The door opened behind him, and he looked around. A Naphil girl-child of about six mortal years stepped into the room and surveyed him with large blue eyes. Mittron raised an eyebrow.
“You wanted something?”
“You don’t look like the others,” the girl said. “Where are your wings?”
“Where are your manners?” he countered.
She shrugged, her oversized gray T-shirt—the uniform for all of Pripyat’s Naphil occupants—sliding down her shoulder. She tugged it back into place. “I don’t need manners. I’m a soldier.”
“Indeed.”
“Are you one of us?”
“A Naphil, you mean?” He shook his head. “No.”
Her head tipped to one side. “Then why would Samael want to speak with you?”
“I’m helping him.”
The Naphil considered his explanation for a moment, then gave him a bright smile. “That’s nice of you,” she said. She skipped to his side and took his hand, her fingers small and warm as they wrapped around his. “I’ll take you to him. You can tell me a story on the way. I like the one about the Archangels getting burned in the Hellfire. Do you know that one?”
Of course he did, but as the girl led him from the room and down the dank, narrow hallway, she kept up an endless stream of chatter that made it impossible to get a word in edgewise, let alone tell a story. By the time they reached their destination, down four flights of stairs and through a maze of corridors, he was exhausted, annoyed, and more than happy to see her skip away after delivering him to Samael.
He threw himself into a chair and scowled at Lucifer’s aide. “Let me guess,” he said sourly. “You’re planning on having the Nephilim talk humankind to death, right?”
Samael looked around from the window. “Don’t get comfortable,” he replied, ignoring the remark. “You have a job to do. Things are moving faster than we expected. Lucifer and the One are gone.”
Mittron sat up straighter. “What? When? I heard about no battle.”
“A short time ago, and there was no battle to hear about. Verchiel invited Lucifer to Heaven, he went, and now he and the One are gone. End of story. Except for this mess.” Samael stared out again, feathers rustling irritably. He crossed his arms and scowled. “Already the Fallen are dividing, and I’m still not a hundred percent certain we have Seth on board. I need that backup from Limbo. How long to open it?”
Mittron tried to wrap his mind around the sudden turn of events. “There are no guards, so once you get me there, a few minutes at most. But remember the risk, Samael. Some of the Fallen have been in there for thousands of years. They’ll be beyond reason. Beyond your control. Are you sure you want to do this?”
“If we’re to hold on to Hell long enough to put Seth in place?” Samael’s expression turned grim. “Yes.”
Chapter 80
Alex’s heart had leapt at the sight of the winged figure looming in the doorway. An Archangel, fully armored, sword at his side, controlled wrath rolling off him in waves. Aramael. But as Seth’s face morphed into a mask of pure hatred, hope evaporated. She stepped forward, intending to put herself between them, but an invisible force knocked her from her feet before she could. She landed on the floor with a grunt of pain and surprise.
Aramael’s scowl deepened. His expression granite-hard, he stalked across the room, shoving aside overturned chairs, ignoring the scattered papers beneath his feet.
“Leave her be, Appointed. You’re done here.”
“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Seth snarled. “Do you really think I’ll just walk away and leave her to you? Do I strike you as that stupid?”
“That’s not what this is about. I can no more have her than you can. I told you that.”
“You lied!”
A tiny blue spark snapped beside Alex’s cheek. She cringed and, scrambling to her feet, flicked a panicked gaze over the room. She’d seen sparks like that only once before, wielded by Lucifer in a Vancouver alley. But there was no sign of the Light-bearer now. There was only Aramael, her—and Seth.
Another spark ignited beside her face. She inhaled sharply.
Seth?
“You lied,” Seth repeated. “I have had her, Archangel. I’ve held her, and loved her, and possessed her, and I am not giving her up. Not to you, and not to the mortals. She belongs to me.”
Raw pain flashed in Aramael’s eyes at the words, but his voice held steady. “She belongs to no one but herself.”
