Sins of the Lost

“Take it,” she snarled. “Aramael protected you with his life. You owe him nothing less.”

Alex shrank from the words. Another hand, warm and familiar, closed over her fingers. Aramael, alive and awake.

“Do as Gabriel says,” he whispered. “Take the sword.”

Meeting his pain-clouded gaze, Alex swallowed, nodded. She let her fingers curl over the hilt. Seeming satisfied, her rescuer whirled in a metallic whisper of feathers and, her own sword in hand, leapt for the door. The clashes and clangs of battle grew louder and then muted again as the door swung closed on its hydraulic hinge. Alex stared down at the figure on the floor, nested against his own black wings, deathly pale and unmoving. His eyes—his magnificent, fierce, stormy gray eyes—closed once more.

Grief clawed at her chest, fighting for release. She clamped her teeth against it. With her free hand, she brushed back the hair from his forehead.

Don’t you dare lose it, Jarvis. Aramael didn’t save your life so you could play wilting violet. You’re going to get out of here—Michael and the others will make sure of it—and Aramael will live, and then you’re going to find Nina . . .

Find her and hold her and watch her die.

God.

Clang. Crash. Scream.

Christ.

The cut on her arm gave a twinge, and she glanced down. The other cuts she’d sustained had been superficial, but that one had looked—

Gone?

The air wheezed from her lungs. She took her hand from Aramael’s forehead and swiped at the drying blood. Licked her fingers. Scrubbed harder. Stared. Not so much as a scar remained. Aramael hadn’t saved her after all. Seth had done it anyway. He’d made her immortal. She couldn’t die. She was going to live forever.

Horror swirled in her chest, slammed into her belly, rose again in her gorge.

Still clutching the sword, she lunged toward a sink.

Chapter 85

Alex braced one hand against the smooth porcelain sink and used the other to carry cold water to her face, her throat, the nape of her neck. Nausea still churned, but the retching had finally stopped—although that could simply have been because there was nothing left to purge. She eyed her wan, dripping reflection. While the physical shaking had also ended, her insides continued to vibrate at a pitch that would have shattered her if she’d been made of crystal.

She looked at the forearm supporting her. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to wash the blood from it —or from any of the other injury sites. It was as if, on some visceral level, she needed to retain evidence of her wounds. The only evidence she had of what she’d become. What Seth had made her. Her mind veered away from the idea, and she splashed another handful of water over her neck. Beyond the washroom door, the sounds of sword fighting continued.

Swords. With all the power these beings possessed, who would have imagined they’d resort to swords for battle? She looked at the blade she had propped against the wall by the sink. Simple, unadorned, crafted for nothing more than service. She turned off the tap and tore a length of rough brown paper towel from the dispenser to dry herself. Tossing the paper into the garbage, she turned to check on Aramael.

Outside and across the hall, a door thudded shut.

She stared at the washroom door just a few feet away. Was the fight over? No—she could still hear the clang of metal on metal. Then who—

The door cracked open, and Seth stepped inside. Hysteria bubbled up in her chest as he stared at the prone Aramael. She shoved it ruthlessly back down, swallowing against it. Seth looked up and smiled at her.

“There you are,” he said. “I thought they might have taken you away.”

His matter-of-factness hit her like a bucket of ice water, erasing the vestiges of panic, replacing it with a vast, disorienting disbelief. After all he’d done, he behaved as if none of it had happened at all. As if none of it mattered. Was he really that unfeeling? Had she made that monumental a mistake in saving him from Michael and the others in Vancouver?

She shifted to block the sword from his view. “What do you want?”

He raised an eyebrow. “A little gratitude for the gift, to begin with.”

“Gift?” She choked out a laugh. “I’ve lost everything I ever loved, everything I ever cared for, and now I get to live forever? How in hell is that a gift?”

“You haven’t lost everything, only the distractions.” He put out a hand to brush the hair from her face. “You still have me, remember? It’s what we always wanted.”

Another blast of ice water. He thought—he’d convinced himself—oh, dear God. She breathed carefully around the knot unraveling in her chest. Forced her hands to remain at her sides and not strike out at him while she worked through her realization and its terrifying consequences.

A stalker. Seth Benjamin, son of the One and Lucifer, bearer of immeasurable power, had become nothing more than a classic, delusional stalker—on a cosmic scale. Even now he was convinced she wanted to be with him for eternity. He had arranged for exactly that. Horror bubbled up in her again, this time on a whole new level, a whole new scale.

Seth’s arms slid around her.

I’ll never escape.

He buried his face in her neck . . .

I can’t escape.

. . . murmured her name . . .

Not even through death.

. . . whispered, “I love you, Alex Jarvis. Forever.”

“Leave . . . her . . . alone,” grated a hoarse voice.

Aramael. For an instant, sheer, wanton relief surged in Alex’s breast. He was conscious. He could hold off Seth until the others arrived. But then Seth went still—terrifyingly so—and euphoria turned to panic. Dread.

Aramael could never survive another fight. Not wounded as he was. Seth would kill him this time, finish what he had begun. Pain squeezed through Alex’s chest. No. She wouldn’t let him. She put her hands up to Seth’s face, forced herself to hold it. To hold his attention. To lie.

“I love you, too,” she croaked.

Sudden joy flared in Seth’s black eyes, and he cupped her face gently, reverently. Locking her gaze on his, she tried to project the adoration he craved from her and not let him see the desperation crawling along her every fiber, turning her inside out.

Oh please oh please oh please don’t do anything more to him.

“I said leave her!” Aramael snarled.

Seth’s jaw went rigid beneath her touch. She tightened her hold, clinging to him, clinging to hope, searching for the right thing to say. If she could make him believe her, if she could keep him focused—

His fingers wrapped around her wrists. He pulled her hands from his face and pushed her away. Blue crackles snapped in the air around him. He turned. Over his shoulder, Alex saw Aramael standing tall and straight, his wings spread as wide as the tight space would allow. She caught her breath. He looked so capable, so confident. Had he recovered? Was he—

A fresh trickle of phosphorescence welled from the hole in Aramael’s armor. His glorious, powerful wings trembled ever so slightly. Hope morphed into despair and sent cruel tentacles to wrap around her soul. She grabbed for Seth’s arm, but he shook her off, forcing her back a step. Stumbling, she put a hand out to steady herself against the counter. Her fingers closed over the hilt of Aramael’s sword.

“Take it,” the Archangel Gabriel’s voice whispered through her.

“Again, Archangel?” Seth snarled at Aramael. “How many times do I have to kill you?”