw himself from where he was to where he needed to be—landing in the One’s quarters in a whirl of battle-ready feathers, cyclonic wind, and shattering glass as every window in the building blew outward.
His gaze settled on Lucifer, seated in a chair beside the One. A glow enveloped the two of them, binding them together.
“Light-bearer!” Mika’el’s voice started as a low growl, rising to a shout at the end.
The glow wavered, settled, intensified. Sword high, he sprinted forward, driven by rage and hatred. His unfinished business with Lucifer was about to end. Here. Now. To—
“Mika’el.”
He pulled up short, nearly running over the Highest Seraph as she stepped in front of him and placed a hand on his chest. Her calm radiated outward, countering his own turbulence. He sidestepped, trying to shake her off; she followed.
“Mika’el,” she said again.
Her gentleness sliced through his fury, hobbling it. Hobbling him. He stopped trying to evade her and stared beyond, at the two seated before the blown-out window. She, the One, upright in her chair, eyes closed and face in deep repose. He, her Light-bearer, leaning forward, fingers entwined with hers. And around them both, that light. Emanating from each of them, encompassing them, tying them together . . .
Shutting out the rest of the universe.
His heart contracted. He was too late.
No.
He stepped forward again. Verchiel held firm against him.
“It’s what she wanted, Mika’el. What we told her we would give her.”
Mika’el shook his head, trying to reclaim his anger, needing it to hold at bay the grief clawing at his chest. His Creator, their Creator, the mother of them all, was leaving—and he hadn’t had a chance to say good-bye. Hadn’t told her how much he loved her, would always love her.
“She knows,” Verchiel assured him softly.
He didn’t want to listen. Fear—and the yawning emptiness looming inside him—demanded that he intrude, that he tear the One from the Light-bearer and insist that she stay and watch over her creations. That she finish what she had started. The weight of Heaven itself pressed down on his shoulders, his to bear when she was gone. His to lead in war, to watch over and protect, to hold together in her absence. He flinched from the enormity of the task—and from the part of him that silently raged against her for having left it to him.
But he said nothing, did nothing, because Verchiel was right. They had promised this to their Creator. Promised that they would let her go, that they would manage, that they would be all right without her. He released his breath in a long hiss.
The light from the two bodies surged, pulsed, struggled to merge. The look of concentration on Lucifer’s face became fierce, then panicky. His own light glowed bright, but the One’s began to fade. Beside Mika’el, Verchiel inhaled sharply.
Something was wrong.
“He’s killing her!” He wrenched his sword free of its sheath again and started toward Lucifer.
“No.” Verchiel caught his upraised arm, her hand surprisingly strong. “No, Mika’el, it’s not Lucifer. It’s you.”
Me! But—
Comprehension kicked him in the chest, knocking the wind out of him. Of course it was him. He was the one holding on, unable to let go. The One knew he’d lied about managing without her. Just as she knew he doubted, knew he resented, knew he was nowhere near ready to let her go.
She knew, and in that knowledge, remained tied to Heaven. To him.
For a moment, a brief, wholly selfish moment, he hesitated. Lucifer had begun a conversion to incorporeal energy that he most likely couldn’t stop. He would cease to be an issue for Heaven, no longer be able to interfere with the mortal race or rule over the Nephilim army he had created. Why not keep the One with them, then? Why not save her from this so that she could continue ruling, at least until they were ready to lose her? Until he was ready.
Words spoken by the One a few days before whispered again through his mind. “Loss isn’t something you’re ever ready for, my Archangel. It’s something you survive.” He shook his head at them, and his breath caught, harsh in his throat. But deny them as he might, they found a reluctant echo of truth in his heart.
His Creator was right. He would never be ready to lose her. None of them would, because the very concept of losing her was simply too big, too impossible. But the struggle to come to terms with it was his, not hers. And tying her to him, to them, because of his own shortcoming would be the ultimate betrayal of her love—and his own.
Lifting his head, Mika’el looked into the struggling glow around his Creator. A Creator that wanted—needed—to be more, to be whole again. Grief trickled into the vast hollowness that had become him. He studied the One, burning her every detail into his memory. He breathed in her presence one last time. And then he whispered the final words of release.
“I’ll miss you,” he said.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then the light around the One’s form gave a sudden surge, burgeoning outward to touch that of Lucifer. It meshed, merged, grew so bright that Mika’el raised
a hand to shield himself from it. But he didn’t look away. He would not miss this last moment with her. He could not.
Eyes watering, he stared into the growing brilliance, watching the two beings within merge until one was indiscernible from the other. One that he loved with all his soul, the other he had detested just as much—if not more. Two halves of a whole, the yin and yang of the universe, united again at last.
The light flared outward . . . and was gone.
But Mika’el swore he felt the brush of the One’s fingers against his cheek as it passed.
Chapter 74
Alex watched Seth’s advance across the office. Her brain screamed at her to run, but her feet were rooted to the floor. She schooled her features into a calm that couldn’t be further from truth and cleared her throat.
“Seth,” she said again. “What are you doing here?”
“I gave you what you wanted,” he said. He spread his hands wide and smiled, oblivious to the weapons trained on him. “Your world is safe. From me, at least.”
“I know,” she said. “Thank you.”
“And now it’s your turn.”
“My turn?”
“To give me what I want,” Seth said, coming to a halt in front of her, mere inches away. “What we both want.”
What we—? The question died unformed as she tipped back her head to meet the black void of what had once been his gaze. Her innermost self went still. She’d forgotten what his power looked like. No. Scratch that. She’d never seen his power look anything like this.
“Now that I have my power back,” he continued softly, “I can make you like me.”
Apprehension dug its claws into her shoulders. “I don’t understand.”
“Immortal, Alex. I can make you immortal, so we can be together always.”
All around her, hands holding weapons wavered and then steadied. At her side, Roberts took a step forward, scowling. She put out a hand, stopping him, and regarded Seth. He couldn’t be serious . . . could he? Was it even possible?
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