Sins of the Lost gl-3

by Linda Poitevin

  She watched the subject of her thoughts take a seat beside his partner at the table. Abrams leaned in to ask Joly something, Joly responded, and both men looked across the room at her. She lifted a brow, and they turned away. Right. So Joly wasn’t the only one with questions.

  Roberts came into the room and dropped a stack of files on the conference room table. The resounding thud silenced conversation.

  “All right, people, listen up. Those of you who have been following the news will know that this pregnancy virus has the nut-jobs crawling out of the woodwork. Attacks on women have more than doubled across the country. The demand for DNA testing—and abortions—has gone beyond the capacity to provide those services. Ob-gyns are canceling appointments and refusing to handle anything but straight-up deliveries. Every emergency ward, medical lab, and private clinic in the city has hired security guards, and we are fielding dozens of calls a day to those locations. This means we are stretched seriously thin.”

  Roberts pushed back his suit jacket to rest hands on hips. “As of today, all leave is canceled until further notice. You’ll have your regular time off but nothing more. If you’re looking for overtime, see me after the meeting. You can have as much as you want. If you’re not looking for overtime, you’re about to get more than you bargained for. From this moment forward, you will do the bulk of your paperwork in your cars. You will have your radios on at all times, and if you hear a call for backup in your vicinity, you will respond forthwith. I do not want to see you in this office unless you’re picking something up or dropping it off. Are we clear?”

  Heads around the room nodded.

  “Good. Now these”—Roberts slapped his hand on the files—“are the sixty-seven files we currently have open. I want them updated before you go home tonight. All of them. If there is nothing new to add and the case has nothing to do with the current state of affairs in our city, put a note on it to that effect and pass it to Detective Jarvis—”

  Alex abandoned her study of the wall behind her supervisor. “Me? But—”

  “—who will be on desk duty until we find her a partner,” Roberts finished. “Class dismissed. Jarvis, stay.”

  The others cleared the room, Joly taking the stack of files with him for distribution except for one their supervisor had set aside. The door closed. Roberts settled into a chair. With a nod, he indicated another, but Alex paced the edge of the room instead, coming to a halt in the far corner.

  “Seriously, Staff? Desk duty?”

  “My hands are tied where policy is concerned, Detective, especially when my decision to allow you to return at all is under scrutiny.”

  “I thought you’d taken care of that.”

  “So did I. Bell went to the chief, the little—” Roberts broke off and scrubbed a hand over his short-cropped hair. He sighed. “It’s not ideal, and it’s certainly not my preference, but it’s how it has to be for now. And frankly, it might not be a bad thing to have your eyes on all the files right now.”

  He slid the file he’d held back from the pile toward her. “That came in from Alberta’s RCMP this morning.”

  Alex stared at it, then stepped out of the corner and walked back to join him. She flipped open the folder and scanned the single page inside. “Militia? In Canada? Seriously?”

  “End of the world nutcases,” he corrected. “They’re claiming the pregnancies and the recent rash of natural disasters are a sign of God’s wrath. They’ve barricaded themselves into a compound outside Morinville, north of Edmonton. The news crews are going insane.”

  She could just imagine.

  “We’ve had three similar reports out of the States,” Roberts added. “Tech crime units across the continent are monitoring dozens of other groups that look to be moving in the same direction. I want you reviewing every file that comes through this office for the same reason.”

  Threading her fingers through her hair, Alex stared at the file. She understood the need for consistency, but to be cooped up in the office with all hell breaking loose in the world? She couldn’t do it.

  Roberts stood. “I’ll light a fire under staffing and have you back on the street by the end of the week. You have my word.”

  One week.

  Alex handed the file to her supervisor and watched him leave the conference room. She did a mental calculation. Today was Saturday, so that would make the end of the week the following Friday, six days away.

  Just in time for the birth of Lucifer’s army.

  Chapter 7

  Aramael stared out at the barrens, mile after mile of dry, lifeless soil stretching as far as he could see in every direction. Scowling, he shot a look over his shoulder at Mika’el. “You’re serious. You really want me to stand here and do nothing.”

  “No, I want you to keep watch. There’s a difference.”

  Aramael snorted. “Forgive me if I fail to see one.”

  He surveyed the desolate landscape, featureless but for the stony outcrop on which he and Mika’el stood, the occasional bit of dead scrub brush . . . and the distant band of Hellfire that marked the edge of Heaven itself.

  Raised against the Fallen when the One had created Hell, its flames had burned steadily, powerfully, and without cessation for millennia. Until Aramael, one of Heaven’s own, had murdered his brother and broken the One’s pact with Lucifer. Until the downward spiral into Armageddon itself had been triggered.

  The wall of flames flickered, danced, steadied again.

  Aramael’s mouth twisted. “How long am I here for?”

  “As long as it takes,” Heaven’s greatest warrior returned, his voice and expression implacable.

  “Can I have a best guess?”

  “A day. A year. A century.”

  “A century?” Of sitting out here in the middle of nowhere, far from Alex, waiting for something that might or might not happen? The possibility chafed.

