Sins of the Lost

“We have what appears to be an unattended stroller on the west side of the podium,” she murmured into the microphone clipped inside her sleeve. “I’m taking a look.”

A half dozen pairs of sunglasses swiveled in their direction, tracking their progress. Fifteen feet, ten. At the center of a group clustered nearby, a man raised a cell phone as if to take a photo. Alex’s steps slowed. She frowned at the words on the sign he held aloft in his other hand. Luke 21:23.

Luke, chapter twenty-one, verse twenty-three. A biblical reference.

Son of a—

The man moved his thumb.

Alex looked back to the RCMP officer, too far away to reach.

“Greer!” she yelled.

From the depths of the stroller, a cell phone rang.

The world exploded.

Chapter 56

“So that’s it, then. It’s all over.”

Whirling, Samael pinned Mittron against the graffiti-scrawled brick wall of the long abandoned factory. Snow, blown in through the broken window, swirled around their ankles. Pripyat was bloody cold at this time of year. It was a damned good thing the Nephilim children were stronger than their pathetic human half-kin.

“It’s not over,” he hissed. “I just need to accelerate things. If I can find a way to sway Seth . . .”

Mittron’s shaggy brows ascended. “You’re kidding, right? Lucifer has informed you that you’re his personal target. You think you can—what, pretend he was kidding? You’re a marked Fallen One, Samael. There’s nothing to accelerate.”

Rage snarled through Samael, sharpened by fear. He glared at Mittron for a second more, then released him and swung away. He paced the rotted wooden floor. “There has to be a way I can spin this,” he muttered. “If I can convince him that I was only trying to help—”

“You really think he’s that gullible? You’ve been passing his journals on to the son he all but disowned. He’s not going to care one way or the other about Seth.”

Samael stopped at a window. Mittron was right. He was as good as dead. Would be dead as soon as Lucifer tracked him down. The Light-bearer wouldn’t give a—

“Unless . . .” Mittron murmured.

“Unless what? The One herself intervenes with a miracle? Not going to happen.”

“Unless you go to him first.”

Samael sent a scowl in his direction. “It must be time for your next dose, because you just became delusional. Why in bloody Heaven would I go looking for someone who just threatened to kill me—and who’s capable of following through on that threat?”

“Because it might convince him you’re telling the truth about trying to sway his son to his cause.”

“I suggested something along those lines already. He wasn’t interested.”

“Not even to ensure that the balance of power lies with Hell when the war begins?”

“Let me think. I believe his exact words were I don’t care,” Samael said sourly. “I’m fairly sure that indicated a certain level of disinterest, yes.”

“Then how about to ensure the survival of his army?”

Samuel shot the Seraph a sharp look. He crossed his arms and leaned against the window ledge. “Keep talking.”

“He’s not going to survive this time, Samael. He’s gone too far. The One can’t—and won’t—allow him to continue. And once he’s gone, who will look after his army? Who will make certain his legacy is carried out? One of the rabble that followed him or you, his trusted aide—with the help of his own son?” Mittron strolled across the warehouse floor to stop in front of him, just out of reach. “Don’t wait for him to come to you. Seek him out. Convince him everything you’ve done has been in his best interests.”

“And how do you propose I do that?”

“Look around you, Samael. Look at what you’ve accomplished here. You’ve done everything he asked you to do and more. You’ve given him the base he needed for his Nephilim army. You’ve rebuilt it, equipped it, protected it. Not even the Archangels know it’s here, and that’s no small success. You just need to make him aware of your hard work. Make him believe in your loyalty to the cause.”

Samael stared through the broken glass at the derelict lot below. The Seraph might be on to something with the idea. Already his thoughts were aligning, mustering the words to frame his arguments, his defense. If he played this right, he just might pull it off.

“You really think the One will destroy him?”

“I don’t think he’s left her a choice.”

“That still doesn’t solve my Seth problem. Without him on board, there’s no point to anything else.”

The former Seraph’s yellow eyes gleamed. “As to that, I think I know how to tip the Appointed in our favor.”

Chapter 57

A fireball consumed Alex’s world.

Heat—intense, scorching, blistering—swept over her.

Burning shrapnel embedded itself in her skin.

And then—

Wings. Folding around her, cutting her off from the assault, the pain . . .

For a heartbeat that seemed an eternity—a thousand eternities—she stood with her soulmate. Protected, safe, apart. And then she jolted back to the here and now. To the screams. The panic.

Chaos.

Mayhem.

Shoving against Aramael’s powerful chest, she fought her way out of the feathers surrounding her. Stood, swaying, in the midst of a devastation unlike any she had ever witnessed. Scorched, smoldering bodies strewn across the lawn. Parts of bodies. Unrecognizable fragments of shattered lives. Julia Greer, who had stood between her and the stroller, gone. Obliterated.

Hands gripped her shoulders. Shook her. She stared into Aramael’s face, into his stormy gray eyes clouded with worry. Made herself focus on his lips and the words they were forming.

“Damn it, Alex, answer me! Are you all right?”

She nodded. Inhaled. Gagged on the stench of burnt human flesh. Then she nodded again, this time with more certainty. She struggled to bring her brain back online. She was a cop. People were hurt. She needed to help.

She scanned the scene. People milled everywhere. Some sat or lay on the ground, others tended the injured. Screams ripped through the air. Beside her, the wooden podium burned fiercely, its flames unimpeded by the few small fire extinguishers aimed in their direction. Sirens wailed their approach.

She saw no trace of the pregnant minister of health—or her security entourage.

She snagged the arm of a passing security guard. “Find some crime scene tape,” she ordered, her voice hoarse, throat raw. Her eyes watered. Goddamn, that hurt. “I want this area, the blast zone, secured. That”—she pointed at the crater where the stroller had stood—“is ground zero.”

The guard hesitated, full of questions. Alex reached for her lapel to show her badge, but found only ragged cloth, crisp with char at its edges. Her gaze locked with Aramael’s over the guard’s head. That close? His eyes hardened. She turned back to the security guard.