Sins of the Lost gl-3

by Linda Poitevin

  “You owe him,” whispered the memory of Gabriel’s voice.

  The blade sliced through the flesh between Seth’s ribs and hip. An unearthly bellow ripped through the washroom. The clash of divine energies exploded into a blaze of white.

  Aramael dropped like a stone.

  Chapter 86

  Mika’el’s blade sliced through collarbone as if it were butter, cleaving all the way down to the center of the Fallen One’s chest and shattering the hardened sphere of immortality hidden within. He tugged the sword free with grim satisfaction. The third kill in a fight only fifteen minutes old. Samael truly had forgotten the power with which he dealt.

  A hand settled on his shoulder, and he looked into Gabriel’s piercing, deep blue eyes. Impeccably trained, the others closed around them in a protective ring, blocking them from harm while they spoke.

  “The woman is safe?” he asked.

  She nodded. “But we have another problem. A Guardian is seeking our help. A Fallen One is wreaking havoc in a crowded gathering place not far from here—a mall, he called it.”

  “All right. We can take care of those remaining here. You go—and Gabriel, fly there. Use your physical approach to draw him out and away from the mortals.”

  “I’ll be seen.”

  Thou shalt not interfere with the human race.

  His grim gaze swept over the wreckage surrounding them. The cardinal rule might have had its place once, but no longer. Not after this. “I’m pretty sure our secret is out.”

  Gabriel nodded, turned, and launched herself through what little remained of the exterior wall. Mika’el turned back to the fight, but before he could choose a target, a small hand tugged on his sleeve. He glanced down at the ethereal, almost translucent figure of a Guardian, its fierce look of concentration a measure of the effort it took to achieve even this much physical form.

  “It’s all right,” he told it. “Gabriel has gone to the mall. She’ll look after the Fallen One there.”

  “But I haven’t come from a mall,” the Guardian objected as he turned away. “There is a museum a short distance from here. Two Fallen Ones have attacked the patrons there.”

  A second attack? Hell. Mika’el caught Zachariel’s eye and the Archangel raised an eyebrow. Mika’el nodded. Stepping back from the battle, Zachariel launched himself in Gabriel’s wake. The wisp of a Guardian followed.

  Mika’el raised his sword. Two Archangels remained, along with nine Fallen. The odds were still firmly in their—

  “Mika’el!” Raphael’s voice pulled his attention away from the battle yet again.

  Mika’el looked toward him, then followed the tip of the other’s head. Another Guardian had shimmered into form along the wall, and two more were taking shape on either side of her.. In an instant, Mika’el understood.

  “Stop!” he roared.

  Silence dropped over the assembly, broken only by the harsh breathing of winded fighters. And Samael’s chuckle.

  “You’ve figured it out.”

  “How many?” Mika’el demanded. “How many have you sent out?”

  “As many as I needed to. One more activates every three minutes until I say otherwise.”

  “Call them off.”

  “Not until I have what I came for.”

  “I can get more help,” Mika’el said. “Heaven still outnumbers you.”

  “You can,” Samael agreed. “It wouldn’t bother me in the least to fight the entire war right here on Earth. But are you sure that’s what you want?”

  Mika’el bit back what he would have liked to reply and again growled, “Call them off. We’ll talk.”

  “We have nothing to talk about, warrior. I’ll call off my soldiers when I have Seth safely away from here. Not a minute before.”

  Impotent fury snarled through Mika’el. He’d been outmaneuvered, and every soul in this room knew it. Viciously he sheathed his sword and motioned for a reluctant Raphael to do the same.

  “Fine,” he growled. “Go. Take your new leader and—” Breaking off, he spun on his heel, his gaze raking the destruction around them. He swung back to a calm Samael. Too calm to have lost what he’d come for. “Where is he?”

  “Claiming what’s his, I should imagine.”

  Claiming—the woman.

  Before Mika’el could move, Samael’s sword came up, blocking his way.

  The traitorous former Archangel tsked. “I wouldn’t,” he said. “The next Fallen releases in two minutes.”

