Sins of the Warrior (23 page)

She was so beautiful.

So alive.

So vibrant with the gift he had given her.

His entire soul swelled with pure, unadulterated joy…

And then another figure emerged behind her, tall and powerful, with a commanding presence as unmistakable as the huge black wings rising behind him. Mika’el.

Fucking Hell.

Swiftly, Seth pulled back, further down the street. He tamped down his powers, smoothed over his aura, stilled his vibration. Held his breath. Mika’el paused on the doorstep, scanning their surroundings. He nodded, and Alex descended the stairs and crossed the sidewalk to get into a car waiting curbside. Mika’el waited until her door closed and then stepped back into the building.

Seth hesitated. His injury tugged at his side. The crossover into this realm had taken more effort than he would have liked. While he had no doubt he could still take on Heaven’s greatest warrior, it would be wiser not to seek battle if he could avoid it.

The car with Alex in it pulled away from the curb.

Panic licked at Seth. He couldn’t lose her. Not again. Not when he was so close. But any use of power to follow her would only reveal his presence to—

His gaze settled on a bright yellow car parked across the street, with
Yellow Cab
emblazoned in black on its side, a matching sign capping its roof, and a bearded man napping in the driver’s seat. A half-dozen strides took him to the vehicle. He pulled open the passenger door and slid in beside the driver, who startled awake and stared at him, bleary-eyed.

“Hey, you can’t be in the front sea—”

Seth turned to him, and the cab driver’s objection died mid-word. The man swallowed and raised both his hands.

“I’m not looking for trouble, man.”

“Good. Neither am I. I am, however, looking for a driver.” Seth pointed down the street. “The blue car. Follow it. Carefully.”

The cabbie hesitated. Seth turned to him again.

“Now,” he said, and in the space of seconds, they were in motion.

“THIS IS IT,” SAID
Henderson. He pulled over to the side of the road and slipped the sedan’s gearshift into park. “Formerly the most notorious biker bar in the Lower Mainland, owned and operated by the Hells Angels themselves.”

“Formerly?” Alex looked out the windshield at the only building visible for miles along the flats.

Squat, wooden, and ugly, the Blackwater Bar & Grill wasn’t exactly the kind of place that invited a casual passerby to come in and sit awhile. The stain had worn off most of the cedar siding, leaving it weathered in an unattractive patchy way; the covered porch that ran the width of the building had pulled free of the wall at one corner; and the ‘l’ in the first word on the electric sign had burned out, resulting in an unfortunate—but most likely apt—name change.

And if all of that wasn’t enough to discourage most people from stopping, there were the motorcycles lined up along the front of the building. Fifty of them—Alex had counted—all Harleys.

It was no wonder Heaven hadn’t been able to locate Emmanuelle here.

“Ownership changed ten years ago,” Henderson answered. “A numbered company. We were never able to find out who was behind it, but I suspect we know now.”

Alex reached for the door handle. Henderson’s hand closed over her wrist.

“I don’t care how reformed the organized crime guys say these shitheads are—you are
not
going in there alone.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Right up until they identify you as a cop.”

“Hugh—”

“At least take this,” he interrupted. He held out a small pistol. “It’s my spare.”

She patted the sword across her lap. She’d balked at continuing to carry it, but Michael had pointed out that Emmanuelle—if she was at the bar—would recognize it for what it was.

“
It might tip the scale in your favor
,” he’d told her. “
At least make her listen to what you have to say
.”

Alex had raised both eyebrows at that, but she’d kept her questions to herself about just how much hostility she should expect from his soulmate, because it really hadn’t mattered. Emmanuelle
had
to listen, and if the sword could help make that happen, then she would carry it.

She gave Henderson a lopsided smile. “I have this, remember?”

“Against fifty-odd bikers, reformed or otherwise?” Henderson snorted. “I don’t think so. Take the gun, Jarvis.”

Alex sighed. “Fine.” She stuffed the pistol into her pocket. “Satisfied?”

“No, but it will have to do.”

Alex climbed out of the vehicle. Under Henderson’s watchful eye, she removed her borrowed leather jacket and shrugged into the harness that held the sword’s scabbard in place across her back. She slid the jacket back on. Then, catching Henderson’s scowl, she said again, “I’ll be fine.”

