Sins of the Lost

“I’m a homicide detective,” she told him. “And I need your help to protect the scene. Can you do that for me?”

His hesitation evaporated. “Crime scene tape,” he repeated, and with a nod, he headed off at a trot.

“I’m going to help with triage,” Alex said to Aramael. “No one is to come through this area. When the guard gets back, help him with the tape.”

“Alex.”

His voice stopped her midturn.

“You’re injured.”

She looked down at herself in surprise. At the wool coat half burned away, the scattered bits of gore—not her own—plastered across its remains, and the fresh blood seeping from beneath her blouse and both pant legs. Hell.

She met Aramael’s gaze again.

Then she collapsed at his feet.

* * *

Lucifer stopped in front of Qemuel.

“She’s inside,” he said. “The Naphil will look for her, so leave the city. When she gives birth, take the baby to join the others.”

Qemuel nodded. “Will anyone else look for her?”

“Unlikely, but stay alert.”

Another nod. Then, when he said nothing more, the bulky Fallen One strolled up the sidewalk and mounted the stairs. Lucifer watched him disappear into the house.

So. He’d succeeded at last. Fathered the perfect child to lead his army against the mortals. He’d expected more from the victory—pleasure or excitement of some kind—but there was nothing. No sense of accomplishment or satisfaction. Not even contentment. It was as if none of what he’d done had mattered after all, leaving him . . .

Empty.

Used up.

Tired.

He seized on the last thought. Tired. That was it. He was just tired, and after six millennia of waiting and building up to this moment, was it any wonder? A little rest and reflection—and perhaps dealing with Samael once and for all—and his outlook was bound to improve.

It had to, because otherwise—

Otherwise wasn’t an option.

Chapter 58

“Detective Jarvis, it wasn’t a request. I need you to remain in Ottawa as part of our team,” Stephane Boileau said. “After what you told us today—”

“Screw what I told you today.” Alex abandoned her attempts to button the coat someone had dug out of the lost and found for her. She pulled the garment tight around her instead and folded her arms over it to hold it in place. And to still the violent tremors that she couldn’t seem to stop.

Shock, the doctor had told her as he’d stitched up a slice along her thigh. She’d held back a “duh” only with great effort. She had no intention of making any similar effort for Boileau.

“That explosion had nothing to do with angels or Nephilim—” she broke off at his flinch and rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “Fine. With extraterrestrials. Better? The point is that it was triggered by nothing more than one thousand percent human stupidity. If we can’t contain that, Mr. Boileau, the entire world is screwed—with or without E.T.”

A dull flush crept up Boileau’s neck from beneath his shirt. “May I remind you that it’s your duty—”

“My duty is to keep the peace, not help you poke your nose into something bigger than you can begin to imagine.”

“If that something is a matter of national security,” he spat back, “then it goddamned well is your duty to help me poke my nose into it.”

Her fingers twisted into the coat’s fabric. The urge to fold inward and collapse onto the floor beckoned. How much easier it would be to let the doctors take over. Let them give her the sedative they’d offered, let herself slip away from Boileau and the stench of blood and burnt flesh that clung to her skin and hair. Easier . . .

And with Michael’s words about choice sitting heavy on her conscience, equally impossible.

She shook her head, as much at herself as Boileau, and then scooped up the mangled remains of her cell phone from the counter. “I’ve told you everything I can about the explosion and the Neph—the babies that are going to be born,” she said. “And now I’m going to my hotel room, and I’m going to try very hard to sleep. In the morning, I’m going home as planned. I will assist—long-distance—with any security plan you put together that focuses on humans. Beyond that, you’re on your own.”

Especially where your testing of the Nephilim children is concerned.

Boileau put a hand on the door to hold it closed. “I could have you seconded to the task force here.”

“You could. And I could refuse to comply. And we could go back and forth through disciplinary committees and hearings and waste a whole lot of everyone’s time while the situation just keeps getting worse. The choice is yours.” Hell. Now she was starting to sound like Michael. “I get that you’re worried, but this, the part you’re most concerned about? Let it go. It’s bigger than you are. Bigger than all of us. Focus on keeping our own world glued together. That’s how we’ll survive.”

Boileau stared at her through his glasses.

“You know more than you’ve told us, don’t you?”

“I know things no one should ever have to know. Trust me when I say you wouldn’t want to be me.”

“Not even if it meant I could walk away, virtually unscathed, from an explosion no one else anywhere near me survived?”

She froze, her hand on the doorknob.

“One of the news crews caught you on tape,” Boileau said quietly. “You’re being replayed every fifteen minutes across the entire country. Right alongside footage from the two latest earthquakes and the volcanic eruption.”

Alex rested her forehead against the door frame. From out in the corridor came the muffled squeak of wheels rolling by. The news? Christ Almighty, how much had they caught? Had they seen Aramael? Seen her collapse? Watched him lift her from the grass and heal the more serious wounds he hadn’t been able to protect her from?

Boileau’s voice persisted. “That fireball rolled thirty feet past you, Detective. It incinerated everything in its path. They’re still picking bits out of the grass. People on the opposite side of the podium were injured, some critically. And yet here you are. Walking out of the hospital with—what—a couple of dozen stitches? How is that possible?”

Alex waited for her stomach to stop churning at the reminder of the gore she’d witnessed, then she turned. Crossing her arms, she leaned against the door. “We both know it’s not possible,” she said. “So you might as well get to the point.”

Boileau rubbed a hand over the bald spot on his head and glowered at her. “I have the best interests of this country at heart, Detective Jarvis. I’m not sure the same can be said of you. Give me one good reason I shouldn’t have you detained.”

“I’ll give you two. One, because you’re wrong about what you’re thinking. You can test my DNA all you like; I’m as human as you or anyone else. And two, because this isn’t about the best interests of this country. It’s about the survival of humanity.”

Before Boileau could respond or she could reach again for the door knob, the door swung inward and a