Sins of the Son: The Grigori Legacy

by Linda Poitevin

  “I don’t mind,” she said, responding to his question about the recording.

  Hugh reached for the digital recorder that never left the room. He checked to make sure it was plugged in, and then pushed the record button and pulled a pad of paper toward him. “Right. Let’s start with your name and occupation.”

  “Katherine Gray,” the woman said. Her voice quivered slightly and she paused to clear her throat. “I’m a doctoral student at UBC. The University of British Columbia…or don’t I have to explain that?”

  “It’s fine. Tell me why you’re here.”

  “I think I’ve been raped.”

  “You think?”

  She sat up straighter in the chair. “I have been raped. But I don’t know by whom.”

  “Go on.”

  “My boyfriend works at the oil sands in Alberta—doing environmental impact studies on the rivers near them, I mean, not working for the oil companies. Jared wouldn’t do that. Work for the oil companies. He’s—”

  “Let’s just stick with why you’re here, okay?” Hugh prompted.

  “Oh. Of course. Sorry.” Gray took a deep breath. “This is harder than I thought.”

  The second repetition of a story often was, especially when that story was fabricated and the teller had to remember all those details already given. Hugh gave an inward wince at the uncharitable thought. Christ, he was becoming jaded.

  He made himself smile. “You’re doing fine.”

  Gray didn’t look convinced but continued nonetheless. “So anyway, like I said, I hadn’t seen him in more than eight months and then, one night, out of the blue, he turns up at my apartment. I had two essays due that week, but I was thrilled to see him. One thing led to another and—” She cast a pained look at the recorder. “Do I have to, you know, say what we did?”

  “You had sex,” Hugh supplied the words in his best professional voice.

  Gray blushed. “Yes.” Another throat clearing. “When I woke up the next morning, he was gone.”

  She gave a sudden gasp, face going pale, and pressed a hand against her swollen belly.

  “Are you okay?” Hugh asked. “Would you like some water?”

  Gray shook her head. “Sorry. It just hurts sometimes, like things are being stretched too fast. I’m fine now.”

  “All right. Let’s get back to your boyfriend. Did he leave you a note when he left?”

  “No. Nothing. I was worried he might have gone out for something and had an accident, but I called the police and the hospital and there was nothing. I couldn’t call him because he doesn’t believe in cell phones. He thinks they cause—sorry, I’m getting sidetracked again, aren’t I?” She took another breath, fingers massaging her side. “Anyway, I left messages for him with his supervisor, but all I could do was wait for him to call me. About a week later, I started puking my guts out. I thought I had food poisoning, so I went to the hospital. They told me I was pregnant. About twelve weeks along. I said it was impossible, but they insisted. I told them they were fucking insane”—she cast a quick look of apology at Hugh, making him feel like a doddering old man from a generation shocked by such language—“and I left. Two days later, I couldn’t do up the zipper on my jeans anymore.”

  “And then?”

  Gray’s face crumpled. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “And then Jared called. He’d just gotten back from three weeks at one of their remote camps, he said, and he’d called right away. He wanted to know what was wrong, why I’d left so many messages. He said—” She hiccupped. “He said he hadn’t seen me or been to Vancouver since March.”

  The classic it-couldn’t-have-been-me avoidance technique? Hugh kept the idea to himself for the moment. “What about the pregnancy?” he indicated her belly. “How far along are you?”

  Gray compressed her lips until they whitened. She swallowed three times before she spoke. “Six months, according to the ultrasound this morning.”

  “And you’ve never—?”

  “No,” she cut him off fiercely. “I’ve never cheated on Jared.”

  Hugh tipped back in his chair and linked his fingers behind his head. He regarded her for a long time without speaking, then sighed and let the chair’s front legs drop to the floor again. He returned pen to pad. “So you’re saying you’ve only known about the pregnancy for two weeks?”

  “I’m saying I’ve only been pregnant for two weeks.”