Seth stared at Aramael, his jaw clenching and unclenching. Then, after a long moment, he turned to Alex, his eyes tired. Sad. Lost. “You truly don’t want to be with me?”
She hesitated, still loath to hurt him. Still hoping she could somehow make him understand. Uncurling her fingers, she spread her hands wide. Made her voice gentle. “It’s not that—”
“Answer me!” he snarled.
She jumped. Then she straightened her shoulders. He was right. She’d tried explaining, tried to ease this, but no matter how she phrased it, Seth would never see it as anything more—or less—than outright rejection. He just had to accept it.
“No,” she said. “No, Seth, I don’t want to be with you. I’m sorry.”
The blue crackles intensified, filling the air around him. “So am I,” he said. “I didn’t want it to be like this.”
Seth spread his hands wide in the gesture his own father had once turned against him. Alarm raced over Alex’s skin, standing every hair on end. But before she could react, strong arms wrapped around her and held her tight against a broad, muscled chest. She barely had time to inhale the familiar warmth of Aramael before massive wings folded around both of them—and then chaos erupted.
From every direction, every angle, objects bombarded them. Desks, chairs, glass from windows imploding into the room, ceiling tiles, light fixtures. The very air itself turned solid, slamming into them with a force that made Aramael stagger and the cocoon of his wings open slightly. Alex looked up into his eyes and quailed at the grimness she saw there. It wasn’t just her; he hadn’t expected this force, either. Hadn’t expected Seth to be this strong.
A shard of glass flew between the gap in his feathers, slicing open his cheek. The wound sealed itself almost instantly, but not before crimson spattered onto her own cheek and pain winced across his features. Behind him, a support post ripped out of its mooring and spun toward them. She closed her eyes as it thudded against the arch of Aramael’s wing. The floor bucked beneath her feet. .
Dear God in Heaven, what had she loosed on the world?
“Enough,” Aramael growled.
Her eyes shot open as he put her away from him, his hands solid and reassuring in their grip on her arms. “Stay behind me,” he ordered. “My wings will protect you.”
She clutched at him when he tried to let go. “What are you going to do?”
His gray eyes hardened with resolve. “What I should never have let you talk me out of in Vancouver,” he said. “I’m putting an end to this. Now.”
She wished she could object. Wished Seth had given her some reason—any reason, however small—to do so. But whatever Seth might have been, whatever he could have chosen to be, that chance had long since passed.
“He’s not your responsibility,” the One’s voice whispered in her memory. Her throat tight with fear, regret, and a multitude of other emotions it would take a lifetime to identify, Alex let go her hold on Aramael’s sleeve.
Metal hissed against hardened leather as he drew the sword from its scabbard. It glinted dully in the light coming from the broken windows, plain, unadorned, built for one purpose and one purpose only. His wings lifting clear of Alex, he turned.
“Be careful,” she whispered.
Chapter 81
With his wings unfurled to their fullest to protect the woman sheltering behind them, Aramael raised his sword to deflect a jagged piece of metal aimed at his head. “By all that is holy, Seth Benjamin, enough!” he shouted.
Nostrils flaring an
d chest heaving, the Appointed hesitated. Then, returning Aramael’s glare, he let his arms drop to his sides. The power that had pressed in on Aramael subsided to a low, sinister pulse.
“You cannot stand against me forever, Archangel,” Seth panted, sweat trickling down his forehead. “I’m not one of you. I’m more, remember?”
“Mika’el stood against your father,” Aramael reminded him grimly. “And I will stand against you.”
“Mika’el had five others of your kind with him. You have a Naphil.” Seth spat the word.
“Fine. If you think you can take me, let’s not waste time.” Shifting his grip on his sword, Aramael spread his feet apart and settled them into the remains of the thin carpet. “Take your best shot.”
Seth narrowed his eyes. Shook his head. “You really do care for her, don’t you? You can’t help but try to save her. It’s a compulsion for you.”
“And it always will be.”
“Then save her from this.”
