Sins of the Warrior (24 page)

The daughter of the One and Lucifer reached the front door. Michael’s caution not to say too much rang in Alex’s ears. “
Leave it to me to tell her what’s happened. All you have to do is get her to agree to see me. I’ll do the rest
.”

Hell.

“Your mother is dead, damn it!” she shouted past the bicep. “They—the others—the ones like you—”

The weight of a dozen gazes pressed in on her, stalling her explanation. What the hell could she say that wouldn’t make it onto the Internet in a matter of seconds and compound the world’s problems even further?

Fuck
.

She realized Emmanuelle remained at the door, one hand upraised to push, waiting. Listening. She stepped aside from the arm blocking her way.
Tread carefully
, her inner voice warned.
Push, and you’ll lose her
.

“Things have happened,” she said again. “You need to know about them.”

A dozen heartbeats passed before Emmanuelle turned and silver eyes met Alex’s once more.

“You have three minutes.”

“I need to call someone first, just to—”

“Two minutes, fifty-seven seconds.”

Alex raked a hand through her hair, hoping to hell Henderson’s time-keeping skills were on the fluid side. She glanced around the room. “Is there somewhere private we can talk?”

“Two minutes, forty-nine seconds.” Emmanuelle’s gaze glinted a challenge at her.

Everything in Alex began a slow, downward spiral, much like water circling a drain. Or a toilet. She clenched her fists. Unclenched them. Physically bit down on her tongue as she glared at the woman facing her down. She tried to reason with herself, to tell herself it would serve no purpose to come unhinged now.

But it was no good. She’d had it with the lot of them. Their machinations, their arrogance, their high-handed presence. She…was…done.

“Fine,” she snarled. She pushed the bicep aside and stalked to the front of the bar, stopping a few feet short of the god she’d been sent to recruit. “Here’s the condensed version. The One and Lucifer are both dead and your brother has taken over Hell. The angels are losing the war because they have no one to lead them, and eighty thousand Nephilim are about to be unleashed on the world. Is there anything else you need to know, or will that do?”

Silence descended in the wake of her words. Absolute. Tomb-like. Unbroken by so much as a wheeze of breath. Alex’s gaze locked with Emmanuelle’s, and she flinched from the fury there. Would she ever learn not to inflame those who could destroy her on a whim?

“I’m sorry,” she muttered, “but—”

The door behind Emmanuelle swung open and a man stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the bright afternoon light. Alex’s heart pitched down to her toes. Henderson. Damn.

“I’m okay,” she called out, willing him to take the hint. A few more minutes, that’s all she needed. “Everything’s under control.”

A low chuckle rumbled, and a voice—male, but not Hugh—responded, “I’m very glad to hear that.”

Ice splintered down Alex’s spine and shot through her core. Oh, god, no…it couldn’t be. She stepped back hastily, involuntarily, stumbling into one of Emmanuelle’s protectors, falling against him. Meaty hands gripped her arms and set her back on her feet. The man in the doorway stepped inside, brushing Emmanuelle aside. The bottomless black eyes Alex had hoped never to see again pinned her in place, threatening to suck her into their void.

How in Hell had he found her? And Michael. Where was Michael?

“Alex,” said Seth. “Are you ready to go home?”

Bile rose in Alex’s throat. Michael wouldn’t come. Not for her. Not now they’d found—

From the corner of her eye, she saw Emmanuelle regain her balance. Iridescent eyes darkened with irritation, and her mouth—so like Seth’s—pulled tight. Alex reached instinctively for the sword at her back, a warning shout forming on her lips even as Emmanuelle stalked toward her brother.

“Emmanuelle, no!”

Emmanuelle ignored her, focused wholly on Seth. “I don’t know who you think you are, but this is—”

Seth flung out an arm in her direction. He didn’t make contact, but still sent Emmanuelle spinning through the air. She crashed into the mirrored wall behind the counter, glass and alcohol showering over her as she slid to the floor. In an instant, baseball bat in hand, the bartender cleared the counter and charged forward. The brawn in the bar followed, the floor shaking beneath their feet as they stampeded toward Seth, shoving Alex and her sword out of their way.

Before she could recover her footing a second time, all were sent crashing backward amid splintered tables and shattered chairs—not by Seth this time, but by a massive gust of wind.

The wind of a black-armored warrior who arrived amid a whirl of hardened feathers and leveled the flashing metal of his sword at Seth. Alex’s heart leapt.

“Michael,” she whispered.

Emmanuelle pushed up onto hands and knees amid the shards of glass on the floor behind the bar. She shook her head, dazed not by her impact, but by the turn of events. Or more specifically, the speed with which they’d turned. The woman’s arrival had been shock enough, but this? What the Hell was—?

“Michael.”

The woman’s whisper reached through the stunned silence that followed in the wake of the mini hurricane. Emmanuelle froze at the sound. Michael. Mika’el. He was here?

But she wasn’t ready…

“You!” her attacker spat. “Always interfering!”

Another voice, deep, achingly familiar. “Are you all right? Where is she?”

She
. Did he mean…?

