Sins of the Lost

“I understand the woman and her sister are a priority, Lucifer”—bloody Heaven, how he hated that placating tone in his voice—“but this is important, too. If Mika’el is right and Seth is able to take back his powers—”

“What my son does or doesn’t do has no bearing on me.”

“I disagree. Any battle with Heaven is already weighted against us—heavily. If they convince him to take back his powers and align himself with them, it could very well have great bearing.”

At last Lucifer laid aside his pen and the journal in which he’d been writing. He sat back, eyes closed, resting one elbow on the chair’s arm. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Exactly how many times must we go over this, Archangel?” he asked wearily. “I don’t care about Heaven. I have what I want—or I will, if you can focus long enough. Once the Nephilim army is in place and my child born to lead it, the One will be able to do nothing to stop humanity’s annihilation. With or without Seth on her side.”

“Maybe not, but she’d have an excellent chance of destroying Hell.”

“That could be a problem,” Lucifer conceded. “If I cared any more about Hell than I do Heaven.”

Samael’s breath left him in a hiss. So. They were back to that, were they? He scowled. “Damn it, Lucifer, if we’re to survive, this has to be about more than just the mortals.”

“Again you assume I care.”

Samael stared at the One’s former helpmeet, at his slumped shoulders and closed eyes. He thought he had seen the Light-bearer’s every mood, every frame of mind, but this—this was new. And it bore far too great a resemblance to defeat for his liking.

“With all due respect,” he said, “those of us concerned about our continued existence do care. Wiping out the mortals is one thing, but what about the ones who followed you, who remain loyal to you? We deserve—”

Lucifer’s eyes snapped open, purple fire burning in their depths. “You deserve what? My undying gratitude? My return loyalty? For fuck’s sake, Archangel, when will you get it through your head that I don’t care? I can’t care. Not about you, not about the others, not about myself. My entire existence is about her. For her. Because of her. Heaven and Hell and the whole damned universe could implode, and it wouldn’t matter to me because I just. Don’t. Care.”

Thick, bitter betrayal rose in Samael’s chest and sat heavy on his tongue. “So that’s it? We’re just supposed to admit defeat? Throw away our lives for you without trying? That’s what you want from us?”

Across the room, Hell’s ruler held up one hand, rubbed thumb across fingertips and formed a fist. His gaze locking with Samael’s, he tightened his fingers until the knuckles stood white against his already pale skin, then spread his fingers wide. Agony shocked through Samael, driving him back against the door, holding him there.

Through streaming eyes, he watched Lucifer rise and stroll across the room. The Light-bearer stopped before him, placing a hand on the shoulder he had once ruined.

“No, Samael, I do not want an admission of defeat. Do you know why? Because my definition of defeat differs from yours. You do know what I would consider that to be, don’t you?” His fingers squeezed, and the pain of a thousand knives sliced down Samael’s arm and across his chest. Lucifer leaned in, close enough for the warmth of his breath to stir against Samael’s ear. “Well?”

“Mortals,” Samael ground out from between clenched teeth. “Allowing mortals to live would be defeat.”

“Exactly. And your deaths, Sam? The deaths of each and every Fallen One who chose to follow me? How do you think I would define those?”

“I don’t—”

Another tightening of Lucifer’s grip.

Samael’s knees gave way, but he couldn’t fall. Couldn’t escape the hold on his shoulder pinning him upright. His sweat-slicked hands scrabbled at the doorknob.

“Think hard,” the Light-bearer encouraged.

“Sacrifice!” he choked. “Death is sacrifice!”

“Necessary sacrifice,” his tormentor clarified. “Excellent. You do understand.”

With a final, vicious squeeze, Lucifer released him. Samael slid to the floor, fighting back the black that threatened, the nausea that would surely bring further punishment. He listened to Lucifer’s retreating footsteps. The creak of leather told him the Light-bearer had settled into the chair behind the desk; the scratch of quill tip against paper said he continued writing.

Bit by bit, the pain receded. When it became bearable, Samael groped for the doorknob, pulled himself upright, and opened the door enough to slip into the corridor. Lucifer’s voice stopped him halfway through.

“One last thing, Archangel.”

Samael looked over his shoulder. Cringed. Waited.

“Just so we’re clear, death as sacrifice for success is infinitely preferable to that which would accompany defeat. You’ll want to remember that.”

Samael stood in the corridor for a long, long time, staring at the closed door, waiting for the vestiges of pain to ease. Slowly the terror that had claimed him under Lucifer’s grip gave way to cold fury.

Necessary sacrifice? Was the Light-bearer serious? He really expected all of them, all of the Fallen who had followed him out of Heaven and believed in him, to throw themselves on the swords of their kin as sacrifice?

Samael exhaled a long hiss into the silence.

Of course he did.

He always had.

He’d told him so, when the Pact had been shattered and the remains of peace between Heaven and Hell had hung in tatters: “War was never my priority. I’ve never pretended otherwise.”

Samael hadn’t wanted to believe him then. He’d clung to the certainty that, when the time came, Hell’s ruler would come to his senses and lead them in the war to reclaim their rightful home.

Now, however . . . Samael put a hand to his shoulder. Now he believed him.

And there wasn’t a bloody thing he could do about it.

Because while the others might welcome battle as much as he did, might even turn their backs on Lucifer’s idea of success for the chance to return to Heaven, they would never be able to pull it off without a leader. Jockeying for control would begin immediately, and Samael didn’t kid himself for a moment that he was powerful enough to replace Lucifer as ruler. If he had the backing of a half dozen Archangels the way Michael did, perhaps. But alone? Not a chance. Once the infighting began, Hell would be awash in the blood of its own occupants.

Footsteps approached on the other side of Lucifer’s office door, jolting Samael back to the present. If the Light-bearer found him standing out here dithering over his future, there would be questions. And, when he couldn’t or wouldn’t answer, more pain. Or worse.

He needed to stop worrying about a future if he intended to live long enough to have one. More importantly, he needed to find a Naphil.

Chapter 14

“It didn’t go well.”

A statement, not a question.

Head tipped back against his chair, Mika’el didn’t bother opening his eyes. “No,” he said. “No, Verchiel, it did not go well. Did we really expect otherwise?”

He listened to the Highest Seraph settle into one of the chairs on the opposite side of the desk.

“What did she say?”

“She told me to grow a set and talk to Seth myself.”

Silence. Then what sounded like a muffled snort. Cracking open an eyelid, he found Verchiel struggling to hide a smile. He scowled. “The world is ripping itself apart, and the one mortal who might have helped me hold it together has refused. I fail to see the humor.”