Sins of the Lost

reaction would be, he should have at least talked to him first. Maybe if he had—Mika’el went still.

Across the street, the man who’d followed the Naphil from the restaurant, newspaper tucked beneath his arm, stopped to speak with another lounging against the side of the police station. Another that would appear human to mortal eyes, but Mika’el saw what they could not. An aura of power that marked him as an Archangel— but not one of Heaven. Not anymore.

Samael.

Halfway out of his chair, Mika’el froze as the other looked up, locking gazes with him. Golden eyes gleamed with bitterness, hatred, challenge.

Thrusting back the chair with a force that sent it crashing to the floor, he put his hand to his side. It closed over nothing. He hadn’t brought his sword, hadn’t thought he would need it. And if he’d had it, he still couldn’t have gotten to his foe without pulling out of the mortal realm, something he and Samael both knew he wouldn’t do in full view of dozens of people.

As if he’d read his thoughts, Samael bared his teeth in a mock grin, sketched a salute in his direction, and strolled around the corner. All sense of his presence disappeared. The man with the newspaper looked around at Mika’el, his expression confused.

Bloody Hell. Mika’el picked up the chair and slammed it back into place at the table. A murmur of alarm washed through the restaurant. The waitress reached for a telephone behind the counter. Reining in his fury, he strode through the crowded restaurant and pushed out onto the sidewalk. He scanned the street for the newspaper man, but he, too, had disappeared.

Bloody, bloody Hell.

What was the sole Fallen Archangel doing watching the Naphil?

* * *

Mittron, former executive administrator of Heaven, sagged back into the grimy building entrance, staring at the posters of barely clad women plastered against the glass. He struggled to think through the fog that had become his brain. To sort out the unexpected turn of events.

He’d spent weeks making his way here, using every spark of ingenuity he possessed—in his coherent moments—to find the woman. To discover where she lived, where she worked. To see if maybe, impossibly, the connection he’d tried so hard to sever between her and her soulmate might have survived. Because if it had, if she could call Aramael to her in a time of need, if enough of the immortal survived in the former Power to do for Mittron what he had done for Caim . . .

He inhaled shakily, pressing palms against the rough brick behind him. So many ifs. And such a crude plan, born of desperation and a far cry from the beautiful, intricate schemes he had once woven. He hadn’t held out any real hope that it would work. He’d just needed to focus on something—anything—to keep the insanity at bay.

When he’d found Aramael—now an Archangel with the ability to take his life a thousand times over—already camped out on the Naphil’s doorstep, it hadn’t just been fortuitous, it had elevated crude to possible. Desperation to a soul-consuming need for oblivion.

But now Mika’el and Samael hovered around her, too? What purpose could either of them possibly have for a Naphil? Especially one so far removed from her bloodline as to have been rendered useless? A faint whisper touched the edge of his consciousness, and his fingers spasmed into fists. No. Not now. Not yet. He needed to think, to focus.

He gritted his teeth against the wound reopening in his soul. He would have to leave soon, before the whispers became wails. Before they turned to the mind-destroying screams of every soul lost to the Fallen, his to bear for eternity, underscored by the anguish of the One he had betrayed.

Grinding already lacerated knuckles into the brick, he slammed his head back against the wall, trying to mask mental agony with physical pain. Needing to think clearly for a few minutes more.

Mika’el and Samael didn’t matter. This was about the woman. He needed to catch her alone. Force her to call for Aramael the way Caim had done. If Aramael’s connection remained strong enough, he would be able to do for Mittron what he had done for his own brother and put him out of his misery, end the suffering inflicted by their Creator.

But he had to move soon. He didn’t know how much longer his mind would survive. So many of the human drugs had already lost their efficacy, and he was running out of new ones to try. If he couldn’t mask the voices anymore, his Judgment would become the torture the One had intended. An eternal, soul-shattering persecution he would never escape.

Another moan, this one his own. He clamped his teeth down on his tongue. The metallic, salty tang of blood filled his mouth. Through a haze of tears, he focused on the building into which the Naphil woman had disappeared. Screw Mika’el and Samael and Aramael. If she returned, if she came outside again now, before the pain took over and immobilized him completely, he’d take the chance.

A shriek broke through the incessant buzz of voices. He slammed his head against the brick again but felt nothing. No impact, no pain, no distraction. He’d run out of time. He had to find relief while he still could. Winding fingers into his hair, he pressed bloody, scarred knuckles against his skull. Forced air into his lungs. Stay focused. It helps. Think about the woman . . . about Aramael . . . Mika—

Anguish shredded his already tattered core.

Sometimes focus helped.

Sometimes it didn’t.

Sobbing, he staggered down the street.

Chapter 13

The outrage that had powered Alex’s exit from the cafe deserted her by the time she stepped out of the elevator on the fourth floor, leaving her deflated, shaking, and wanting nothing more than to go home to Seth.

Or to puke her guts out.

Leaning against the corridor wall, she rested hands on knees and stared at the thinly carpeted floor.

And if I do go home? What do I tell him? That the Heaven that turned its back on him—tried to kill him—needs his help? That they want him to take back what nearly destroyed him in the first place?

Her head sagged. Hell, she couldn’t even tell him why. She hadn’t stuck around long enough to find out what lay behind the Archangel’s announcement, because whether or not Michael had been willing to tell her more had been a moot point. She hadn’t been in any shape to hear it.

She shuddered. She couldn’t get involved again. Not in the battle between Heaven and Hell. She’d nearly died the last two times—had died, for all intents and purposes. She didn’t think she could survive a third time, even if Seth could bring her back again.

Which he couldn’t.

Unless he took back those damned powers.

The cell phone at her waist vibrated. Taking it from its holster, she stared at the caller ID. Home. Seth. Hell. Her thumb lingered on the answer button, moved sideways, pushed ignore. She replaced the phone, then, inhaling deeply, stepped into the chaos that was Homicide.

* * *

“That’s it?” Lucifer asked. He didn’t look up from his desk.

Samael risked a scowl at the top of the Light-bearer’s head. “I’m not sure I understand.”

Lucifer continued scrawling in yet another of the damnable journals in which he recorded his every move, his every thought. “That’s all the news you have. Speculation about the Appointed, garnered from a human, no less. Nothing about the Naphil’s sister or niece.” His tone remained conversational. Even. Too much so.

Samael shifted, assuring himself that he did so for comfort and not as a way to move closer to the door. “No, but—”

“Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear enough with regard to my expectations.”