Sins of the Angels: A Supernatural Thriller (Grigori Legacy Book 1)

by Lydia M. Hawke

  “And to involve the Appointed in your concerns.”

  Verchiel swallowed. “You know about that?”

  Sorrow shafted through silver eyes. “Have I been so very remiss that none of you think I pay attention anymore?” The One shook her head. “Yes, Verchiel, I know you asked Seth for help. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice the absence of the Appointed?”

  Without waiting for an answer—one Verchiel wasn’t sure she would want to give in the first place—the Creator paced the length of the balcony railing and back. She made three such trips before pausing to regard Verchiel again. “Have you told anyone else?”

  “Just the Power. I thought it best he be aware.”

  The One made another trek along the railing, stopping this time at the far end.

  Verchiel waited for as long as long as patience held out and then cleared her throat softly. “Do you know what you’re going to do?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? But—”

  “You’ve said yourself that you have no proof, Verchiel. There’s a chance you may be wrong. Until I have evidence to the contrary, I must honor Mittron’s potential as I do that of any other of my creations. And if you’re right, then choices have already been made that I cannot change.”

  “If I’m right,” Verchiel countered, “you could stop him.”

  Of course the One could stop Mittron. She was the One. The creator of everything. The ultimate power. She had to be able to set things right. It was why Verchiel had left the research to which Seth had assigned her, why she had risked untold disciplinary measures by vaulting over Mittron’s head to the greatest power in the universe. But as the One gazed out over Heaven’s landscapes once again, her eyes distant and her shoulders bowed, apprehension whispered through Verchiel’s veins. This was not the bearing of the Almighty. Interminable seconds passed, threatened to become an eternity.

  At last the One turned, her face set, her eyes resolute.

  “Even if I could, it’s not him I’m worried about.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Aramael watched Alex slip an arm around her sister’s shoulders and hand the other woman a cup of coffee. The niece had been in surgery for almost three hours, but he had no idea if that was good or bad. Seth had been gone for the same time. Again, bad or good?

  He thought back to his short—very short—conversation with the Appointed while they waited for the paramedics to load the girl into the ambulance. It had started with his own cryptic warning to Seth, ripped from him despite his better judgment.

  “You cannot have her.”

  “Who said I wanted her?”

  Aramael’s wings had flexed involuntarily and only with difficulty had he held back the accusatory words, the demand to know more about the touch he’d interrupted on the sidewalk. The Appointed had eyed him with seeming laziness, but a sharp edge to his demeanor had pierced to the center of the ugliness curling in Aramael’s core.

  “You do know that you can’t have her either,” Seth had observed. “She is mortal, Aramael. And one of the Nephilim. Even if you were permitted a soulmate, it could never be her.”

  Aramael lifted a hand to where denial had burned—still burned—acid-like in his chest. He knew. He knew the truth of Seth’s words, but knowing shredded all that was rational in him and held the potential to destroy him. The very volatility that made him a Power, that enabled the hunter in him to access Heaven’s rage in the span of a heartbeat, now threatened to be his downfall.

  The pity in Seth’s expression hadn’t helped.

  Just when he’d felt himself teeter on the edge of reason, however, Seth had looked away and dropped his voice. “How well do you know Mittron?” he asked.

  Surprise had jolted Aramael out of his seething. “The Highest? Well enough to know he’s a pompous ass.”

  Seth’s lips had twitched. “An accurate description. But I want to know if you’ve ever crossed swords with him. Done anything to make him go after you in some way.”

  Aramael had frowned. “Not that I’m aware of, no. Verchiel is my handler and I’ve never had to deal with him directly. Why? What is this about?”

  “I’m not sure. A theory. A hunch. Tell me, has any Fallen One ever escaped Limbo before?”

  “Never.”

  “Doesn’t it strike you as strange?” Seth watched him. “The only one to ever escape is your brother. He turns up in a place where it’s only a matter of time before he runs into a Naphil whose job it is to capture him. The same Naphil who turns out to be your soulmate. The one Mittron sent you to protect while you hunt Caim.”

