Sins of the Lost

open, he struggled visibly to piece events together.

He staggered aside as Michael shoved past him into the washroom. Seth’s convulsions slowed, and he groaned, a low, agonized sound that twisted inside Alex’s belly. She backed away until she came up against the wall. Gripped the sword tighter, needing to hold onto something concrete, something real.

Something to connect her to the soulmate she knew without doubt she had just lost. The agony of grief squeezed inside her chest until she gasped.

Michael’s gaze burned into her. “What happened?”

“I—he—” Alex closed her mouth, gritted her teeth, and shut herself off from the part of her mind that wailed its anguish. She’d been here before, in this place of loss. She’d handled it then—a mere child of nine—and she would deal with it now. She raised her chin and met the emerald blaze of Michael’s eyes. “He wanted me to be with him. Forever. Aramael tried to stop him, but he wasn’t strong enough. I had no choice.”

Michael scowled. “You did this?”

Suddenly the sword felt wrong in her grip. Awful. Murderous. She tried to hold it out for Michael to take, but her arm refused to lift it. She opened her hand and let it fall. It landed with a thud deadened by the water covering the floor. Seth groaned again, and she looked down at him, at the gaping wound in his side where the sword had bitten so much deeper than she’d expected it to, at the blood pooling beneath him. Despite herself, she felt a twinge of something akin to regret.

Choices have consequences, the One had told her. She’d spoken of Seth’s choices, but how much of this could Alex have prevented if she herself had made other choices? How much of it would have ended differently? With Seth in Heaven where he belonged, and Aramael still alive . . .

Michael stared at her for another second and then turned to the Fallen One. “Take him,” he said harshly. “And call off your dogs.”

“I’ll take him, all right,” the Fallen One snarled, “but I’ll be damned if I call off my dogs, as you put it. Not after this.”

Before Alex could blink, Michael’s sword clashed with that of the Fallen One.

“Yes,” he growled back. “You will. We both have better things to do than engage in a pissing contest right now, Samael. You can’t lead Hell into battle without a leader any more than I want that battle to take place here, so put your goddamn tail between your legs, be glad you have him at all, and go back to where you belong.”

The two of them stood locked in silent, unmoving combat until the Fallen One finally blinked and Michael stepped back. With a last, vicious snarl, the Fallen One sheathed his sword again. Then he stooped, hoisted the semiconscious Seth to his shoulder, and vanished. Alex slid down the wall to the floor. Her hands limp in her lap and water seeping into her clothing, she stared at Aramael’s body until a pair of black boots blocked her sight line.

“I have to go. I need to make sure Samael recalls his Fallen. Your rescue people are on their way up.”

She said nothing.

“We’ll talk,” he said. “But later. When you’re stronger.”

He lifted Aramael’s body into his arms. Black wings, dulled by death, dragged through the bloody water pooled on the floor. The arm not supported by Michael’s body hung limp. Vacant gray eyes stared back at her, devoid of all that had been divine, all that had been alive, all that had been Aramael.

Heat burned behind her eyes. Raw pain sliced down her throat, making her voice harsh. “Michael.”

Heaven’s greatest warrior stopped in the doorway with his burden and waited.

“I’m sorry.” She looked away, swallowing against her loss. “For everything.”

“We’ll talk.” he said. “Soon.”

Chapter 88

Mika’el strode down the short corridor, the slain Aramael heavy in his arms, grief heavier in his heart. They had lost so much today. Too much. Stepping into the former office, he found the remainder of the Fallen had left. Raphael stood watch at what had once been the windows, waiting for him. He turned at Mika’el’s approach. Mika’el shook his head at his unspoken question.

A shadow darkened the other Archangel’s expression. He sheathed his sword and stepped forward, indicating Aramael. “Let me,” he said.

Mika’el raised an eyebrow. They’d only ever lost one Archangel to death before and so there wasn’t much in the way of precedent, but still, as the choir’s leader, it was up to him to carry their dead.

Raphael’s bleak golden eyes met his. “I told him he wasn’t one of us.” Raphael’s voice was rough. “I owe him this much.”

Without comment, Mika’el handed over the body. There would be no burial on their return to Heaven, no ceremony. When Raphael moved between the realms, the energy that lingered, forming Aramael’s corporeal body here on Earth, would dissipate. Aramael would disappear, Raphael would cross over alone, and there would once again be an empty seat at the Archangels’ table.

“What about Seth?” Raphael asked.

“Gone.”

“So Aramael was right. Hell is getting a new ruler.” Raphael shifted his burden. “And we’re down not just a ruler but another Archangel, too. Samael’s screwed us over again.”

“Not everything went the way he’d planned. The woman wounded the Appointed.”

Raphael’s golden eyes narrowed.

“The Naphil? With what?”

“Aramael’s sword.”

“That’s not possible.”

“Neither is summoning me across two realms.”

“What the Hell is going on with her?”

“I’m not sure. Her Naphil blood, the soulmate connection to Aramael, being brought back from the verge of death—or a little past it—twice by Seth.” Mika’el rolled his shoulders wearily. “A combination of everything, perhaps. Go. Take Aramael. Tell Azrael what has happened. I’ll clean up here and foll—”

A dozen heavily armed mortals poured through the shattered office door and brought weapons to bear on them. Shouted instructions followed, all muddled together and ringing with fear and tension.

“On your knees! Now!”

“You holding the guy—put him down!”

“Hold your hands away from you where I can see them!”

And on it went.

Mika’el closed his eyes. He and Raphael had to leave: Raphael to transport Aramael’s body; Mika’el to locate the remaining Archangels and deal with the Fallen. They didn’t have time for this—or to oversee another memory-wipe by the Guardians.

The mortal shouts continued.

Mika’el saw the question in Raphael’s eyes and knew the other agreed. They had only one way out of this, but while it might be too late to pretend Heaven had any secrets remaining, it was still damned difficult to flaunt themselves.

Difficult but, at this point, necessary. He nodded. Standing tall and straight despite his burden, Raphael instantly unfurled his massive black wings to their fullest and shot upward—

Into nothingness.

A slow, collective lowering of weapons and stunned silence followed, broken by a murmured and heartfelt, “Holy Mother of God.”

Mika’el studied them, one by one. He had spent six millennia on Earth, long enough to know humans better than any other angel did. Long enough that, though he could not save them, his heart ached at knowing what they faced. Their lives would never be the same after today. Not ever.

“Your colleague is in the washroom,” he told them. “She’s unharmed.”