Sins of the Lost

Aramael, who glowered out the window, his palpable hostility giving her ample reason to feign interest in the future of motocross in Canada. He’d been like this ever since the apartment, making the past few hours—at the airport, in the plane, in the taxi they’d shared—the most uncomfortable of her life. Bar none.

She set aside the magazine and stood.

Aramael straightened.

“No,” she said. “We’ve been over it a dozen times, Ara—Trent. You’re not coming in with me.”

His voice stopped her at the door. “Just—be careful.”

Be careful what you say, what you tell them. Protect our secrets.

All valid warnings, but if they’d called her to Ottawa, it was almost certainly too late for careful. And far too late for secrets.

She followed the young man down the hallway. Her cell phone vibrated with another call from Jen—the fourth one this morning. Thumb poised over the buttons, Alex hesitated. Then, as the administrative assistant stopped in front of a door and looked askance at her, she smothered her guilt and touched the button to ignore the call. Jen hadn’t left a voice message with any of her other calls, so it wasn’t urgent. It would wait until tonight.

Stepping past the assistant, she entered the room and scanned its occupants. Three men, one woman, all seated at a small, circular table; all wearing suits and the vaguely harried expressions of those who carried too much responsibility. She recognized none of them.

But she did recognize the logo of the Toronto coroner’s office on the DNA report laid out on the table.

One of the men, middle-aged and balding, with the lean look of a habitual runner, stood. “Detective Jarvis, I didn’t realize you’d been injured. I hope the trip wasn’t too much for you.”

She touched fingertips to the healing cuts on her face. “It’s nothing,” she said. “Superficial.”

He nodded. “Well, thank you for coming. I’m Stephane Boileau, aide to the minister of public security. This is Frank Allan from CSIS, Vic Hamilton from the RCMP, and Madeleine Renault from the GOC.”

The Canadian Security Intelligence Service, the national police force, and the Government Operations Centre responsible for coordinating the country’s emergency response management. Oh, yeah. The time for secrets had definitely passed.

Alex shook hands with everyone and then took the only empty seat.

Stephane Boileau slid a pair of wire-framed glasses onto his nose and pulled a notebook toward him. Turning to a clean page, he jotted down a note. Alex waited. At last he looked up.

“Detective, I trust you understand that what we’re about to discuss here is highly sensitive.”

“I’m fairly adept at keeping secrets, Mr. Boileau.”

He peered at her over the glasses, then nodded. “Bon,” he said in French. Good. “Then we begin. You know why you are here, of course?”

Because I know things you don’t. “Not exactly, no.”

“There have been a number of unusual occurrences across the country. The serial killer in Toronto, an amnesiac man who disappeared from a Vancouver hospital, the DNA match between the children born of these pregnancies and a”—Boileau looked down at the papers before him—“a claw. These things, along with the freak earthquake that hit Vancouver . . .” His voice trailed off and he raised his eyes back up to hers. “Detective, your name seems to be the one common thread between these incidents. We’d like to know why.”

“You forgot to add the scrolls to your list.”

Boileau and the others exchanged a flurry of glances. For a shot in the dark, her accuracy was impressive. Boileau cleared his throat.

“You know about the scrolls.”

She nodded.

“And did you know they’re missing?”

“Missing?”

“The Church reported the theft to Interpol yesterday, but they’ve been missing for more than a week.”

Hell. She’d known it was just a matter of time before those damn things bit them on the ass.

Resting his elbows on the table, Boileau folded his hands and leaned forward. “I’ll be blunt, Detective Jarvis. We’re dealing with a highly nervous population. That makes us nervous, too. We know what’s in the scrolls and what the DNA evidence tells us, and we know that—somehow—you’re connected to everything that’s happening. If we’re going to keep a lid on this, however, we need to know more. We need to know everything.”

Alex stared out the window. The drizzle that had started while they were in the taxi from the airport had settled into a steady, miserable downpour. She grimaced, picturing her umbrella on the closet shelf at home.

“Well?” Boileau prompted.

“You must have theories,” she said, knowing full well she attempted to sidestep the inevitable. Maybe she should have let Aramael come into the meeting with her after all. Maybe he could have done one of those memory-wipe tricks and made all of this just go the hell away.

“Detective—”

She shoved back the chair and stood. Arms crossed, she paced the width of the meeting room. “What if I told you it was true?”

“The information in the scrolls?”

“Yes.”

Boileau tapped his pen against the table. “What if I told you we already believed it?”

Tension she hadn’t known she held in her shoulders slipped away with a suddenness that made them sag. She stopped pacing and stared at the others. Not one gaze turned from hers. “Seriously?”

“Not exactly as written, of course. The scrolls are thousands of years old, after all, written when humans had little to no understanding of possibilities such as extraterrestrials, and—”

“Extraterrestrials?”

“Of course. That is your explanation for this, isn’t it? We’ve been studying the possibility for years. Decades, even. It would be arrogant in the extreme to believe ourselves the only life in the universe, after all. And now that the children born of these pregnancies are exhibiting such unusual traits—”

“Wait,” she interrupted. “Unusual how?”

The minister’s aide leaned back with a sigh. He exchanged another look with one of his companions, the woman from the GOC, who shrugged in response. Your call, the gesture said.

“Inhumanly so,” Boileau said. “They’re continuing to mature at a phenomenal rate, their IQs are off the charts . . .”

She waited, certain he hadn’t finished.

But it was the woman who continued. “There’s evidence of other traits as well,” she said. “Violent ones. And . . .”

Alex stared at them, but the four gazes that had so willingly held hers a moment before had settled with steadfast focus on the table before them. “And?” she prompted.

“And they’ve disappeared,” Boileau said. “Two days ago.”

Chapter 51

“You wanted to see me?”

Lucifer looked up at the owner of the rumbling voice, a former Virtue whose massive form filled the doorway. “Qemuel. Come in.”

Qemuel’s gaze flicked to the bloodied bundle of rags in front of the fireplace. Then, with a shrug, he strolled over to stand before Lucifer’s desk, his hands folded loosely before him. Every inch a thug, he had always done what was asked of him without question. Unlike certain other Fallen Ones.

“I have a task for you.” Lucifer tipped back in his swivel chair. “The Naphil you were tracking for Samael a few days ago—do you remember her? Where she lives?”

“And where she works.”