Bound as he was, Aramael had little choice but to accept the parchment when the Highest forced open his fist. Not that he could have avoided it anyway. The decree had been written and sealed, and its intent was inescapable. Even so, he was unprepared for how that intent burned itself into his soul. His stomach heaved and his hands shook as he felt himself marked him forever as having broken faith with the One. Knew that he had been branded forever as Fallen. Sorrow enveloped him.
Fallen. He hadn’t stopped to think of it that way. Hadn’t considered that, in choosing to betray the One’s trust, he would be following in the path of those he had existed to hunt.
But there was more to the parchment than just the marking. He forced himself to look at the words jumbled on the page, to bring them into focus. He skimmed past the phrase about his sins and found the one about his sentence. Stared. Blinked. Read it a second time, and then a third. He looked to the Highest for confirmation. “Not Limbo?” he asked. “Just cast out? Where am I to go?”
“Unless you choose to throw yourself on Lucifer’s mercy—and given your track record with his followers, I wouldn’t recommend doing so—you will spend your eternity in the mortal realm. You will have no access to Heaven or anyone in it. No connection to the One. And...”
Mittron hesitated, not out of compassion, Aramael thought, but a desire to draw this out as much as possible. And to draw as much pleasure from it as he could.
“What?” he demanded bitterly. “What more can there possibly be?”
The Highest looked pensive. “I must be honest with you, Power. The very qualities for which I chose you as my pawn worry me now. Your instability makes it difficult to predict what you might do if I leave you to your own devices. Even without a connection to any of this realm, you might still do damage. I think it best that I strip you of your powers, as well.”
Aramael would never have imagined himself capable of destroying a second life, but if he’d been able to spread his wings and access his powers just then, if he had been free to channel the rage that filled him, he didn’t think Mittron would have survived. The careful distance Mittron maintained from him said the Highest knew it.
“Only the One can remove an angel’s powers,” he growled through clenched teeth.
“True. But given the number of your infractions on this last assignment, she has left it to me to decide whether or not you can be trusted to retain them. I find you cannot.”
Mittron strolled to his desk, picked up a second parchment, and returned. Aramael stared at the document and the seal stamped upon it. He tensed, his wings aching with the strain of trying to free them. An angel, stripped of his powers, cast into the mortal realm for eternity. Could there be any worse punishment?
He watched Mittron’s narrow-eyed anticipation. The Highest expected him to plead for mercy, he realized. He wanted him to beg. His throat closed against the urge to do just that.
Never.
The mortals managed to survive without divine powers. He would learn to do the same. And he’d have all of eternity in which to do so. Plus, there was Alex. If she lived as Mittron said, she would still be his soulmate. They could make a life together after all, at least for the span of hers. He could keep her safe—or try to—from what was coming.
Head high, jaw clenched in defiance, he stretched out his hands and snatched the parchment from Mittron’s grasp. Its impact was immediate. It snaked through him, an inferno burning in its wake. Sheer agony made him try to release it, but it clung to his open palm. Melded with him. Became him. Until finally, when he didn’t think he could endure a minute more, it fluttered to the floor. The internal fire banked, cooled, and disappeared, leaving icy emptiness wherever it had touched. Nothingness where there had once been a great energy.
The bonds holding his wings and hands fell away.
Mittron strode to the door and pulled it open to readmit the Archangels. “We’re done,” he said. “You may take him.”
Aramael swayed under the weight of his new weakness, but he stayed on his feet. He would not fall before Mittron, he told himself fiercely. He wouldn’t so much as stumble. Straightening his shoulders and lifting his head, he went to meet the Archangels.
But in brushing past the Highest, he felt fingers burrow into the feathers of a wing. He stiffened as the Seraph stepped behind him and grasped one wing in each hand.