  “But you just said—”

  “Detective Henderson.” Gray’s hands curled into fists on the table. “Someone came to my apartment two weeks ago, posing as my boyfriend. A week later, I was told I was pregnant. As of this morning, I’m six months along.”

  Same story she’d told initially. Just as crazy as it sounded the first time. The woman was either lying or delusional. Hugh’s money was on the latter. He laid pen across paper and folded his hands atop both. “Ms. Gray, you know that’s impossible.”

  “Oh, I know it, all right.” Gray’s laugh was short and high-pitched. “But that doesn’t change the fact it happened.”

  Christ. Wait’ll his colleagues heard this one. What was it with goddamn weird stories lately? Hugh rubbed a hand over his short-cropped hair. He eyed Gray. “You wouldn’t happen to know a Melanie Chiu, would you?”

  “I don’t think so. Should I?”

  “No. It was just an idea.” He slid the pad of paper toward the young woman and began the process of extricating himself from the interview. “I think I have everything I need for the moment. If you’ll just write your phone number at the top, I’ll let you know if I have any more questions.”

  Gray made no move to accept the proffered pen. “You don’t believe me.”

  Hugh had been at this far too many years to beat around the bush. He met her gaze squarely. “No. I don’t. What you’re telling me not only doesn’t make sense, Katherine, it isn’t physically possible. You do understand that, right?”

  Tears filled green eyes, overflowed, trickled down Gray’s cheeks. “So you’re not going to do anything?”

  “There’s nothing I can do.”

  She nodded and swiped at her cheek with the back of one hand. “And that?” She pointed at her belly. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

  Hugh hesitated. Liz might kill him for this, but given her recent experience with Melanie Chiu, she was the best person he could think of to help Gray. And in his opinion, the woman definitely needed help. Taking back the pad of paper, he ripped off a sheet and jotted down Liz’s office number. “This is the number for a doctor who might be able to help you.”

  “It’s too late for an abortion. I tried to get one as soon as I found out, but they said I was already too far along. After one week.”

  Hugh handed the paper to Gray. “Elizabeth Riley isn’t that kind of doctor. She’s a psychiatrist. It might help for you to talk to her.”

  Gray stared at the paper in her hand. Then, crumpling it, she dropped it on the table and pushed to her feet. Without another word, she walked out the door.

  “WHAT DO YOU mean he’s alive?” The One stared at Verchiel. “He can’t be. I am the Creator. I would have felt the presence of my own son.”

  Verchiel tightened her fingers on the sheet of paper she held. “I don’t know what to tell you except the man the Guardians have reported matches Seth’s description.” Verchiel glanced at the notes she’d hastily scribbled as details had filtered in. “He is in a place the mortals call Vancouver, British Columbia. In a hospital.”

  The barest flicker of something touched the One’s countenance, gone before Verchiel could put a name to it. “Is he injured?” the One asked.

  “Not physically.”

  “Explain.”

  “The man in question has no soul. At least, not a complete one. There is still something there, but it is too badly damaged for identification. And he has no memory of who he is. It is for that reason the mortals hold him.”

  Only a subtle shift in the air around the One gave evidence she had heard. Long s
econds ticked by.

  “What about powers?” she asked at last, her voice neutral but carrying an underlying thread of something that sent a shiver down Verchiel’s spine.

  “We’re not sure, but—” The One stayed silent and Verchiel mustered her courage, forcing herself to speak the unthinkable. “He seems to have abilities beyond those of a mortal.”

  The air around the One pulsed again and her lips drew tight. “My son is loose in the mortal realm as an adult, with his powers intact and no memory of who he is or what he is to do,” she clarified.

  “We aren’t certain—” Verchiel began, but a single raised eyebrow stopped her. She swallowed. “Yes, One. We believe so.”

  The One turned away and Verchiel stared at a back gone rigid with thoughts and emotions she couldn’t begin to guess at. How did a mother deal with the knowledge her son lived but, for the good of the universe, would be better off dead?

  “Damnation!” the One whispered, her voice laced with equal parts fury and pain.