  “Perhaps a millennium.” Mika’el flicked him an unreadable look. “We don’t know how fast the Hellfire will break down enough to be breached, or how many of the Fallen will cross when it happens. We can’t afford to leave it unprotected.”

  “With all the patrols you have going, I’d hardly call it unprotected,” Aramael muttered, scanning the unwelcoming landscape again.

  “I still prefer to have an Archangel keeping watch.”

  And as the newest member of the choir, the task fell to him. Great. Aramael shifted under the weight of his armor. “Shouldn’t we be more concerned with the mortal realm? With no barrier to protect it, it seems more likely the Fallen will strike there first.”

  “The others can look after Earth.”

  “But—”

  “And they’re more likely to look after all of it, rather than just one Naphil.”

  Aramael shot a startled look at the other warrior. Hell. “How did you—?”

  “You really expected otherwise?” Hard green eyes pinned him. “You assured me the connection between you was severed.”

  “It was. It is.” His heart cringed at the lie. “I can manage it.”

  “By watching her?”

  I just want to make certain she’s happy. To see that Seth treats her well, that he cares for her. To reassure myself that I did the right thing in not fighting for her, in letting her go, even though I know I could never have had her.

  “Habit,” he said wearily. “It’s just a habit. I’ll break it.”

  “And being here will help you do so,” Mika’el retorted, his voice brooking no argument. “Now, any questions before I leave?”

  “Many. What are we waiting for? Why not just go after the Fallen and make sure the fight is on our terms rather than theirs?”

  A muscle in the other Archangel’s jaw contracted. “The agreement might have fallen, but Heaven’s own rules remain unchanged. The One will not strike the first blow, Aramael. Good may defend, but not offend.”

  Aramael thought about how Mika’el had come to him during his exile in the mortal realm and tasked him with the assassi
nation of the One’s son, the Appointed. How he would have carried out the order if it hadn’t been for the interference of Alexandra Jarvis. How close he and Mika’el had skated to the very edge of good.

  “Have you ever noticed how the rules for good are more constricting than those for evil?” he growled.

  “Have you ever considered those restrictions are what keep us good?” The other Archangel countered. He drew himself up, topping Aramael’s six-foot height by a good four inches. Massive, coal-black wings unfurled and stretched wide. “Remember who you are, Aramael. What you are. Angels are the final line of defense between Hell and Earth, and Archangels the last hope of—” He broke off, his face going bleak.

  “Of what?”

  “Nothing,” Mika’el said. “It doesn’t matter. Not anymore. Just remember we have no more room for mistakes.”

  With a great rush of wind, he launched upward, leaving Aramael alone on the boulder-strewn hill. Alone for days, weeks, months—maybe centuries—with nothing but his thoughts to keep him company. Thoughts of how he came to be in this place to begin with, memories of Alexandra Jarvis and how he had chosen her over his very purpose . . . and how she had chosen Seth over him.

  Thoughts, memories, and that lingering tug of a connection he continued to deny to Mika’el.

  Chapter 8

  “Shouldn’t you be done for the day?”

  Alex looked up from the news report she’d been reading on the computer monitor and met Seth’s dark gaze. The breath hitched in her throat. Arms crossed over his chest and broad shoulders nearly filling the doorway, the man was sheer physical perfection from the top of his black-haired head to the soles of his exquisitely proportioned feet. Despite the exhaustion of her first day back in Homicide, a fragile warmth unfurled in her.

  Seth might no longer be of Heaven, but his presence still packed a powerful punch. Time and again since she’d made her choice, moments like this had dispelled any lingering concern that her feelings for him might simply be tied to his divinity or, worse, a misguided sympathy. What she felt for the son of the One and Lucifer was far more than that . . . and far from simple.

  The specter of his father complicated it further.

  Seth’s expression darkened. He knew she’d thought of Lucifer again. He always knew, sometimes before she did. A familiar, automatic apology rose into her throat. She held it back. After this morning’s discussion—following which she still hadn’t made a move to talk to anyone—her oft-repeated words would just rub salt into an already festering wound.

  “I just need another ten minutes or so,” she said. “I’m waiting for Henderson to call me back from Vancouver.”

  Seth’s shoulders tensed, so imperceptibly that only a skilled interrogator would have noticed. Not for the first time, Alex wished she could turn off that part of herself, that she could take a person’s words and actions at face value and not always be looking for what they hid from her. Such as Seth’s ongoing displeasure.

  “Is it about this morning’s case? I thought you said Roberts gave the file to someone else.”

  This morning’s case. File. Words that didn’t begin to encompass the details of the day she’d shared with him over dinner. The immensity of a pregnant woman’s murder, the child missing from her belly, Alex’s hollow certainty about who—or what—might have taken it. Seth’s disinterest in the same.

  She snuffed out a flicker of irritation. He was still new to this mortal thing. He hadn’t had a chance to develop a connection to humanity yet, apart from her. He just needed time.

  She kept her voice even. “He did give the file to someone else. But if the killer is a Fallen One—”

  “Then it won’t matter. There’s nothing you or Henderson can do.”

  “I can’t stand by and do nothing, either.”

  The phone on the desk rang. Seth stared at it, then turned on his heel and left.