“I almost forgot these. With no power to hide them anymore, I’m afraid you won’t be able to keep them.” Mittron’s fingers dug in cruelly and he leaned close, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Nor, I’m afraid, will you keep your awareness of your soulmate. Oh, yes, I saw what you were thinking, but Alexandra Jarvis turned out to be responsible in great part for that unpredictability of yours going beyond what I’d expected. I think you’ll be safer without her.”
The Highest’s grip prevented Aramael from turning. He tried to shake it off, but his wings barely moved in response, powerless to rid him of the traitor on his back—or in his mind. Mittron’s will flowed into him, and Aramael’s exquisite awareness of Alex faltered, fading by slow degrees, first into nothing, and then into less than nothing. Until Alex herself was no more than the whisper of a distant memory, an incident unconnected to him, and the emptiness that had begun with his fall, with his turn away from the One, became complete.
And then Mittron ripped the wings from his body.
Any agony he had suffered before paled in the face of this. It drove Aramael to his knees, pure and physical and absolute, and wrenched a guttural roar from a place profound and dark and never before accessed. A roar that filled his head, his chest, his body with its force until it finally spent itself in a lack of air and left him gasping. Shaking. Hating.
He dug his fingers into his thighs, willing the haze to recede. Willing himself back to control, back to his feet. But before he could summon the strength he needed to rise, he heard Mittron’s order above his head.
“Take him,” the Highest said. “Anywhere will do.”
Once again, cold, talonlike hands lifted Aramael from the floor.
Chapter Thirty-eight
She knew. One look at the shadows darkening her silver eyes and Seth was certain she knew. He steeled himself against the urge to confess his doubts and beg her forgiveness. He calmed his thoughts. She couldn’t know, because he had only toyed with an idea. Wondered at it.
He certainly had no intention of following through on it.
He swallowed. “One.”
The slender, silver-haired female brushed the dirt from her hands and looked with satisfaction at the potted plants on the greenhouse table. Then she smiled wistfully. “I should have stuck with plants,” she said. “They’re a great deal less trouble.”
Seth made himself return the smile. “You’d miss the challenge.”
“Perhaps,” she agreed and looked up again. “Are you ready, then?”
Seth slid his hands into his pockets and worked to control his features. “As ready as I can ever be, I suppose.”
“Do you have any questions?”
He thought about all that had been allowed to pass, about the secret Mittron had hinted at, about the inexplicable and confusing feelings he had for a mortal. About how he could know and accept his destiny for thousands of years, only to falter now. About his unfulfilled promise to Alex to intervene on Aramael’s behalf.
“No,” he answered. “No questions.”
The One glanced down to where he hid his clenched fists in his pockets. He thought she might comment, might probe further, but after a moment she turned away to fill another pot with soil.
“You understand that I may not interfere with you once this is done,” she said. “No communication of any kind. That was the agreement.”
“I understand.”
“Then as soon as things are finalized, we will proceed according to schedule.”
Seth’s fists tightened. “You’re certain this will work? That Lucifer will honor the agreement?”
A tiny smile cu
rved the One’s mouth. “I’m very certain of Lucifer.”
He flinched, hearing a message for himself in her words. Or maybe it was his guilt speaking. To cover his reaction, he cleared his throat. “Will you still have Mittron oversee the transition?”
“Unless you have an objection.”
Now. Now is the time to tell her, to show her what I found and stop the Seraph. Now is the time to remove temptation.
“No. No objection.” Seth resisted the desire to withdraw his hands from his pockets and wipe his palms dry. “I should go.”
The One gave him a long, searching look. “So much rests on your shoulders, Seth. You know you have the right to refuse this task we have set you, that you may choose to remain here instead. You need only say.”
Seth stared at her, stunned. How much had it cost her to make that offer, knowing the outcome if he abdicated his destiny? Sudden, fierce love gripped him, filling him with determination. He stepped forward and grasped the One’s hands in his own, ignoring the dirt that soiled them both. “I will fulfill the destiny you have set for me, One. And I will make my choice with the love and compassion you have taught me. I promise.”