  Aramael’s entire being went still under the sheer enormity of what Seth suggested. He took a lungful of air that felt thick, tasted sour. “That’s one hell of an accusation you’re not quite making,” he said.

  “It’s one hell of an accusation I’m trying my damnedest not to even imagine,” Seth retorted in a flat voice. “But I’m seeing way too many coincidences to be coincidental.”

  “But why? To what purpose?”

  “Damned if I know.”

  “Can you find out more?”

  “Not here.”

  Aramael had looked down the corridor to Alex and her sister. Then he’d pulled himself inward, centered himself, reached out with every scrap of awareness he could scrape together, straining past Alex’s presence to search for his brother. Nothing.

  Or nothing that he could feel, anyway.

  “Go,” he told Seth. “I’ll stay with Alex. And the others.”

  ***

  “Detective.”

  Alex, leaning forward in a chair, elbows resting on knees, looked up from the magazine she wasn’t reading. She met her supervisor’s scowl and felt her stomach drop. Time to face the music.

  Roberts jerked his head to the left and she nodded. She set her magazine aside and reached to give Jen’s hand a squeeze. Jen returned the gesture but didn’t seem able to let go again, and Alex felt her heart constrict at the rigid lines of control etched into her sister’s face.

  She extricated herself gently. “I have to talk to Staff Roberts,” she said, pointing. “I’ll just be over there, and I won’t be long.”

  Jen stared at her, visibly swallowed her need, and nodded. With a reassuring pat on her sister’s knee, Alex pushed out of the chair and went to join Roberts in the corridor outside the ICU waiting room.

  “How is your niece?” he asked without preamble.

  “Alive for now. She punctured her bowel. They’ve repaired it, but it’ll be twenty-four hours before we know if they’ve stopped the infection.”

  Roberts’s lips tightened. “What the hell is going on, Alex? You leave the crime scene without a word to anyone, your niece is soaked in enough blood to fill a slaughterhouse, she impales herself on a broken window...” He trailed off, angry and bewildered.

  She scuffed the toe of one shoe against the gleaming floor. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  He snorted. “Trust me, Detective, at this point you have nothing to lose by trying.”

  Alex weighed her options. She wondered what the repercussions might be if she simply refused. Then she wondered if she cared. “She was there.”

  “Who was where?”

  “Nina. She was at the mission. She saw the killer. Saw what he did. That’s why she tried to kill herself. Like Martin James.”

  “She—James—” Roberts broke off and rocked back on his heels. He remained silent for a long time, staring over Alex’s head, a muscle flexing in his dark jaw. Then he looked down at her again, his gaze flat, steady. “Can she give us a description?”

  “No.”

  The muscle in front of Roberts’s ear twitched again. “I’m posting two uniforms at the elevators and two at each set of stairs. Joly and Abrams are on their way here to sit with you and your family.”

  “Staff—”

  Roberts cut across her objection. “You need to know something.”

  The hairs on the back of Alex’s
neck prickled to life. “What?” she asked.

  “It may not be connected,” he hedged, “but I’m not taking any chances.”

  She only just stopped herself from seizing her supervisor’s shirtfront. “What?”

  “They found a cab a block from your sister’s house. The driver’s throat was slit.”

  Before he’d finished his sentence, Alex was already running, shoving a startled nurse out of her path, sending a supply cart crashing into a wall. Aramael met her halfway, his fiery wings spread behind him, flexed and powerful; his arms going around her as they came together.

  “He knows,” she gasped. “He knows where we are.”

  ***

  Seth rested his cheek against his loosely fisted hand, his elbow on the paper-strewn table. He stared at the dozens of records spread before him. He’d been at this so long, it was a wonder he hadn’t gone cross-eyed. What a complex, convoluted trail. For every path that brought him closer to the answers he sought, a dozen others led him so far astray it took hours to reorient. It didn’t help that everything was written in the complex tongue of the Principalities, the Keepers of Divine Records.

