Chapter 69
Verchiel dropped to her knees beside the frail figure outstretched on the floor. She placed the back of her hand to the One’s parted lips, exhaling her own breath only when she felt warmth stir against her skin.
“Who else knows?” she demanded.
The Virtue who had come for her shook her head. “No one, Highest. When I found her like this, I came straight to you.”
Thank all of Creation for that. Sliding an arm under the One’s shoulders, Verchiel looked up at the Virtue.
“You’d be more help getting her up than just standing there, Sachiel.”
“Oh! Oh, of course.”
The petite angel stooped to support the One’s other side, and together they lifted her from the floor. Dark eyes, heavy with worry, met Verchiel’s.
“She’s . . . awfully light,” Sachiel murmured.
“Put her on the chaise,” she directed.
Together they carried their Creator across the room. Pale silver eyes fluttered open as they laid her gently onto the chaise longue. The One looked between them, confusion furrowing her brow, and then her gaze settled on Verchiel.
“My dear, sweet Verchiel,” she murmured sadly. “I think all might truly be lost.”
Verchiel’s stomach made a sickening lunge toward her toes. She leveled a glare at Sachiel, now at the foot of the chaise. “Mika’el,” she snapped. “Find him. Now. And, Sachiel, not a word to anyone else. Am I clear?”
The Virtue nodded vigorously and scuttled from the room. Reaching down, Verchiel grasped the blanket folded near the One’s feet. She shook it out and placed it over the tiny figure, tucking it tenderly into place. Then she perched on the edge, beside her Creator.
“You should rest before you try to talk,” she said. She took the One’s hand in her own, trying hard to still the flutterings of panic in her breast. Did they have time to let her rest, or . . . ?
“What can I do?” she asked.
“I’m afraid there’s nothing anyone can do. Not anymore.” Anguish clouded her silver eyes. “I thought I would be all right once Seth took back his powers, but I underestimated the effect on me. I’m worn out, Verchiel. Weak. Lucifer’s army has been born, and now he will destroy everything I have ever created, everything I have ever loved, and I won’t be able to lift a hand against him.”
The One gave a bitter laugh and raised her free hand, frail and almost translucent. “At the rate I’m fading, I won’t
The One’s eyes drifted closed as Verchiel sought words of comfort. But if such words existed, she couldn’t find them. Not when she knew what was in store for humanity and angelkind alike. For all of them. She stared out the window at the gardens, gripping the One’s hand and hoping that her presence brought some modicum of ease, until a small sound from the doorway drew her attention. Sachiel.
She raised an eyebrow, and the Virtue tiptoed in, glancing anxiously at the resting figure on the chaise.
“Did you find him?” Verchiel asked.
The Virtue shook her head. “He and the others are patrolling the Hellfire. I’ve sent a messenger, but it will take time.”
She would have to handle this on her own, then. Verchiel waited for the tightness in her throat to subside before she dismissed Sachiel. The One’s eyes opened and followed the Virtue’s departing form. Then she withdrew her hand from Verchiel’s and tucked it beneath the blanket.
“I think I’ll rest for a bit,” she said. “When Mika’el returns, will you send him to me?”
“Of course.” Verchiel rose and then impulsively, swiftly, stooped to press her lips to her Creator’s forehead. “Just so you know, none of this changes how much we love you,” she whispered, her voice fierce. “Forever.”
The One turned her head away.
Verchiel remained beside her for a few seconds more, staring down, hurting for herself and the others, but mostly for the One. To have been so much, so great, so powerful, and then—this. Condemned to fade away with agonizing slowness, knowing that all she had created would fade along with her? It was wrong. Verchiel lifted her chin.
It was wrong, and it wasn’t going to happen.
Not if she could help it.
Chapter 70
Alex stared at the television screen long after someone—she didn’t see who—switched it off. Silence hung over the room, heavy with unease, thick with disbelief. Beside her, Joly rubbed his mustache, making a harsh rasp of sound in the stillness. Alex inhaled. Exhaled.
“How many?”
Roberts’s voice made her jump. She looked around and found him standing gray-faced and grim at the edge of the group.
“How many?” he repeated. He waved at the television. “Of them.”
“A lot,” she said. She hesitated, debating the wisdom of holding this conversation in front of the others. But if the media were already reporting the births, there seemed little point in hiding what she knew from the people she worked with. The people she trusted most in the world. Especially when it was only a matter of time before the numbers became obvious.
Her gaze swept over her colleagues, returned to Roberts. “Eighty thousand.”
“Eighty . . .” Joly trailed off. His shock was mirrored in the others’ faces.
Roberts cleared his throat. “ “Damn,” he said. “And the women—?”
“All of them.”
“What the
Their supervisor cut him off. “Not now, Abrams.”
“But—” Abrams met Roberts’s hard look and subsided with a mutter.
Roberts turned back to Alex. “This is why Ottawa wants you.”
“Yes.”
“Can you do anything?” he asked.
“I’ve already told them everything I know, so . . . no. I can’t.”
Her supervisor studied the floor at his feet. “My hands are tied, Alex. The order is signed by the security minister himself.”
“I’m not going. Not until I find Nina.”
Alex watched Roberts’s mouth compress. At last he nodded.
“I’ll tell them,” he said. “Is there anything else I need to—”
A shudder rippled through the floor. Before anyone could do more than look puzzled, Homicide’s main door blasted inward. It sailed halfway across the room, narrowly missing Raymond Joly’s head before landing at their feet. Detectives and office staff alike scrambled for whatever cover was nearest. Almost as one, those that were cops drew their weapons and pointed them at the man standing in the doorway. All but Alex, whose heart turned