  * * *

  Alex lifted the receiver on the third ring, when she was certain her voice could be trusted. “Hey, Hugh, thanks for calling me back.”

  “It was about bloody time you called me back,” came the unceremonious rejoinder. “When I call you at eight a.m., Jarvis, and again at ten, noon, two, and four, you don’t bloody wait until after nine at night to call me back.”

  Refraining—only just—from hanging up on the Vancouver detective who had become her friend, Alex let silence be her answer for a long moment. Then, her voice silky sweet, she inquired, “Done?”

  A deep exhale sounded on the other end of the line. She pictured Henderson slumped at his desk, rubbing one hand over his cropped, graying hair.

  “I was worried about you,” he said, his voice quieter. “We both were.”

  “Both? Hell, don’t tell me you called Riley.” She didn’t care how many good words the Vancouver psychiatrist put in for her with the brass, she still didn’t like her—or her habit of poking at the unseen scars Alex preferred to think of as healed.

  “She’s my friend,” Hugh answered her, “so yes, I stay in touch with her, and yes, she’s worried, too.”

  “I’m fine, Hugh. I was fine when you called yesterday, I was fine when you called the day before, I was fine when I left Vancouver—”

  Henderson snorted.

  “—and I’m fine now,” she finished. “Really.”

  “Right. You damn near die sticking a knife into your own gut, get buried under a goddamn building, and now you’re living with Lucifer’s son. Of course you’re fine. How could I possibly think otherwise?”

  Alex pushed back the images his words conjured. Extracting her nails from her palms wasn’t so easy. “Did Riley put you up to this?”

  “I told you, she’s worried about you,” Hugh replied.

  “I’m—”

  “If you say fine again—”

  “Surviving,” Alex said. “I’m surviving. But I have to tell you, conversations like this don’t make it any easier.”

  “Well, I guess that answers my next question of whether or not you’re talking to anyone.”

  She snorted. “Right. And who do you suggest I talk to? I already have the department shrink watching my every move. If I so much as breathe a hint of what’s going on—”

  “You have Seth there. Talk to him.”

  Seth, who wanted nothing more than to put his past life behind him and have nothing to do with his parents’ machinations. Who, through no fault of his own, had become another insurmountable barrier in her life—and one of her greatest sources of guilt.

  “I don’t want to talk to anyone,” she said, her voice harsh. “I just want to do my goddamn job.”

  “Saving humanity from imploding is a little more than doing your job.”

  “Is this all you called for? To harass me?”

  “You can be awfully stubborn, can’t you?”

  “You have no idea.”

  “Fine,” he growled. “But just for the record, you’re the one who wanted to talk to me, remember?”

  Alex tried to think past the headache forming at the base of her skull. She considered reminding him he’d actually been the one trying to call her all day, but an argument over semantics would take way too much effort. Massaging her neck, she re-focused her thoughts. “Two things. First, Roberts called me in this morning. We had a woman turn up in a parking lot with her belly ripped open and the baby missing.”

  Silence. She listened to the faint ringing of a phone at Henderson’s end. Another long exhale.

  “We found one in a Dumpster two nights ago,” he said. “Same thing.”

  Alex’s stomach tightened, cramped. She touched the scar that remained from her own brush with a Naphil pregnancy, drew back her fingers as if scorched. “Are you sure?”

  “That she was ripped open? Fairly.” Henderson’s attempt at gallows humor fell as flat as his voice. “I spent the better part of last night on the phone with Interpol,” he continued. “There have been four others reported in the last twenty-four hours. One in India, one in the State
s, and two in China.”

  Her gaze returned to the computer monitor and the article she’d been reading.

  “If that keeps up, it’ll seriously screw with the bioterrorism theories,” she said. “There’s no group in the world organized enough to steal babies from across the planet. At least, not a human one.”

  “Interpol is setting up a task force anyway. They have no choice.”

  For a moment, she envied the cops who would be a part of that task force, analyzing, investigating, doing all the things they’d been taught to do in their mortal world. She wondered what it would be like to go back to that state of blissful ignorance. To forget all that had happened, all that was still to come. Would she do it if she could? Even if it meant losing Seth?

  “You said there were two things,” Henderson reminded her.

  She switched off the monitor, then changed the subject. “Morinville.”

  “Yeah, I saw that.”

  “You don’t think the scrolls—?”

  “A leak? No. Anyone with access to them would have been able to give the press more specifics. This is just pure knee-jerk fanaticism. You have to remember how much practice the Vatican has at keeping secrets.”

  “Even the Church has rumors.”

  “True, but the press would straight-up say where they’d got that kind of information.” She grunted a concession, then added, “That doesn’t mean something won’t get out eventually, and when it does, we’re screwed six ways to Sunday.”

  “Let’s worry about that when—if—it happens. Now, how is Seth doing?”

  “Settling in. It’s hard for him.”

  “Still not talking about it? Because we could really use some insider information. He does realize the Nephilim could wipe us out, right?”

  “He’s also been betrayed by both his parents, used for millennia as a pawn in their twisted little game, and given up everything he ever was in order to put all that behind him,” she snapped. “How happy would you be to rehash your parents’ attempts to kill you?”