  That was how.

  Verchiel closed her eyes. It made her heart ache, but the One was right: it would have been infinitely better for all if Seth had been killed outright. Far from being a good thing, the Appointed’s survival held serious consequences. Potentially catastrophic ones, because the agreement contained no fine print stating Seth had to arrive among humanity in infant form. No clause regarding what age or condition he was to be in when he made his choice. Nothing that nullified the contract due to Heavenly treason.

  Despite Mittron’s attempt to alter Seth’s existence, the Appointed was still very much immortal. Very much the son of Lucifer and the One. And very much involved in the agreement between them. Except, instead of transitioning as an infant with years to absorb all that the One treasured and Lucifer despised in mortals, instead of growing into the role for which he’d been destined, Seth was an adult with divine powers, a damaged soul, and no memory. Heaven’s last chance at peace could, through a single decision, hand over the entire world to Lucifer.

  Could decimate humanity without even knowing he’d done so.

  As awful as the specter of impending war had been, the consequences of Seth’s continued survival were far, far worse.

  “Find out.”

  Verchiel jumped at the abrupt command. “Pardon?”

  “Find out if it’s him.”

  “And if it is?”

  The One’s face became tight, drawn. “Just find out.”

  Verchiel swallowed. “Of course.”

  “Does anyone else know about this?”

  “No. The Guardians reported directly to me and I have spoken to no one but you.”

  “See it remains that way.”

  Inclining her head, Verchiel opened the door to leave. She was halfway out when the One’s voice stopped her.

  “There is one more thing.”

  Verchiel looked over her shoulder, her gaze settling on the One’s hands, clasped behind the Creator. No, not clasped. Clutched. Tightly. Verchiel’s pulse skipped a beat. She stepped back inside.

  The One’s silver stare met hers. “I need you to find Mika’el,” she said. “Quietly.”

  SEVEN

  Michael Dominic looked up as his young patient tapped him on the shoulder. Following Joseph’s dark, solemn gaze, he glanced toward the tent opening and the figure silhouetted against the afternoon glare.

  The winged figure.

  Wings only he could see.

  His heart skipped a beat. He stared for a long moment before lifting the boy off the table and depositing him on the plank floor. Taking his stethoscope from his ears and slinging it around his neck, he dug finger and thumb into his shirt pocket. The boy’s dark face split into a wide grin, and both he and the butterscotch Michael produced disappeared out the door. Michael reached for the chart, made his notes, and tried to still the quake in his center.

  “You are not pleased to see me?” the figure asked. The voice told Michael what the silhouette had not. It was Raphael.

  “Pleased doesn’t enter into it, Raphael. Suffice it to say I’m surprised.” Michael leaned against the table. The wood structure gave slightly beneath his weight and he made a mental note to ask Abraham to look at it later, before it collapsed beneath a patient. “Forty-five hundred years is a long time.”

  “It is.” Raphael moved farther into the tent, ebony skin nearly as dark as his silhouette had been, and examined his surroundings with curiosity. “You appear to have found ways to occupy your time, however. What is this place?”

  “It’s a clinic. I’m a doctor.”

  “A healer?” The Archangel shot him a sharp look.

  “Yes.”

  “Is that wise?”

  “I’m careful.” Very careful. His clinic, in the heart of Africa, held more hope and better health than many others, but no miracles. No angelic interference with mortals that might contravene the cardinal rule. Michael had strayed far enough from the One already; he would not abandon the path completely. He folded his arms across his chest. “But I don’t think you’re here to discuss my Earthly profession.”

  “No.” Raphael left his examination of the photo collage on a sheet of plywood leaning against the canvas wall. “No, I’m not. You are being summoned, Mika’el of the Archangels.”

  It had been the only reason one of the others would come to him, of course. Michael knew that. But knowing didn’t ease the shock of hearing the words.

