Sins of the Warrior

by Linda Poitevin

  No. Even if he managed to kill Seth—and it was a big if, even in the other’s weakened state—it would only leave him with a greater problem. A rudderless Hell didn’t stand a chance against Heaven. Whether he liked it or not, the Fallen needed Seth to lead them. And it was up to Samael to get him to do so.

  “You may have lost the battle for her, Appointed,” he rasped past the vise-like pressure on his larynx, “but not the war.”

  Seth scowled. “Explain.”

  Samael tugged at his hand. After a moment’s hesitation, Seth’s fingers loosened until he could draw air. But only just.

  “Aramael is gone,” Samael said, “and Mika’el and the others are preoccupied with the war. The Naphil will be alone. Unguarded. If she really means that much to you—”

  Seth’s hand tightened again. “And more.”

  “Then let me get her for you,” Samael croaked.

  “And why would I need you to do that?” Seth growled. “Or trust you?”

  “Because I can do this”—Samael reached up and prised the fingers from his throat—”and you’re wise enough to know you’re in no shape to move between the worlds right now, Appointed. And I’m wise enough to know Hell needs a leader, and it’s not me. Each of us has what the other wants—or we can get it. It makes sense that we would help one another.”

  Seth’s hand balled into a fist and dropped to his side. His expression turned stony but for the fire seething in the black depths of his gaze. Samael coaxed himself to patience. The urgency that had driven his actions when Lucifer still lived no longer existed. Seth might not be the powerful leader Hell needed just yet, but with the right encouragement, he could grow into the role.

  Damaged though he might be, he was still more of a leader than Heaven had anymore.

  Seth wheeled away and returned to his place by the window. “Talk.”

  Samael strolled forward to drop into the chair facing the desk. “Without the One’s will driving them, Heaven’s forces are scattered. Weak. They outnumber us, but their casualties are greater, and we don’t even have all the Fallen engaged in battle yet. Better than ten thousand remain with the Nephilim children.”

  “Why?”

  “The children are young. They need care and training.”

  “I meant why do I care about the Nephilim at all?”

  Samael swallowed his retort. Bloody Heaven. First Lucifer had been wholly focused on the creation of his Nephilim army, and now Seth saw no point to it? Was Hell to be forever burdened with leaders who couldn’t see past their own selfish desires? Was he to spend his entire existence drawing maps for them?

  “Two things came between you and the Naphil woman,” he reminded Seth. “Aramael, and the Naphil’s concern for the human race. The former might no longer be a concern, but as long as humanity exists, the entire race will stand between you and the Naphil as it did between your father and the One. It was why Lucifer created the Nephilim in the first place.”

  “I know why he created them.” Seth brushed off his words with an impatient wave of one hand. “But they’re only just born. It will take months for them to grow up; years before they’re able destroy humanity. We could wipe out every mortal on the planet in a fraction of the time.”

  Really? Samael rubbed fingertips over one temple and the headache forming there. He’d heard this argument from Lucifer so many times that he’d lost count, and now Seth, too? Bloody, bloody Heaven. He unclenched his teeth.

  “Actually, we couldn’t,” he said. “Heaven—”

  “Heaven would come after us,” Seth interrupted. “And then we’d be fighting the war on Earth, where human casualties would be catastrophic. Isn’t that the whole point?”

  “Yes, and no. With all due respect, Appointed, your approach has three flaws. First, not all mortals would be killed. Some would survive, and now that you’ve made her immortal, your Naphil will never stop fighting to save them. Second”—Samael ticked off another finger—”we might have the advantage over Heaven right now, but if we take the fight to Earth, I guarantee we’ll lose that edge. Nothing will unite and motivate the angelic forces like a direct assault on the One’s mortal children, Seth. Nothing. If that happens, humanity’s destruction becomes the least of our worries, because we’ll be fighting for our own survival.”

  The Appointed’s jaw flexed. Relaxed. Flexed again. Thunder gathered on his brow. “You make it sound like you expect me to wait for her.”

  “I think it might be best.”

  “And for exactly how long would you suggest I do that?”