  Fists clenched, Mika’el glared at the angel who had once fought at his side. Naphil or not, the woman deserved better than this, and yet he could not go to her. Could do nothing to save her. Not without unleashing Armageddon itself, here and now.

  Samael smiled, smugly, unpleasantly, arrogantly. He lowered his sword and sheathed it. “I knew I could count on your sense of honor, Mika’el. It has always been your greatest weakness. One day it will be your undoing.”

  “And arrogance yours,” Mika’el retorted. “Now collect your prize and—”

  A bellow cut him off, filled with rage and a deep, gut-wrenching anguish.

  Without a word, Samael bolted for the back of the office where Gabriel had stowed the Naphil. Mika’el followed.

  Chapter 87

  Bloodied sword still in hand, Alex stared down at the two figures lying amid the wreckage. Water from the broken toilets swirled across the floor, running crimson where it mixed with blood, trickling into the emergency floor drain with a hollow musicality. Seth writhed in agony; Aramael lay motionless. Shattered glass and porcelain littered the room.

  From beyond the washroom, she heard the sound of footsteps running, then the door burst open. A Fallen One skidded to a halt in the opening, his gaze going first to the bodies on the floor, then to Alex. Jaw hanging open, he struggled visibly to piece events together.

  He staggered aside as Michael shoved past him into the washroom. Seth’s convulsions slowed, and he groaned, a low, agonized sound that twisted inside Alex’s belly. She backed away until she came up against the wall. Gripped the sword tighter, needing to hold onto something concrete, something real.

  Something to connect her to the soulmate she knew without doubt she had just lost. The agony of grief squeezed inside her chest until she gasped.

  Michael’s gaze burned into her. “What happened?”

  “I—he—” Alex closed her mouth, gritted her teeth, and shut herself off from the part of her mind that wailed its anguish. She’d been here before, in this place of loss. She’d handled it then—a mere child of nine—and she would deal with it now. She raised her chin and met the emerald blaze of Michael’s eyes. “He wanted me to be with him. Forever. Aramael tried to stop him, but he wasn’t strong enough. I had no choice.”

  Michael scowled. “You did this?”

  Suddenly the sword felt wrong in her grip. Awful. Murderous. She tried to hold it out for Michael to take, but her arm refused to lift it. She opened her hand and let it fall. It landed with a thud deadened by the water covering the floor. Seth groaned again, and she looked down at him, at the gaping wound in his side where the sword had bitten so much deeper than she’d expected it to, at the blood pooling beneath him. Despite herself, she felt a twinge of something akin to regret.

  Choices have consequences, the One had told her. She’d spoken of Seth’s choices, but how much of this could Alex have prevented if she herself had made other choices? How much of it would have ended differently? With Seth in Heaven where he belonged, and Aramael still alive . . .

  Michael stared at her for another second and then turned to the Fallen One. “Take him,” he said harshly. “And call off your dogs.”

  “I’ll take him, all right,” the Fallen One snarled, “but I’ll be damned if I call off my dogs, as you put it. Not after this.”

  Before Alex could blink, Michael’s sword clashed with that of the Fallen One.

  “Yes,” he growled back. “You will. We both have better things to do than engage in a pissing cont
est right now, Samael. You can’t lead Hell into battle without a leader any more than I want that battle to take place here, so put your goddamn tail between your legs, be glad you have him at all, and go back to where you belong.”

  The two of them stood locked in silent, unmoving combat until the Fallen One finally blinked and Michael stepped back. With a last, vicious snarl, the Fallen One sheathed his sword again. Then he stooped, hoisted the semiconscious Seth to his shoulder, and vanished. Alex slid down the wall to the floor. Her hands limp in her lap and water seeping into her clothing, she stared at Aramael’s body until a pair of black boots blocked her sight line.

  “I have to go. I need to make sure Samael recalls his Fallen. Your rescue people are on their way up.”

  She said nothing.

  “We’ll talk,” he said. “But later. When you’re stronger.”