  He watched a beetle make its way across the wooden floor toward the tent wall. Summoned. After four and a half millennia. Long after he’d given up hope of being called back to fulfill his promise; given up hope of ever being a part of Heaven again. Of being part of her. He tried to take a deep breath but found his chest too constricted to accept air.

  “Mika’el? Did you hear me?”

  “Michael. I am called Michael here. And yes, I heard you.” The beetle reached the wall and disappeared into the crevice at the bottom. Michael raised his gaze to meet Raphael’s. “Am I to know why?”

  “The Appointed’s transition has gone wrong.”

  “His—” Michael’s very heart seemed to still. “The agreement has been triggered?”

  “One of the Powers killed a Fallen One.”

  The universe itself seemed to shift beneath Michael. If he hadn’t had the support of the table, he might have toppled over. “Killed? As in dead?”

  “As in committed the ultimate sin, yes.”

  “Who was the Power?”

  “Aramael. His last hunt was for his brother, Caim.”

  Michael nodded. “I know of Caim. The seeker of a Nephilim soul.” He frowned suddenly. While he had never intervened, knowing the Powers would take care of matters, he hadn’t been able to escape the part of himself that knew when a Fallen One had become active on Earth. “The serial killer in Toronto last month?”

  “Yes. One of the mortals investigating his crimes was of Nephilim descent. Mittron assigned Aramael to act as her Guardian at the same time as he hunted Caim.”

  “A Power made to act as a Guardian. I’m sure that was a huge success.”

  “It gets worse. The woman was Aramael’s soulmate, and apparently his cleansing was incomplete. He recognized her.”

  Michael braced his hands against the table on either side of himself, absorbing the impact of Raphael’s words. A Power, without doubt the most unstable of all angels, had met his soulmate? Known her? In retrospect, Heaven was lucky that all this Aramael had done was kill a Fallen One.

  He scowled at Raphael. “How did this Power escape the cleansing? And how the hell did his soulmate end up as a mortal?”

  Raphael’s mouth tightened. “Mittron. The fool attempted to trigger Armageddon. He thought the One would invite him to rule beside her in a war.”

  “He thought what? Wait, you said the Appointed’s transition went wrong. Who was in charge of it?”

  Another grimace. “Mittron. From what we can piece together, the Appointed was born into the mortal realm
as an adult rather than an infant, without memory of who he is or what he is to do.”

  “The Highest was allowed to oversee—after what had already happened?”

  A shadow crossed the other Archangel’s face. “Yes. We’re not sure why. The One has not shared her reasons with any but the Dominion Verchiel, who looks as if she carries the weight of the universe on her shoulders but will say nothing.”

  “The One has to have told you something.”

  Raphael hesitated. Looked away. “She said—” He paused and cleared his throat. “She said Mittron had been undecided about his path, and as long as he remained so, she would honor his potential.”

  The words cut into Michael like a blade of cold steel. Precise, deep, just short of lethal. He curled his fingers into his palms against the pain and gritted his teeth. She would keep the undecided with her, but send away the one who remained fiercely, eternally loyal. Send him away, and then dispatch another to speak for her when she needed his help.

  “But he has since been punished,” Raphael hastened to add. “He was called to Judgment two days ago and—”

  Michael cut him off with the lift of a hand. “And the Power?” he grated.

  Raphael took a deep breath and put another few feet of space between them. “Banished. To the mortal realm.”

  Fuck.

  While Michael generally avoided using the more colorful human vernacular, it was the only word that seemed to sum up all he’d heard, all he felt.

  Fuck.

  He glowered at the other Archangel. “Let me get this straight. I question a decision and she stops speaking to me for four and a half thousand years and then sends you to collect on the promise I made her. Mittron orchestrates a chain of events that may yet trigger war between Heaven and Hell, but he remains as her administrator until after he loses the Appointed; and a Power commits the ultimate sin and is merely banished to the mortal realm instead of being exiled to Limbo. Does that about cover it?”

  Mouth twisting, Raphael nodded. “In a word, yes.”

  “And the rest of you are okay with this.”

  “She is the One, Mika’el.”