what exposure to the radiation there might do to her health.
“No,” he said. “Wait here. When I’m done, I want you to take her somewhere. Watch her, provide for her, and bring me the child when it is born.”
From the corner of his eye, he saw the Virtue raise an eyebrow. Seeming to understand his curiosity wouldn’t be satisfied, however, Qemuel shrugged and wandered across the lawn to lean against a tree. Lucifer grimaced. If only certain others among the Fallen could be so inclined to cooperate.
He strolled up the drive and climbed the stairs. A single effortless shove shattered the frame and sent the door, hinges and all, crashing to the floor. At the foot of the staircase inside, a woman whirled to face him. Her wide eyes went from the door to him. From startled to terrified. Then, showing what he considered remarkable presence of mind for a mortal, she threw the filled laundry basket at him and scrambled up the stairs.
He met her at the top.
Shoving her against a wall, he blocked the blow she aimed at his head and deflected her knee. “Don’t waste your energy, Naphil. You haven’t a chance.”
She’d opened her mouth to scream, but at the word
Holding her fast with one hand, he reached for her forehead with the other. He had no need of her awareness, and no desire for a struggle. Best that she—he paused, hand hovering near enough to feel the heat of her skin. The fear radiating from her in undulating waves. Something was wrong. He frowned. Lowering his hand, he jammed it hard against her belly.
Bloody fucking Heaven. She was sterile.
In a split second, his entire plan crumbled around his feet. He stood amid its ruins, staring in disbelief at his hand resting against white cotton. He’d been so focused, so determined—the possibility of failure had never occurred to him. Cold anger rippled through him. He curled his fingers against the woman’s stomach. Heard her inhale, felt pain join her fear. Defeat sat bitter on his tongue. She had cheated him, just as her sister had done. For that alone, she would—
“Mom? Mom, where are you?” Another female voice, younger, filled with uncertainty and a note of panic, drawing closer with every shout. “Mom!”
The woman surged against his hold. “Run! Nina, ru—”
Lucifer threw her against the opposite wall, cutting her scream short. She slumped to the floor, unconscious or dead—it didn’t matter which. The female at the bottom of the stairs stared up at him, then turned and bolted for the space where the front door had been. He blocked her escape with the same ease he had her mother’s. She skidded to a stop and swayed on her feet, her hands dropping to her sides. Her eyes glazed over, becoming unfocused. Sanity itself seemed to drain from her. He scowled. She was his last chance to sire a Nephilim leader, but what if she was too fragile?
Ignoring her whimper, he grasped her chin and turned her face up to his, staring into her damaged soul. No, not fragile. Incredibly strong. She had seen—and survived—things that would have demolished most mortals. If her mind didn’t survive this newest assault, well, it wasn’t her mind he needed.
He pushed her to the side, then lifted the door from the floor and stood it against its shattered frame. No interruptions. Nothing more to stand in his way. He turned back to the female. Humanity’s final days began here. Now.
“Amen,” he whispered.
Chapter 55
Alex shoved gloved hands into her pockets and huddled deeper into her coat at the foot of the stairs to Parliament’s main building. Beside her, a silent Aramael blocked the wind. She shifted away from the warmth radiating from him and scanned the crowd below. Despite the cold, at least a thousand had gathered, maybe more. The rain had started again, and the number was hard to judge with all the umbrellas. Many held up signs inscribed with demands in English to
Television crews gathered at the crowd’s edge, cameras and microphones pointed at reporters who would be talking about the growing unrest, the unanswered questions, the imminent speech from the minister of health. The fruitless, useless efforts of government to explain the inexplicable and solve the unsolvable.
Just wait until the eighty thousand were born.
A flurry of interest in the crowd below made Alex look over her shoulder. The massive oak doors had swung open behind her, and Canada’s health minister emerged, surrounded by an entourage of aides and dark-suited RCMP officers. Alex grimaced at the show of security, normally reserved for the prime minister or top-ranking dignitaries. One more indication of how tightly wound nerves had become.
The very pregnant Lilliane Benoit waddled down the stairs, across the driveway, down the next set of stairs, and across the lawn to the podium that had been set up for her. The government couldn’t have had a better spokesperson for the situation. A mother-to-be reassuring other women in her condition, counseling the public to remain calm, to trust their leaders. On the lawn below, the crowd drew closer to the podium, faces pinched with cold and anxiety but still patient. So far, so good.
Glancing up at the rooftop of the east block, Alex picked out the police sniper and two watchers posted there. To the west, more figures stood on top of the building that flanked the opposite side of the lawn. Still others would stand guard on the center block’s roof, she knew. Right above where she stood. Their presence was a standard precaution, but one that had an ominous feel to it under the circumstances. She stamped her feet, attempting to restore circulation to her freezing toes.
On the podium now, Benoit switched on the microphone and leaned forward. “Good morning.” Her voice rang out across the wet lawn.
Alex tuned out the speech. Her gaze strayed restlessly across the crowd again. Equal numbers of men and women, some with children in tow. Benoit’s voice droned on, switching from English to French and back again. From behind Alex came the impatient rustle of feathers, audible only to her.
She looked past Benoit and the security detail, to a stroller parked near the podium. She wondered idly how old the baby it contained would be. How relieved its parents must be to know their child was fully human. Then she frowned. Speaking of parents . . .
Straightening, she surveyed the people standing nearby—none of them near enough. Disquiet coiled like a serpent in her belly. She turned to Aramael. “Something’s not right.”
His wings instantly unfurled part way, brushing against a parliamentary page who glanced around, saw nothing, and gave a puzzled shrug. Scowling, Aramael folded the wings close again.
“What?” he asked. “I feel no Fallen—”
“No.” Alex shot him a warning look. “That stroller down there.” She nodded her head toward the lawn. “I don’t see anyone with it. I want to have a look.”
“I’m coming with you.”
Striding across the driveway, she headed down the stairs, Aramael at her back. One of the plainclothes RCMP officers beside the podium looked toward her, eyes hidden behind sunglasses. Alex turned the lapel of her coat over to expose her badge and gave a jerk of her head to the right. The woman frowned and leaned forward to murmur something to her burly colleague, who also looked toward Alex. With a nod, he returned to his crowd surveillance.
The female officer stepped away from her position and crossed the grass, intercepting Alex halfway between the podium and the stroller. “You are—?”
“Alexandra Jarvis, Toronto Homicide. This is my partner, Jacob Trent.”
Barely glancing at Aramael, the woman responded, “Julia Greer, RCMP. What’s up?”
“That stroller.” Alex nodded past her. “No one’s with it.”
Greer swiveled and did a quick reconnaissance. “You’re right.”
Alex fell into step beside her. Greer lifted her left hand to her face.