An ominous rumble sounded behind Aramael, followed by the screech of metal tearing under stress. Alex gasped. Whirling, Aramael lifted his wings up and over her just in time to shield her from the collapse of a section of the floor above them. Concrete chunks showered down, battering outspread feathers hardened against attack. Twisted steel beams followed, and then a desk and—
He felt a sudden, sharp pain centered in his back, between his wings. Instinctively, he arched away from it, but it followed, pressing into him, piercing deeper. More pain erupted in his chest. He looked down at the jagged metal he had deflected only seconds before, its now crimson tip protruding from the breastplate of his armor. From the inside. Fury at himself joined his rage at Seth. Damn it, he should have expected that. Wrapping his free hand around the projectile, he braced himself to pull it through—and then stopped. Stared. Went cold. There, mixed in with his blood, traces of phosphorescence.
Seth’s makeshift weapon had pierced his immortality. His gaze sought Alex’s, and he saw his shock mirrored there.
Bloody Hell.
Steps sounded behind him. Warm breath stirred against his ear.
“There you have it, Archangel. My best shot. Good enough for you?”
Aramael felt Seth seize the metal projectile and twist it. White heat seared through him. His sword dropped to the floor, and he lurched forward, trying to escape.
Too late.
The metal left his body with a wet, sucking snick. His own roar of agony filled his ears even as a part of him distanced itself, shutting out the pain. His knees buckled, and he dropped to the floor. His voice became hoarse, trailed away. Another sound penetrated his awareness.
“Aramael? Aramael! Goddamn it, how do I get you out of this?”
Alex.
She knelt before him, her hands roving frantically over his armor, trying to remove it, to get to his wound. He tangled his fingers in hers, holding fast, shaking his head. Lifted his gaze to hers. To the terror, the denial, the anguish. Failure swelled in him.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“Don’t. Don’t you dare. You’re not going to die on me, Aramael. I won’t let you.” She pulled her hands from his and cupped his face. “You can call someone. Call Michael. He’ll—”
The pain in his chest sank deeper, radiating inward, brushing against his core. He swayed and would have toppled but for Alex’s hold.
“I can’t,” he said. “I can’t call from here. It’s too—”
The word far died on his lips. He had been in Heaven when Alex called him. Somehow her voice had done what no angel’s could and reached across two realms to pull him to her side. Not even their soulmate connection could fully explain that.
“Alex.” He cradled her face, smearing her cheeks with his blood. “Where is Seth?”
“He’s over there, watching. He said—” Her voice broke, and she made a visible effort to recover. “He said he would give us time for our good-byes before he—he—”
“Sh.” He laid his forehead against hers. The pain sank into his center. He fought it off. “There’s one last thing we can try. I can’t call Mika’el from here, but you can. Just like you called me.”
“But you and I—we’re soulmates—”
“It doesn’t matter. He’ll hear you. I’m sure of it.”
He has to.
The pain took on an exquisite edge that stole his breath. He was running out of time. Pulling his wings over her, he tried to shelter her one last time, if only for a few seconds.
“Call,” he whispered, willing her to stay strong. “Call Mika’el.”
Her eyes—the color of a summer sky—brimmed with tears, and she covered his hands with hers, squeezing fiercely. Desperately.
“I love you,” she said. “I tried not to, but I do. I always have.”
He pressed his lips to her forehead, drawing on her warmth to ward off the cold in his core for another instant. Another labored heartbeat. “I know,” he said. “Now call.”
Her gaze locked with his, and he felt her go still. Felt her reach inside herself, past the fear, past the pain. Heard her whisper the name of Heaven’s greatest warrior in the very depths of her soul.
Aramael’s world went dark.
Chapter 82
Mika’el strode through the great hall, angels scattering from his path, the other Archangels fanned out behind him in tight-lipped silence. Raphael followed closest, his glowering disapproval a near palpable weight across Mika’el’s shoulders. A justified one.
The One had been gone for less than an hour, and already cracks were appearing in Heaven’s foundation. For the first time ever, the others questioned Mika’el’s judgment. He slammed a fist against a bookcase as he passed by, and a collective gasp went through the hall.
