Sins of the Lost

“And you,” he said. Eyes closed, he pressed his lips to her palms, first one, then the other. Inhaling her, tasting her, absorbing her.

A sigh shuddered through her. Her hands turned in his until she gripped back, holding onto him as he did her. His heart swelled with sweet, aching joy. This. This is what he had missed so terribly, what he had wanted to come home to. Her love, her compassion, her—he felt the One go still beneath his touch and sensed her gathering herself. He remembered what would come next. What had to come next. He tried to pull back, but her fingers clamped onto his, holding fast.

“Lucifer.”

Panic slammed through him. No. He couldn’t let her see. She would never love him if she saw—if she knew—his pull became frantic. Hers was stronger.

“Let me look at you,” she said.

He shook his head. “Please don’t,” he whispered.

One of her hands released his and lifted his chin. Her will surrounded him, pressed in on him, compelled him. He could have resisted. Fragility still underlay the All that had once been her presence, and it would have taken little effort to rise and walk away from her. But he did not. Instead, infinitely sad, he did her bidding and opened his eyes, the windows to his twisted, damaged, hateful soul. Opened them, looked into hers, and waited for the Judgment he knew was coming. Knew he deserved.

Tears gathered in the One’s silver eyes. He blinked. She cried . . . for him?

“For us,” she said, stroking his cheek. “I cry for us.”

He recoiled. For us. But that meant—

Truth laid open his soul, sudden understanding his heart. For the first time, he grasped the full impact of his actions. She was his Creator—his other half, his better half—and for six millennia he had allowed pride and jealousy to come between them, to divide not just the world, but the two beings who most belonged together. He had sacrificed all that he might have had, all they might have been, in favor of nothing at all. He had given up this—her touch, her presence, her love—for a thousand journals filled with a handful of fading memories, a lifetime of wasted wishes.

A groan surfaced in his core, ripped through his body, turned harsh with agony in his own ears. He— he had done this. Not only to himself, but to the one he loved more than any other. He tried to push away, but the One’s arms went around him, pulling him close and holding him tight. Her presence seeped into him, scraping his soul clean, leaving him raw, bruised, achingly exposed.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered at last, when he could form words again. “I am so, so sorry for what I have done.”

“Oh, my Light-bearer, it is I who should beg your forgiveness. So much I could have done to prevent all that came between us. To have created you as I did, and then refuse to understand you . . .” She rested her forehead against his. “I have wronged us both. Wronged all of my creations with my stubbornness. I am sorry.”

It became his turn to hold her. He did so with tenderness and, as the years that had divided them began to slip away with every beat of her heart against his, a gratitude so intense that it took away his breath. Then, when she finally drew back, he pulled up the other chair—his chair, still sitting where he had left it six thousand years before—and settled into it.

“Tell me what you need me to do,” he said. “I’m ready.”

Chapter 73

Lucifer’s presence in Heaven slammed into Mika’el like a fist, stopping him in midair. He dropped to the ground to get his bearings. A dozen feet away, the Hellfire flickered and danced without sound, its heat making the feathers of his wings smolder. He ignored it, trying to pinpoint the Light-bearer’s whereabouts.

Had there been a breach? Why hadn’t someone sounded the alarm? And Lucifer? It made no sense that the Light-bearer himself would—

Every atom in his body crystallized into ice.

The Creator.

Bloody Hell, he’d left the One unprotected. He’d put every Archangel on patrol, leaving none behind to watch over the One even though he’d known she was weakened. Now Lucifer was here, in his territory, threatening her. Mika’el’s fury surged. He pulled his sword and threw himself from where he was to where he needed to be— landing in the One’s quarters in a whirl of battle-ready feathers, cyclonic wind, and shattering glass as every window in the building blew outward.

His gaze settled on Lucifer, seated in a chair beside the One. A glow enveloped the two of them, binding them together.

“Light-bearer!” Mika’el’s voice started as a low growl, rising to a shout at the end.

The glow wavered, settled, intensified. Sword high, he sprinted forward, driven by rage and hatred. His unfinished business with Lucifer was about to end. Here. Now. To—

“Mika’el.”

He pulled up short, nearly running over the Highest Seraph as she stepped in front of him and placed a hand on his chest. Her calm radiated outward, countering his own turbulence. He sidestepped, trying to shake her off; she followed.

“Mika’el,” she said again.

Her gentleness sliced through his fury, hobbling it. Hobbling him. He stopped trying to evade her and stared beyond, at the two seated before the blown-out window. She, the One, upright in her chair, eyes closed and face in deep repose. He, her Light-bearer, leaning forward, fingers entwined with hers. And around them both, that light. Emanating from each of them, encompassing them, tying them together . . .

Shutting out the rest of the universe.

His heart contracted. He was too late.

No.

He stepped forward again. Verchiel held firm against him.

“It’s what she wanted, Mika’el. What we told her we would give her.”

Mika’el shook his head, trying to reclaim his anger, needing it to hold at bay the grief clawing at his chest. His Creator, their Creator, the mother of them all, was leaving—and he hadn’t had a chance to say good-bye. Hadn’t told her how much he loved her, would always love her.

“She knows,” Verchiel assured him softly.

He didn’t want to listen. Fear—and the yawning emptiness looming inside him—demanded that he intrude, that he tear the One from the Light-bearer and insist that she stay and watch over her creations. That she finish what she had started. The weight of Heaven itself pressed down on his shoulders, his to bear when she was gone. His to lead in war, to watch over and protect, to hold together in her absence. He flinched from the enormity of the task—and from the part of him that silently raged against her for having left it to him.

But he said nothing, did nothing, because Verchiel was right. They had promised this to their Creator. Promised that they would let her go, that they would manage, that they would be all right without her. He released his breath in a long hiss.

The light from the two bodies surged, pulsed, struggled to merge. The look of concentration on Lucifer’s face became fierce, then panicky. His own light glowed bright, but the One’s began to fade. Beside Mika’el, Verchiel inhaled sharply.

Something was wrong.

“He’s killing her!” He wrenched his sword free of its sheath again and started toward Lucifer.

“No.” Verchiel caught his upraised arm, her hand surprisingly strong. “No, Mika’el, it’s not Lucifer. It’s you.”

Me! But—

Comprehension kicked him in the chest, knocking the wind out of him. Of course it was him. He was the one holding on, unable to let go. The One knew he’d lied about managing without her. Just as she knew he doubted,