  “As long as it takes. You made the Naphil immortal, remember. That means you have eternity on your side.”

  Seth glowered, but didn’t argue.

  “You said three flaws. What’s the third?”

  “If the woman sees you strike directly at humanity, a thousand eternities won’t be enough to win her back.”

  Back and shoulders rigid, Seth turned away. Samael gave him a few moments to process his words, then, satisfied he’d made his point, levered himself up from the chair.

  “I have maps and strategies posted in war council chambers,” he said, crossing to the door. “If you’d like to have a—”

  “No.”

  Samael stopped mid-stride. He looked back at Seth, who still faced the window. “No, what?”

  “I won’t wait.”

  “You can’t be serious!” Samael didn’t bother trying to hide the scowl this time. “Have you not heard a word I’ve said?”

  “I heard.” Seth swung to face him. “And I don’t care. You want a leader for Hell? Then I want Alex. Now.”

  CHAPTER 3

  SETH STAYED ON HIS feet until the door thudded shut behind Samael. Then, legs buckling, he dropped to his hands and knees before sprawling full length on the cold, hard flagstone, fire consuming him from ribcage to hip. Blackness encroached on his vision. He fought it off, gasping for air, gagging against the gorge that rose in his throat.

  Fucking Heaven, that hurt. More now than it had yesterday, twice as much as the day before that. His attack on Samael had made it worse. Had the other sensed his weakness? Known how incapacitated he really was? Seth grunted, his fingers tingling at the memory of being prised from Samael’s throat. Who was he kidding? Of course the Archangel knew. With a dozen former Virtues dancing attendance on Seth, at least half the realm would know.

  He curled his fingers against the stones, drawing his focus inward. He was the Appointed, son of Lucifer and the One. He could not—would not—be caught lying prone on the floor, should someone come in. Taking a slow, careful breath, he hardened his muscles and, in one swift motion, pushed grimly, fiercely to his knees, grabbed the desk, and pulled himself upright. Nausea washed over him. Through him. Became him. He swallowed, retched, and, only through sheer force of will, stopped from spewing his earlier meal across the polished mahogany desktop. Lights sparked behind his eyelids. Sweat beaded his forehead and his upper lip.

  When he could draw breath again, he stretched out a hand and tugged the bell rope to summon those tasked with his healing. Then he stumbled to the sofa and collapsed onto it, waiting for the fresh assault on his stomach to subside. It would be at least five minutes before one of the Virtues made his/her way to his side, if not more. The wait grew longer every time he called for help, as did a subtle but pervasive air of insolence.

  He scowled. He may not have wanted to admit it to Samael, but the Archangel was right. Already Hell grew restless without an undisputed leader in place. Even in his weakened state, Seth could sense the shifts in energy outside the confines of the building, the rumblings of discontent. If he didn’t take up the reins soon, things would get ugly.

  He rested his head against the cushions. So. Was that what he wanted to do? Step into his father’s shoes and take up the fight against Heaven? He snorted at the thought and immediately regretted even that slight movement of his diaphragm. Another moment of white-hot fire slid by.

  His vision clearing again, he sta
red into the cold, grimy fireplace. Now that Aramael was gone, he didn’t give a damn about Heaven. Couldn’t care less if the Fallen reclaimed a place there or not. Humanity, however, he did care about, for the exact reason Samael had voiced. The One’s mortal children would always stand between Seth and Alex. She’d proved that when she sent him away. Again, when she’d called on Aramael to protect her from Seth’s gift of immortality. And a third time, irrevocably, when she herself had taken up Aramael’s sword and inflicted this injury that refused to heal.

  Eyes closed, Seth focused on the throb that radiated from his side. A mortal of Nephilim bloodlines, twice brought back from the very edge of death, made immortal by his own hand, wielding a sword given to her by the Archangel who was her soulmate. There was no doubt that the will of Heaven itself had somehow been behind that blow. The question wasn’t why the wound had been so severe, but how he had survived it at all. And the only answer he could come up with was—

  A knock sounded at the door, signaling the arrival of a Virtue. Seth barked a command to enter. The door opened and footsteps padded across the stone floor.