  He lifted his hands and smoothed them over his hair. Hours of research, and not a single shred of evidence to prove—what? He didn’t even know what allegation he should be making. Bloody Hell, he would get nowhere this way, and without something tangible, he could enlist no other help. Mittron was the highest level of authority in the entire realm other than the One herself, and without good reason to question the Seraph’s actions, the One would be content to leave him in exactly that position. Mittron, who had already declined to answer Verchiel’s questions and forbidden her from looking for her own answers.

  “Interesting research,” observed the object of his interest.

  Seth stiffened and masked his expression before looking up. “It is, actually.”

  The Highest of the Seraphim Choir reached out and lifted one of the papers from the table, scanned it, and dropped it back into the morass. His hands went behind his back. From the tension in Mittron’s arms and shoulders, Seth guessed that they were clasped there. Tightly. His interest ratcheted upward.

  He let the silence draw out for a few seconds, and then cocked an eyebrow. “You wanted something?”

  “Verchiel gave me your message.”

  “Ah.”

  “Pulling rank? You have no rank.”

  Had the Highest Seraphim just sneered at him? Seth leaned back in his chair, lifted his booted feet onto a clear spot on the table, and interlaced his fingers behind his head, his attitude one of bored disrespect. Mittron’s nostrils flared in response.

  “Technically, no.” Seth shrugged. “But my understanding is that, technically, neither do you. Yours is a position of trust, is it not, rather that one of power?”

  “My position is none of your business.” Dislike flashed across Mittron’s face and ice crystals settled into the amber eyes. “None of this is your business.”

  “I disagree. I think secrets in Heaven should be everyone’s business.”

  To his surprise, Mittron laughed with real amusement.

  “You’ve no idea how ironic those words are, coming from you,” the Highest told him.

  Seth frowned, sensing a loss of advantage in a game he still didn’t understand. “I have no secrets.”

  “It’s not the secrets you have, Appointed, it’s the ones you don’t have.”

  What the hell was that supposed to mean? Seth scowled. “Spare me the dramatics, Seraph. If you have something to tell me, just say so.”

  “It’s not that easy, I’m afraid. You see, I would be in a great deal of trouble if I were to tell you.”

  “More trouble than you’ll be in if this pans out?” Seth indicated the paper-strewn table. “Which secret is more dangerous, Mittron?”

  “Which is more valuable to you?” the Seraph countered.

  “Truthfully? Whichever one lets me live with myself. Which I doubt I could do if I climbed into bed with you.” Seth dropped his feet to the floor and scooped a sheaf of papers together and tapped them into a tidy stack. “So thanks anyway, but I’ll pass on knowing my secret and settle for finding out yours.”

  Mittron’s expression turned hard again. “You’re making a mistake.”

  “But retaining my integrity.”

  A muscle flickered in the Seraph’s tight jaw. “You won’t find what you’re looking for.”

  “You wouldn’t be trying to stop me if you believed that.” Seth manufactured an indifferent yawn. “Don’t you have something else to do? Someone else to harass?”

  “Even if you find the answers you seek—” Mittron’s hands curled at his sides.

  “What? You’ll stop me from telling the One? Banish me from Heaven?” Seth mocked. “You forget who you’re talking to, Seraph. You may hold sway over the host, but I’m not one of them, remember? You have no control over me.”

  “I was going to say that you won’t find them in time,” Mittron responded. “Events have been set in motion that cannot be stopped. Not now. Not even by you.”

  The Highest Seraph’s footsteps retreated. The slam of a door echoed through the cavernous hall and faded into silence. Seth inhaled the scent of dust and old ink permeating the rows of records that stretched in every direction, records he hadn’t yet begun to examine. Records Mittron had just told him he didn’t have time to examine.

  Just what the Hell had the Highest Seraphim done?

  ***

  Mittron brushed past the queue of angels waiting outside his office without a word and slammed the door against questions for which he had neither patience nor time. Questions for which he had no stomach in the face of seeing his carefully constructed plan come apart.