For the instant it took to draw a single, quick breath, sadness hollowed his mother’s eyes. Then Seth blinked and the look was gone, replaced by gentleness. Calm. The One returned the squeeze on his fingers.
“You will do everything you must, my son. I have never doubted that.”
Seth walked out of the greenhouse, holding fast to his certainty that he would keep his word. Clinging to it with both hands.
Believing it even as he prepared to lie again to Alex.
***
The One watched the Appointed’s departure from the greenhouse and then turned. “You heard?” she asked a row of tall plants.
Verchiel stepped from behind the greenery, hands tucked into her robe. “I did.”
“You don’t look happy.”
“Mittron, One? Are you certain he can be trusted?”
“I am certain the decision is mine.”
Verchiel went pale. “Of course. I only meant—”
“I know what you meant, Verchiel, but you need to believe that what I do, I do with good reason.” The One quirked an eyebrow. “I think this might be where faith comes in.”
“Of course,” the Dominion said again. She remained quiet for a moment, her internal struggle obvious, and then straightened her shoulders. “Forgive me, One, but Seth is your son, and after all I’ve told you about the Highest—if you think he might do something—”
“I have spoken, Dominion.”
“But should we not at least assign a Guardi—?”
“I said I have spoken.”
Verchiel flinched as if she had been struck and bowed her head. “Yes, One.”
“Then you have your instructions. Monitor the Highest and advise me when preparations are complete. And, Verchiel—whatever happens, remember this conversation. Remember that, above all else, I demand faith from my angels. Not just trust.”
The One waited until Verchiel had departed the greenhouse before she sagged against the potting bench and raised hand to chest. She thought of what she had set in motion, what she could still stop now but wouldn’t, because it needed to be. Should have been thousands of years before. Then she closed her eyes and squeezed her hand into a fist over a heart heavy with grief and guilt.
“Forgive me, my son,” she whispered into the stillness.
***
“Did you even try?” Alex asked.
She stared out her sister’s newly repaired living room window at a cat prowling through the neighbor’s flower bed. Jen had insisted on taking her in after the fire—Alex would have preferred the privacy of a hotel, but hadn’t had the strength to argue. It hadn’t been as bad as she’d expected, living here. Jen seemed to sense that Alex needed to be left alone to heal, and hadn’t asked any of the million questions she had to have. Or maybe Jen was just too busy trying to put her daughter’s mind back together again to worry about her sister’s mental state.
Behind her, Seth’s silence was accusatory. Alex’s lips compressed into a tight line. She shouldn’t need his assurance—didn’t need it—to know he spoke the truth. He had no reason to lie to her. No reason to rob her of a future she would never have had in the first place.
She hugged herself as a band of iron settled around her heart, tight enough to make a tiny stab of pain the companion to each heartbeat. A future without Aramael, without the chance to even say good-bye. Bruised ribs protested the breath she drew. She put a hand to her throat and traced the wound healing there, then the ones across her chest. She turned to face Seth. “So that’s it then. It’s all over.”
Seth hesitated.
“I meant my part in this,” she said.
“Yes. Your part is over.” Seth regarded her with a compassion that made tears threaten. “Will you be all right?”
“Do I have any choice?” Alex grimaced at the bitter note in her voice. She ran a hand through her hair, careful to avoid the tender lump that remained from her run-in with Caim. Restlessly, she moved away from the window. “I’m sorry,” she muttered. “I know none of this is your fault—it’s just so...”
“Unfair?”
“Wrong.”
Seth stood up from the sofa and tucked his hands into his front pockets in a gesture shockingly reminiscent of Aramael. Alex swallowed a lump in her throat and turned away from him.
“Try to remember that it could have been much worse for him, Alex. Limbo would have destroyed him. At least this way he has a chance at a semblance of life.”
“Something we have in common.”
“Your job—”
“Is waiting for me when I’m ready to go back.”
“Will you?”