“I still don’t like not having Michael here. If one of the Fallen comes after you…”

“He’s watching for them. They won’t get within a fifty-mile radius. Besides, I’ll be with Emmanuelle. If I ask nicely, maybe she’ll save me.”

If she doesn’t strike me down on the spot
.

“Funny,” Henderson growled.

She closed the car door.

“Alex.”

Leaning down to the open window, she met Henderson’s sober brown gaze.

“Be careful.”

She straightened up, gave the sword hilt a final tug of adjustment, and shifted her attention to the Blackwater. The deep bass of music thumped across the parking lot. This was it. Their time of reckoning. Time to see if Emmanuelle was in there, to see if Alex could persuade her to talk to Michael, to find out if Heaven stood a chance against Hell.

To learn whether the world stood a chance of survival.

No pressure, Jarvis
.

“Ten minutes,” Henderson called after her. “If you don’t call me in ten minutes, I’m coming in after you, understand?”

Alex flapped a hand at him in response and started down the road toward the bar. She really should tell him about the immortality thing one of these days, if only to put his mind at rest. Except knowing about it would raise a whole lot of other concerns she had a hard enough time dealing with on her own. She wasn’t sure she could handle fielding them from Henderson, too. Or Riley.

She walked along the narrow parking strip in front of the porch, past the row of gleaming chrome and black that was punctuated with an occasional bright blue or shiny red. She paused beside the bike nearest the door.

Painted matte black from front to back, with raised handlebars and studded leather saddlebags, it had an understated look that distinguished it from the others. As did the image engraved on the gas tank: a warrior angel, down on one knee, head bowed, both hands gripping the upright sword resting on the ground before him.

Alex raised her head and stared at the bar’s front door. If she had to guess, she’d venture to say Henderson’s intelligence was good. Emmanuelle was here, all right.

She climbed the steps, crossed the porch, and stepped into the Blackwater’s dim, shuttered interior. The door swung shut behind her. Almost instantly, the music dropped into oblivion, and she sensed every head in the place swiveling in her direction.

She paused to get her bearings and let her eyes adjust to the murky lighting. Her gaze swept the room, spotting two pool tables, one on either side of the door. A row of booths ran the length of the wall on the left, disappearing into the shadows at the back. Mismatched wooden stools sat along the bar to the right. Motorcycle parts and pictures of buxom women dressed—or half-dressed—in Harley gear passed as I.

And dozens of requisite beefy, bearded, heavily tattooed men and equally tattooed women all surveyed her with varying degrees of suspicion.

She zeroed in on the barkeeper. He was in his fifties, with his hair pulled back in a ponytail and a winged skull tattooed on his massive bicep—the trademark sign of a Hells Angel. He was also one of the largest men in the place, and his hands were out of sight beneath the counter. Baseball bat? Shotgun? Either way, she’d rather be facing him than have him at her back. She’d start there.

She walked into the silent room, her booted heels thudding against the wooden floor. At the counter, she took the sketch of Emmanuelle from the pocket where it nestled beside the lonely and completely inadequate pistol Henderson had given her.

“I’m looking for someone.” She unfolded the paper and set it before the bartender.

His unblinking gaze held hers. “You got the wrong place.”

“You haven’t looked at the picture.”

“Don’t matter. You still got the wrong place.”

Behind her, chair legs scraped over floorboards. Footsteps approached. At least four sets. Alex tensed, her reflexes on high alert. Reformed or not, these people were still hostile and highly dangerous. For a second, Alex wondered whether—even if she couldn’t die—she would still feel pain when she had the crap beaten out of her. Then, tension strumming across her shoulders, she lifted the sketch and held it in front of the bartender’s face, high enough to put it in his line of sight, low enough to see the flicker of recognition in his eyes.

“I’m not out to cause trouble,” she said. “I just want to talk to her.”

The bartender shook his head. “Never seen her.” But even as he uttered the denial, his gaze darted right, toward the back of the bar, so briefly that she would have missed it if she hadn’t been staring at him, waiting for the tell.