  He crossed to his desk and flung himself into the chair. Stood again and paced the room with quick, staccato strides. His lungs burned. Damn Verchiel to eternal Limbo. First her suspicions, then her decision—behind his back—to involve the Appointed. The one variable Mittron had failed to take into account. Failed to foresee. How could he have been so blind?

  Now his former soulmate had disappeared, leaving behind a note that said she’d decided to remove herself from Aramael’s case after all, and had gone on sabbatical. The sour scent of his own anxiety filled his nostrils.

  If only she could have made that decision before she’d gone to Seth.

  Mittron pressed fingertips to lips, cool against warm. The sound of laughter floated through the open window behind his desk, a harsh counterbalance to the thread of desperation intertwining with his thoughts. Until now, everything had moved forward as he’d hoped, come together as he’d envisioned, impelling Heaven and Hell toward what, really, had been inevitable all along. He’d been absolutely certain he had covered every eventuality, every possibility, and now it all came down to timing. Hinged on whether Seth could find the proof he sought before matters came to a head and the final piece of the plan fell into place—

  And Mittron silenced him forever.

  ***

  Aramael stood to one side of the girl’s bed, facing off against Alex on the other. Seth watched them both from the foot of the bed, his arms folded across his chest. Aramael alone could feel the Appointed’s influence, exerted to help the Guardians keep the ICU nurses at bay, and he alone bore the full brunt of Alex’s fury.

  “What do you mean, you’re leaving?” she hissed. “If he’s after Jen and Nina, how in hell will it help for you to go off chasing him somewhere else? You said yourself you don’t even know where to start.”

  Aramael felt weariness creep over him. “It’s the only way to end this. Caim won’t come after you as long as I’m here; he knows I’ll capture him before he gets within twenty feet of you. He’ll just keep killing until I go after him. You’ll be safe with Seth. All of you will be.”

  Alex rested her hands on her hips. Then raked them over her hair. Then fisted them and leaned on the bed, staring down at her niece. “You’re sure there’s nothing el
se we can do?”

  “I wish there was.”

  With every fiber of his being, he wished. But he’d been over it a thousand times in his head, from every possible perspective, only to conclude that Verchiel was right. He had to leave Alex, put distance between them so he could feel something other than her presence. So he could fulfill his purpose.

  So he could remember it.

  He watched Alex’s struggle for control and felt the iron constraints she placed on her fear, her determined efforts to retain her humanity in the face of that fear. Ignored the twist in his gut as she looked to Seth for confirmation and sagged at the Appointed’s nod.

  A nurse approached, her lips pursed and her brow furrowed. Seth turned to her and shook his head. She hesitated, looked confused, and then changed direction. Seth turned back to Alex and offered her a half smile. “He’s right. It’s the only way. I will keep you safe. I promise.”

  Aramael’s spine tensed as Alex considered the Appointed’s words. Then she relaxed a fraction and he sensed the beginnings of her trust.

  In Seth.

  Aramael reined in a surge of something he thought safer not to identify and made his shoulders drop. “I’ll never be far,” he said. “If Caim should come after you in spite of Seth’s presence, I will know about it.”

  Doubt shadowed Alex’s face. “But if you don’t feel him...”

  He reached across the narrow bed and covered one of her hands with his own. “Even if I fail to feel him, I will feel you. That I can promise.”

  She stared at him for a long time before she nodded. “All right. But we can’t stay here.”

  A sharp inhale heralded her sister’s return from the hospital cafeteria. “You’re not leaving me here alone with Nina, are you? Alex—”

  Alex pulled free from Aramael’s grip and turned to her sister. “Of course not, Jen. I’m not leaving either one of you until this is over. I promise.” She gave the other woman a quick hug. “But we can’t stay here. None of us can.” She looked over her shoulder at Aramael. “If he comes here, even if he doesn’t get to us, there will be a bloodbath—and the kind of attention you can’t afford. We’ll take her to my house.”