  The answer was that Alex had hesitated. She’d held back. She hadn’t, despite everything, wanted to kill him. Somewhere inside her, she had still cared, and she would learn to care again. Perhaps not as soon as she was brought to him, but certainly once mortals no longer interfered.

  And for that to happen, Seth needed the Fallen. He needed Samael. And he needed to heal so he could take his place on his father’s throne.

  Efficient fingers lifted Seth’s shirt and began peeling back the bandage. The putrid scent of rot wafted upward. Seth gritted his teeth and braced for what followed. Scissors snipped, biting into flesh, cutting away the gangrene, slicing into nerves made raw by infection. He gagged, digging his fingers into the soft leather of the sofa. His last thought gathered strength. Settled into his soul. Became, in its truth, more powerful than the agony being inflicted on him.

  He needed to heal.

  For the first time since he had given Alex her immortality, he gathered the full force of his will to him. He focused on the fire that began in his injury and wrapped around the very essence of his being, held its tangle in his mind, stilled its violence. He saw how the loss of Alex had become inextricably ensnared with the physical pain, until he couldn’t tell where one began and the other left off. So much pain. So many threads.

  Doubt slithered through him, gnawing with tiny, sharp teeth at the edges of his will. He shoved it away and studied the morass. One of the threads glowed brighter than the others. He took it up, disengaged it, and followed it to the wound in his side, to where the Virtue’s hands continued their work, snipping, cleansing, their every movement tugging at the thread he held. This, then, was the physical pain. He laid it aside and returned his attention to the tangle. Another thread, this one dark, fragile. He lifted it, extricated it from the rest, and followed it down, ever deeper, to the ache in his very core. The place where Alex’s loss resided—unending, all-consuming, threatening to swallow him in his entirety. He inhaled sharply, and the Virtue hesitated.

  “Continue,” he ground out between his teeth.

  He flinched from the cooling sting of antiseptic and forced his focus back to the tangle, continuing his own work, sifting, sorting, separating one pain from the other. Physical from emotional. Body from soul. While the Virtue taped a fresh bandage into place, he stared into his emptiness, facing the betrayal, trying to come to terms with it, hating the weakness it exposed within him. Then, as the other’s hands withdrew, the solution surfaced, whisper-soft. The one thing that would allow him to let go of what had passed.

  Forgiveness.

  The very thought brought a surge of peace. A wave of magnanimousness. Seth squeezed his eyes shut against the relief. Of course. Alex hadn’t meant to hurt him. She hadn’t known the depth of his love for her, or how to adjust to the enormity of the gift he had given her. She hadn’t understood, hadn’t been capable of understanding. But she would be. Once he explained, once she realized the depths of his connection to her, everything would change. She would change. Everything would be better.

  It would be the way it was supposed to be.

  Just like that, the tangle within him eased. He took a deep breath, the first he’d managed since regaining consciousness a week ago. His lungs filled, expanded, pressed against his ribs, and…nothing. The bandage tugged against tender flesh and blood throbbed through inflamed tissue, but the soul-deep agony that had plagued him was gone. His fingers probed the wound beneath its covering, but nothing more than the slightest sensitivity remained, entirely tolerable. His lips tugged into a smile. He’d done it. He’d begun healing. Finally. He seized the Virtue’s wrist, then opened his eyes.

  “How long?” he asked.

  The Fallen One shrugged narrow shoulders, her indifferent gaze sliding past his. “I’ve told you I can’t predict—”

  Seth’s grip tightened, and surprise flitted across her expression.

  “Assuming I’ve turned a corner,” he said, “how long?”

  The Virtue placed her free hand over the bandage. One eyebrow rose, then dipped again to meet its mate. “You’re right. It seems better.”

  “I asked you a question.”

  “If you can maintain this? A week until you’re fully healed. Two at the most.”

  “What about until I’m able to cross the realms?”

  “You should—”

  His hand left her wrist and fastened around her throat. “I said, how long until I’m able?”