“I don’t know. I don’t have anything else to do, so I suppose I should. It just seems somewhat pointless with everything else that’s going on.”
“Everything—you mean what’s happening between Heaven and Hell?”
“The thought had occurred to me, yes.” She cast a dark look over her shoulder at him. “Do we mortals even stand a chance of survival?”
A smile tugged at the corner of Seth’s mouth. “I don’t think you have to worry about extinction just yet.”
“With the emphasis on yet?”
“With the emphasis on not worrying.”
“Not worry about a potential war between Heaven and Hell. You’re kidding, right?” Alex glared at him. “Is there some part of being mortal that you’re unclear on? We die, Seth. Bad things happen and we die.”
“I know, but I still think you’re worrying too much.”
Alex carefully and deliberately set aside the tangle of pain sitting in her chest and took a mental step back to examine Seth’s words. She fixed him with a hard stare.
“You’re not telling me something.”
Seth remained silent for a long moment, looking past her and visibly grappling with something inside himself. Alex crossed her arms, fixed him with an unwavering stare, and waited.
“There’s a contingency plan,” he allowed at last.
“A contingency plan.”
“Another way to avoid war and decide who will have dominion over the mortal realm.”
“I see. And this plan would be—?”
Seth stared down at the carpet at his feet. He dug his hands deeper into his pockets. Then he raised resigned eyes to hers.
“Me,” he said. “I’m the plan.”
Epilogue
War.
Aramael sat on the hard, sunbaked earth long after the last he would see of his kind had abandoned him in a silent rush of wings. Sat and pondered and sat some more.
Heaven and Hell locked in the final, ultimate battle that would decimate the mortal race, with him unable to do no more than watch from the sidelines. He stared out at the barren landscape. Knowing what was coming, knowing who stood behind it, and he still could do nothing to prevent it. He couldn’t w
arn anyone, couldn’t stop it, couldn’t even take part.
Sweat trickled down the back of his neck and between his shoulder blades. The sun, at its zenith in a cloudless sky, beat down without mercy.
The Archangels had picked their dumping ground with stunning appropriateness. He would die a dozen deaths by the time he walked out of this Hell-on-Earth. Die, and because of the immortality he retained, be resurrected into the same Hell, over and over again. A Hell where Mittron had won a battle Aramael hadn’t even known they waged until it was too late.
Wiping his forehead with his shirt sleeve, he thought about the woman he’d been sent to protect from his brother and wondered what she would do when the war came. Would she remain as strong as he remembered her? A few humans would undoubtedly survive. Would she be among them? Perhaps. Or perhaps it would have been better if she hadn’t fought so hard to stay alive through her encounter with Caim. If she’d died then, she wouldn’t have to face what the rest of humanity would endure. Aramael’s stomach clenched at the thought, bringing him up short. That almost felt as if he still cared...
Impossible. He’d never forget how Mittron had taken his awareness of Alex from him. How any connection he’d felt to her had faltered and then faded into nothingness. Until emptiness had been all that remained in him and all he would ever know.
He frowned. Except it wasn’t all he knew. Because he still knew her, still knew exactly what he’d lost. Surprise made him grunt softly. He closed his eyes, pushed past the loss that sat heavy in his heart, and dredged up everything he could remember about Alexandra Jarvis. Stubborn courage further defined by vulnerability, hidden wells of compassion and strength, skin like silk beneath his fingers when at last he’d given in to the need...
His eyes shot open and he stared at his hand, feeling the imprint of her skin on his flesh. He dusted his fingertips together and the tingle from them flowed into his arm. He didn’t know how, but he still had the memories. Clear memories. Vivid ones. What the Hell—?
Free will.
The thought slithered through his mind so quietly he almost missed it. Almost ignored it. Then he seized on it. He could remember because he wanted to, because no one had directed him not to, and even if they had, he could refuse the order. Because he had free will.
Sins of the Angels: A Supernatural Thriller (Grigori Legacy Book 1) Page 30
