Sins of the Lost

He opened his mouth to reassure her, then snapped it closed again. “Hell,” he muttered. “I don’t know. I feel like I’m beating my wings against the Hellfire itself where talking to her is concerned. Whatever words she needs to hear to convince her, I don’t have them.” He grimaced. “And I might have made it worse this morning.”

He heaved a sigh and recounted his latest conversation—if it could be called such—with the Naphil, ending on an embarrassed mutter: “I told her to stop feeling sorry for herself and make a decision.”

To his surprise, the One chuckled. “You never were one to mince words, my Archangel.” Withdrawing her hand from his grasp, she rose to her feet. “But I think perhaps the reason you haven’t found the right ones for the Naphil is because they’re mine to speak rather than yours.”

Mika’el stood, towering over the One. “I beg your pardon?”

“You asked how bad it is?” She gave him another tiny, infinitely sad smile. “It’s bad, Mika’el. We’re running out of time. If Seth doesn’t take back his powers soon, I won’t have enough left in me to join with Lucifer. You’ve done what you can, and now I must do my part. Perhaps I might find the words to convince her.”

* * *

“Lucifer!” Samael stepped back, hitting the edge of a garbage can. The metal lid slid off, landing with a crash that echoed the length of the street. “You—I wasn’t expecting you here.”

The Light-bearer regarded him without word. Then he nodded at the building across the street. “She’s there?”

“The Naphil? Of course. Eighth floor, corner apartment, overlooking the parking lot.” Samael pointed at the lighted window of the Naphil’s residence, surreptitiously studying his companion. “She and your son, both.”

Lucifer gave an impatient wave, dismissing the mention of Seth. “And the Archangel who protects her?”

Samael pointed upward again, this time at the rooftop of the building towering above the first—and the barely discernible outline of the brooding, omnipresent Archangel who watched over the woman. “There.”

The Light-bearer jammed his hands into the pockets of his dark overcoat. “So he really is there. Does he ever leave?”

He really is there? Samael scowled.

“You’re checking up on me.”

Lucifer slanted him an unpleasant look. “That surprises you? Answer the question.”

Samael swallowed the acerbic retort hovering on his tongue. The time to take on the Light-bearer would come, but this wasn’t it. Not yet. “No. Not without her.”

“And does he know you’re here?”

“He saw me once. I’ve been more careful since.”

The Light-bearer stared up at Aramael. “Well, I’m not going to wait forever. We’ll need a distraction. Something big enough to draw him away so you can capture her.”

Samael tensed. “But—”

“Not now, of course. After the infants are born. Get them safely to this place you’ve prepared— this . . .”

“Pripyat.”

“Whatever. And then, as soon as they’re looked after, do whatever you must to draw the Archangel—all of the Archangels—away from the Naphil. I want her sister and niece.”

“Of course.”

“And Samael, for the record, I’m glad you passed.”

Samael stood rooted to the spot for long, agonizing minutes after Lucifer’s departure. Part of him—a quivering, jelly-like mass deep in his core—waited for the Light-bearer to reappear and strike him down, to tell him that he knew Samael hadn’t been watching the woman as ordered, that he would pay the price of failure. But Lucifer didn’t return, and slowly the cold cramp of fear in Samael’s gut relaxed. He sagged back against the wall and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Bloody Heaven, that had been close. Too close. He’d only just returned to his surveillance—another minute or two and Lucifer would have known of his absence. And he wouldn’t have bothered to ask questions.

Samael lifted a hand and stared at the tremble in his fingers. He’d have to be more careful—and he needed to speed up the agenda, too. He’d start by speaking to Mittron about opening Limbo sooner rather than later . . .

He shot another look at his surroundings.

As soon as he was certain Lucifer wasn’t still watching.

Chapter 45

Alex froze, her hand on the kitchen light switch, blinking against the glare at the woman pouring water into the teapot at the counter. Despite the dark in which the stranger had been working, she had laid out matching china cups and saucers, sugar, milk . . . wait. Cups and saucers? I don’t own cups and—

The woman turned, teapot in hand, and gestured toward the chairs. “Please. Sit.”

It didn’t occur to Alex until after she’d obeyed that she might object—that she should object, given that this was her kitchen. By then her midnight visitor had set down the teapot and taken the other seat at the tiny bistro-style table, making protest seem petty to say the least. She waited.

Her visitor pushed a plate of muffins toward her. “Eat. If you keep losing weight the way you are, you’ll make yourself ill.”

Alex curled her hands into fists on her lap. “You—”

Silver eyes met hers. Calm, radiant, crystalline in their clarity.

She tried again. “Who—?”

“You know who I am, Alexandra.”

Oh, fuck. Hastily she tried to erase that last thought from her mind. A corner of the woman’s mouth tilted upward as if she knew exactly what passed through her brain. Alex added a silent but heartfelt shit to her list of mental transgressions.

“Tea?” the woman asked, reaching for the pot.

Tea? She had the One, the Almighty Creator herself, sitting in her kitchen offering tea? She had to be kidding. Alex’s gaze sought the cupboard over the fridge where the more appropriate beverages were stored. The One slid a filled cup toward her in its saucer.

“Tea,” she said. “I need you alert and sober.”

Alex looked at the kitchen doorway and the darkened hallway beyond. Seth slept at the end of that hallway. Would he wake? Hear voices? Come to investigate? She shivered at the thought. She could just imagine his reaction at finding her having a midnight tea party with his mother. She pushed cup, saucer, and muffin-laden plate away.

“What do you want?”

“Your help.”

“With Seth.”

“Yes.”

“I already told Michael—”

“I know how much you love him, Alexandra. And I know why. But he’s not your responsibility.”

Alex, she wanted to correct, my name is Alex. But the words stuck in her throat, held captive by the utter gentleness of the One’s voice. Her chest went tight. The One reached out and covered her hand with a tiny one of her own, fingers barely capping Alex’s fist. Alex focused on the touch. Warm and dry, it held none of the power she had expected. Not so much as a tingle, never mind a surge. In fact, there seemed a remarkable lack of anything about her that she would have termed godly, or even remotely divine. Alex drew away, defiance sparking in her.

“No, he was your responsibility,” she said, “and you failed him. Just as you failed