  He lifted Aramael’s body into his arms. Black wings, dulled by death, dragged through the bloody water pooled on the floor. The arm not supported by Michael’s body hung limp. Vacant gray eyes stared back at her, devoid of all that had been divine, all that had been alive, all that had been Aramael.

  Heat burned behind her eyes. Raw pain sliced down her throat, making her voice harsh. “Michael.”

  Heaven’s greatest warrior stopped in the doorway with his burden and waited.

  “I’m sorry.” She looked away, swallowing against her loss. “For everything.”

  “We’ll talk.” he said. “Soon.”

  Chapter 88

  Mika’el strode down the short corridor, the slain Aramael heavy in his arms, grief heavier in his heart. They had lost so much today. Too much. Stepping into the former office, he found the remainder of the Fallen had left. Raphael stood watch at what had once been the windows, waiting for him. He turned at Mika’el’s approach. Mika’el shook his head at his unspoken question.

  A shadow darkened the other Archangel’s expression. He sheathed his sword and stepped forward, indicating Aramael. “Let me,” he said.

  Mika’el raised an eyebrow. They’d only ever lost one Archangel to death before and so there wasn’t much in the way of precedent, but still, as the choir’s leader, it was up to him to carry their dead.

  Raphael’s bleak golden eyes met his. “I told him he wasn’t one of us.” Raphael’s voice was rough. “I owe him this much.”

  Without comment, Mika’el handed over the body. There would be no burial on their return to Heaven, no ceremony. When Raphael moved between the realms, the energy that lingered, forming Aramael’s corporeal body here on Earth, would dissipate. Aramael would disappear, Raphael would cross over alone, and there would once again be an empty seat at the Archangels’ table.

  “What about Seth?” Raphael asked.

  “Gone.”

  “So Aramael was right. Hell is getting a new ruler.” Raphael shifted his burden. “And we’re down not just a ruler but another Archangel, too. Samael’s screwed us over again.”

  “Not everything went the way he’d planned. The woman wounded the Appointed.”

  Raphael’s golden eyes narrowed.

  “The Naphil? With what?”

  “Aramael’s sword.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “Neither is summoning me across two realms.”

  “What the Hell is going on with her?”

  “I’m not sure. Her Naphil blood, the soulmate connection to Aramael, being brought back from the verge of death—or a little past it—twice by Seth.” Mika’el rolled his shoulders wearily. “A combination of everything, perhaps. Go. Take Aramael. Tell Azrael what has happened. I’ll clean up here and foll—”

  A dozen heavily armed mortals poured through the shattered office door and brought weapons to bear on them. Shouted instructions followed, all muddled together and ringing with fear and tension.

  “On your knees! Now!”

  “You holding the guy—put him down!”

  “Hold your hands away from you where I can see them!”

  And on it went.

  Mika’el closed his eyes. He and Raphael had to leave: Raphael to transport Aramael’s body; Mika’el to locate the remaining Archangels and deal with the Fallen. They didn’t have time for this—or to oversee another memory-wipe by the Guardians.

  The mortal shouts continued.

  Mika’el saw the question in Raphael’s eyes and knew the other agreed. They had only one way out of this, but while it might be too late to pretend Heaven had any secrets remaining, it was still damned difficult to flaunt themselves.

  Difficult but, at this point, necessary. He nodded. Standing tall and straight despite his burden, Raphael instantly unfurled his massive black wings to their fullest and shot upward—

  Into nothingness.

  A slow, collective lowering of weapons and stunned silence followed, broken by a murmured and heartfelt, “Holy Mother of God.”

  Mika’el studied them, one by one. He had spent six millennia on Earth, long enough to know humans better than any other angel did. Long enough that, though he could not save them, his heart ached at knowing what they faced. Their lives would never be the same after today. Not ever.

  “Your colleague is in the washroom,” he told them. “She’s unharmed.”

  And then, opening his own wings, he followed the other warrior.