  Pale, blue-green eyes widened, and the Virtue swallowed, a ripple of skin and muscle against his hold.

  “A few days. Four, maybe five. But—”

  He shoved her away, and she stumbled against the fireplace, extending her wings for balance. He tugged his shirt into place.

  “Get out,” he said. “And next time, send someone who knows better than to have an opinion.”

  CHAPTER 4

  “Did you hear me, Detective?”

  Alex jolted back to the present. She turned from the window to face her supervisor, Staff Inspector Roberts. “Sorry. I was…”

  She didn’t finish. There didn’t seem much point in telling Doug Roberts that her mind was still in the rail yard, that she couldn’t get the image of the four murdered cops out of her brain and would never scrub their deaths from her conscience. He already knew. He just didn’t know how long never meant for her.

  Her gaze returned to Toronto’s frigid mid-afternoon.

  Roberts sighed. “You really should go home, Alex. Have a stiff drink or two, and call Henderson or Dr. Riley or someone. Talk it out.”

  It was good advice. Required advice, under the circumstances, except maybe for the drinking part. For a moment, Alex considered the idea. Riley was out of the question, of course. While the Vancouver psychiatrist knew enough about what was going on that she no longer wanted to have Alex committed, she was too astute by far, and Alex couldn’t handle going the feelings route today. Not after last night’s events.

  And talking to Hugh Henderson wouldn’t be much better. As the only other person on the planet who knew every impossible, messy detail of humanity’s current plight, the Vancouver detective had been an anchor for Alex on more than one occasion, but she wasn’t ready to reach out to him on this. Not yet. Hugh would have too many questions, want too many details. The whole scenario was still too fresh for Alex. Too sharp. She shook her head.

  “I’m good,” she said. “Really. You need me here.”

  Her supervisor scowled. “I need you in one piece, too. I can’t afford for you to have a breakdown.”

  Alex snorted. “If I haven’t gone off the deep end by now, Staff, I’m not going to.”

  Even though a part of her wished she could take exactly that escape route.

  “Besides,” she added, “I need to keep looking for Nina.”

  “No.”

  “Pardon?”

  “The search has been ca
lled off, Alex. That’s what I was trying to tell you.”

  Numbness crept over her, from the top of her head to her toenails. “I don’t understand.”

  “I think you do.” Mouth tight and hands on hips, her supervisor met her gaze, his brown eyes sympathetic, sad, and unyielding. “Four cops died tonight, Alex, and one of our best tracking dogs is a quivering mass of jelly. Now that we know this—thing—has Nina, we can’t keep pursuing it. I can’t send more cops up against it. Not knowing what it’s capable of.”

  He waved a hand at the window overlooking Homicide’s cramped, temporary quarters, where desks butted up against one another in haphazard disorganization, a stark reminder of the battle between angels and Fallen that had destroyed the top two floors of the building.

  The battle between Seth and Aramael.

  Her breath hitched.

  Roberts didn’t seem to notice.

  “We have no weapons against it, no way to stop it, and no way to take Nina from it, even if we do find her,” he continued. “I can’t risk more lives. I won’t risk them. Not when Nina is—”

  His words dropped into silence. Where he’d stared her down a moment ago, now he wouldn’t meet her gaze. A muscle twitched along his jaw, an indicator of how much his words cost him. She didn’t care. Devastation licked through her, churned with denial, became white-hot fury.

  “When Nina is going to die anyway?” she finished harshly.

  Roberts paled.

  “Damn it, Alex—” He broke off and took a deep breath, making a visible effort at control. “Look, I’m sorry about Nina. You know that. But what the fuck am I supposed to do here? I have an entire city coming apart at the seams. Have you seen the boards out there?”

  He jabbed a thumb at the window between his office and the rest of Homicide, where dry-erase boards flanked the office perimeter. Fifteen of them. She’d counted them on her way in to write her statement at four this morning. Then, as now, she’d cringed from the murders they catalogued, the chaos they represented—and from the burden she’d realized her colleagues had carried while she’d single-mindedly pursued her niece.