He’d been certain Aramael could overcome his connection to the Naphil, but he’d obviously underestimated the former Power’s feelings for the woman. Now his newest recruit was imagining a call for help across two realms, and Mika’el had believed him. Let him go. What in the name of the Creator herself had he been thinking? He had bloody Armageddon looming and—
Michael.
He stopped in his tracks, and the boulder-solid form of Raphael slammed into his back. Armor clanged against armor, underscored by cursing.
“Damn it, Mika’el, warn me when you’re going to—”
“Quiet.” Mika’el held up a hand. “Did you hear that?”
Raphael looked up from buffing a scratch on his breastplate. “Hear what?”
Mika’el scanned the faces of the other Archangels. “A voice. Saying my name. None of you heard it?”
Blank looks met his. Heads shook. He scowled. Wonderful. Now he was imagining—
Michael!
His head snapped back. That wasn’t just his name, it was his Earth name. One that none in Heaven ever called him. He went still, stopped breathing. Impossible. Not even an angel could send forth a summons between Earth and Heaven. There was simply no way a Naphil, thousands of generations removed from her divinity, could achieve such a thing.
Could she?
He whirled. “Azrael, you’re in charge here. Nothing gets past that border, understand? The rest of you, with me.”
Raphael caught his arm, fingers almost as dark as the armor on which they rested. “Mika’el, what the Hell is going on?”
“Aramael is in trouble.”
Instinctively, almost as one, every Archangel’s hand went to the sword hanging at its owner’s side. Including Raphael’s. Whatever doubts they might have about the Aramael’s appointment to their ranks, he was still one of them. Then Raphael’s golden eyes narrowed.
“Wait. I thought he went to Earth. To the Naphil.”
“He did,” Mika’el said. “And I think she just summoned me.”
* * *
“It’s over, Alex.”
The voice struck with physical force, each syllable a hammer blow against Alex’s soul. Cowering, she held fast to Aramael’s hands beneath the protection of his wings
.
Hands still warm to her touch.
Still alive, but barely—and for how much longer?
Feathers shifted above her, and for an instant—a brief, cruel instant—her heart soared. It plummeted again when she saw Seth’s fingers grip the limp wing and shove it aside. Aramael toppled sideways, resisting her attempts to hold him upright, landing with a soft grunt amid the rubble on the floor. His hands pulled away from hers and dropped to nestle against dull black feathers. The final loss of physical contact was more than she could bear.
She exhaled on a moan of denial, a harsh, monstrous sound that came from the very core of her being. The place where her soulmate resided. Aramael of the stormy gray eyes and bolt-of-lightning touch; Aramael, who had risked falling from Heaven itself for her; Aramael, who had stood by her and protected her life with his own even after she had chosen another over him.
Another, whose hand stretched down to her now, waiting to pull her to her feet.
Fighting to control her breathing and unlock her throat, Alex stared at the outstretched appendage. Slowly, she looked up, following the arm to which the hand was attached; tracking along a shoulder and then a neck; settling on a face. Calm and expressionless, with no reflection of what its owner had just done. No acknowledgment. No remorse. Nothing.
“It’s over,” the voice repeated, the face’s mouth moving with the words.
Rage obliterated all else. Knocking the hand away, she surged to her feet and shoved against Seth’s chest. He didn’t so much as sway.
“Fuck you!” she bellowed. She shoved again. Then a third time. And a fourth. Each with more fury, more despair, more impotence. The One had been right all along. Seth’s choices were at the heart of all of this: Armageddon, the Nephilim babies, everything—and Alex had lost everything because of those choices. Her sister, her niece, Aramael—even the love she had once felt for Seth himself. All were gone from her world, and she could do nothing to bring them back. Nothing to stop what would come next, what hovered just beyond her ability to reason. Panic licked at the edges of her anger. She stopped shoving and started shaking, vibrating from head to toe.
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