  Chapter 89

  Alex sat on the narrow platform at the rear of a paramedic bus, apart from the hive of activity even in the midst of it. Yellow wooden barricades held back a throng of onlookers. A group of officials stood off to one side in earnest discussion. Dozens of emergency personnel moved from one place to another, tending the wounded, checking the building, their feet crunching through piles of tempered-glass pebbles from dozens of disintegrated windows.

  Her colleagues were clustered together, as far from her as the emergency vehicles and barricades would allow.

  Cold from the hard steel seeped into her.

  She burrowed deeper into the blanket’s folds. Her eyes burned from holding them open too long, hardly daring to blink, because every time she did, she saw it again. Aramael sprawled amid the black feathers of his wings. Dead. For her. Because of her. The image burned into her brain for eternity, because that’s how long she would live without him. With this loss and all the others to follow.

  Forever and ever, amen.

  Hell.

  The platform beneath her gave a little, and a second blanket settled around her shoulders. She looked over to find Joly at her side, Abrams and Bastion standing beside him. Bastion held out a paper cup, steam curling up from the hole in its plastic lid.

  “Probably not what you could use right now,” he said gruffly, “but it’s warm.”

  Her thank you wouldn’t emerge, but she accepted the cup and managed a nod. Bastion reached across Joly to pat her shoulder. The three of them joined her in staring at the scene.

  “The others?” she asked after a while.

  Joly cleared his throat. “They’ll come around. You’re one of us, Jarvis. We watch out for our own.”

  Except maybe she wasn’t one of theirs anymore. Not after what Seth had done.

  “Those things that came out of the window up there,” said Abrams. “The ones with the . . .”

  “Wings,” she supplied, when it was apparent he wouldn’t—couldn’t—finish.

  “Yeah. Those. They looked like . . .”

  “Angels.”

  His skin tone took on the same gray as the November afternoon. He exchanged looks with Joly and Bastion—or tried to, but they were wholly focused on the pavement at their feet. “That’s insane,” he muttered.

  She neither confirmed nor denied the conclusion.

  After a moment, he scuffed at the street. “Jesus Christ Almighty.”

  There seemed no point in contradicting him on that. More silence ensued, and then a new set of legs entered her field of vision. She looked up at Roberts. Someone had loaned him a firefighter’s coat, but despite the day’s chill, he hadn’t clos
ed it to hide the dark brown streak of dried blood marring the shirt and tie beneath. Seth’s blood, acquired when Roberts had enveloped her in a wordless hug on the washroom floor.

  He stared pointedly at her companions.

  “Give us a minute?”

  With more awkward pats on her shoulder, Joly, Abrams, and Bastion wandered back to join the others. Alex felt her supervisor studying her.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  Damn. Was she going to tear up every time someone asked her that? She nodded and tugged the blankets closer.

  “There’s an awful lot of blood on you for someone who has no injuries, Alex.”

  Hers, Aramael’s, Seth’s. But they’d found only her at the scene.

  “You want to talk about what happened?”

  “Nope.”

  Roberts sighed. “I’m going to have someone take you home. Is there any chance Trent . . . ?”

  Her tears overflowed, sending hot trickles down her cheeks. Clamping her lips together, she shook her head. Quickly, fiercely. Roberts’s hand settled onto her shoulder and squeezed.

  “I’ll get Joly to drive you, and I’ll have Dr. Riley meet you there. No argument.”

  The latter as her head snapped up in objection.

  Her supervisor shook his head, compassion and concern clouding his eyes. “There is no goddamn way I’m leaving you alone, Jarvis. Not tonight. Which reminds me—” He held out his hand. “I need your service weapon.”

  She stared at his open palm. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him he didn’t have to worry, that even if she did eat her gun, it wouldn’t kill her.

  That nothing could.

  Not anymore.

  Instead, she reached to her hip, unholstered the weapon she’d retrieved from the washroom floor, and held it out to him. “I wouldn’t, you know.”

  Roberts pocketed the gun without comment and turned to go.

  “Staff.”