Three minutes
, her internal clock warned.
You’ve been here three minutes. Seven more and Henderson comes after you
.

And then they’d both get themselves killed. One of them permanently.

Alex folded the paper again and slid it into her pocket. “All right,” she said. “Thanks anyway.”

She stepped back from the counter and turned, as if to leave. Then she glanced over her shoulder. “Mind if I use the facilities before I go? It’s a long way back to town.”

Eyes narrowed, the bartender considered the idea, then grunted and shrugged. “Make it fast.”

Seth watched Alex disappear alone into the ramshackle building. Beside him, the cab driver clung to the steering wheel, sneaking wary sideways looks at him. Seth could hear the rapid thud of his heart. Smell the stink of his sweat. Feel his fragility.

Seth ignored him, waiting.

The car that had brought Alex here sat at the roadside, a hundred yards away, its driver still inside. There was no sign of Mika’el. No hint of his presence.

Cautiously, Seth expanded his awareness. Still nothing.

Alex was here alone. Unprotected.

His to take.

He reached out to the cab driver, gripped the sweat-slick neck, and twisted his fingers. Bone snapped. The man’s feet jerked. Seth climbed out of the cab and strolled down the road toward the other car.

ALEX SPOTTED HER THREE
tables from the back of the bar. A slender, leather-clad woman, sitting with her back to the room, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, one leg drawn up with a heavily booted foot resting on the chair, arm slung across her knee. Alex couldn’t see her face, but the tattoo beneath her left ear left no room for doubt.

It was a sword, its blade wrapped in blue flames, seeming to glow with a surreal light of its own making. Not just any sword, but that of an Archangel. Alex would have recognized it anywhere. She stopped a few feet away. The three men seated at the table with the woman rose as one, a formidable wall of muscled, colorfully tattooed flesh amply displayed around t-shirts and vests. Alex met the cold, pale gray gaze of the nearest.

“Ladies’ room is that way.” He inclined his bearded head to the right. He was sixty years old if he was a day, but he had a solid self-assurance about him that said he could take on most men half his age—and win.

Alex held up her hands, palms out. “I just want to talk to her.”

“She doesn’t want to talk to you. Ladies’ room”—he repeated his nod—”is that way.”

She hesitated. What if she was wrong and it wasn’t Emmanuelle? Or worse, what if it was, and these thugs weren’t as reformed as Criminal Intelligence wanted to think? The wall of flesh parted and came around to flank the woman on either side.

Christ
.

“Michael,” she said. “Michael sent me.”

The arm resting across the woman’s knee gave an almost imperceptible twitch. Tattooed muscles stopped in their tracks. Was it just Alex, or did the entire bar hold its collective breath?

The woman’s booted foot settled onto the floor with a controlled thud. She stood, unfolding her length from the chair, steely tension written in every line of her back and shoulders. One second ticked past. Two. Three. The woman turned.

Alex took an involuntary step back from the iridescent gaze, a swirl of color that couldn’t decide between the silver of the One’s eyes or the purple of Lucifer’s. If the sword tattoo hadn’t been enough to identify Emmanuelle to her, those eyes—the undeniable eyes of a divine being—would have done it. She took a deep breath. No point in retreating now.

“Michael sent me,” she repeated.

The iridescent gaze swept over her, head to toes and back again. “You’re not—”

Emmanuelle stopped, glancing at the men around her. Alex finished the phrase in her mind:
like me
. She shook her head.

“No. I’m not.”

“Then you can’t be his messenger. He wouldn’t use a—one like you.”

A human
.

“And yet he did.” Alex drew her hair to one side and craned her neck to expose the hilt of Aramael’s sword at her back. Swirling eyes widened, then narrowed, flashing with suspicion.

“Why didn’t he come himself?”

“He was afraid you’d know he was coming and run. That you wouldn’t talk to him.”

“He was right,” Emmanuelle retorted. “This conversation is over.”

“Wait,” Alex said to her departing back. “Things have happened. Things you don’t know about.”

Emmanuelle kept walking. A rose-and-thorn-tattooed bicep kept Alex from following.

“You’re right. I’m not like you,” she called. “But I’m not like the others, either. Seth changed me, Emmanuelle. He changed everything.”