Energy crackled through the air. Blue sparks snapped over Emmanuelle’s head, and her heart lunged into her throat. Shit. Only four beings in the universe were capable of that kind of power, and two of them—if she were to believe the woman—no longer existed.

Her attacker snarled again. “I’m talking to you, warrior.”

“And I’m ignoring you,” Mika’el retorted. “Alex. Where is Emmanuelle?”

Bloody Hell
.

For an instant, Emmanuelle considered simply disappearing. This wasn’t her fight, and she had no intention of letting it become so. There was no reason to—

At the end of the bar, Wookie stirred, groaning.

Emmanuelle closed her eyes. No reason except Wookie, and Spider, and Cosmo, and—ah, Hell. She pushed up to her knees and then stood.

“Here,” she said. Brushing shards of glass from her hair, she took in the wreckage strewn across room. Over by the pool tables, Scorpion made to rise from the splintered remains of the chair beneath him. She shook her head at him, and scowling, he subsided.

Emmanuelle took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and looked upon the soulmate she’d left behind almost five thousand years ago. “I’m here.”

Emerald eyes turned on her, and time itself stood still under their gaze. Ferocity, pain, regret—all this and more flared in Mika’el’s eyes, spearing Emmanuelle to her core and waking a long-forgotten ache of what should never have been. What still could not be. Then Mika’el’s expression turned grim and the mask of a warrior slipped back into place.

“Get everyone out of here,” he ordered. “Take Alex somewhere safe.”

“No,” the woman objected. “Michael—”

“Forget it,” said Emmanuelle at the same time. She strode around the bar, her boots crunching over the glass littering the floor. She jerked her head toward her attacker and the blue crackles surrounding him. “If that’s who I think it is, you’ll need help.”

“Just do it,” Mika’el said. “I’ll find you later.”

“Why don’t I save everyone the argument?” Seth snarled. “I’ll just take her off your hands, because she’s
mine
.”

The crackles of energy formed a wall and pushed toward Michael. The Archangel’s sword flared white in response, so brilliant that Emmanuelle had to turn away. The glare faded. A quick look at Michael found him two strides back from where he’d been. Near his feet, a biker rolled out of the way and scrambled upright. A second wall of blue slammed into the biker, enveloped him, moved through him. Emmanuelle stretched out a hand, but before she could summon more than shock, he crumbled into dust, his shriek of agony hanging in the room’s stunned silence. Emmanuelle stared at the emptiness that had been her friend.

“She’s mine,” Seth repeated.

Mika’el’s face had turned to granite. “Not a chance in Hell.”

“Then we will fight, and all those present will die, and I will still have her.”

Fury uncoiled in Emmanuelle’s belly. Her hands itched to gather her power and launch an attack at the smug arrogance that had taken over her brother. Then she glanced again around the room. Seth was right. If she fought him here, now, everyone in this room—and probably many beyond—would die. She caught Mika’el’s eye and gave a terse nod. She would do as he said.

Mika’el’s attention flicked back to Seth. A smile curved his lips. Humorless, ice cold, distinctly unpleasant. “I don’t think so.”

Seth launched another blast of energy, but Mika’el’s wings blocked it, and this time he held firm—despite blue flames eating a hole through outstretched bone and feathers alike.

“Emmanuelle, now!” he roared.

Emmanuelle grabbed the woman’s arm with one hand and tossed a fireball with the other. The bar’s front wall exploded outward in a hail of splintered wood. Emmanuelle shoved her charge through the opening and across the remains of the porch, then steered her to the row of motorcycles. She stopped beside a low-slung Harley, all matte black and chrome and indisputable business.

Flames erupted from the bar behind them, making the silver etching of the angel on the tank flicker and glow, weirdly life-like. Without pause, Emmanuelle swung a leg over the bike.

“Get on,” she ordered. She turned the key, and the bike throbbed to life beneath her.

The woman looked back at the bar. “The others—”

Tattooed men and women bailed out of the flames, falling over themselves, limping, dragging one another. A wall of blue swept out behind them, engulfing and destroying a second life without pause, without hesitation…without time for even a scream. Spider. Emmanuelle’s heart bled quietly in her chest.

Her hand closed over the woman’s wrist.

“They’ll be fine,” she yelled over the Harley’s deep, throaty rumble. “Now get on the goddamned bike!”

The woman stared at her. Looked down at the sword still gripped in her other hand. At the men and women desperately mounting their own bikes and making their escapes. At the building engulfed in blue and gold flames before them.

“Michael,” she whispered.

Emmanuelle’s heart twisted. Her grip on frail human bones tightened.

Then meaty hands clamped around the woman’s arms, lifted her, and jammed her into the bike seat behind Emmanuelle. Wookie’s unsmiling eyes met Emmanuelle’s, then the gray-bearded man limped away, mounted his own bike, and gunned out of the parking lot in a spray of gravel.

Emmanuelle followed.

FOR THE FIRST FORTY
minutes after getting back to the beach house, Emmanuelle worked in silence alongside Black Widow to patch up the wounded. The thirty-year member of the Hells Angels had three dead husbands and more than her fair share of triage behind her, and her embroidery hobby lent itself well to stitching together skin and muscle. She worked quickly and efficiently, passing the lesser injured off to Emmanuelle for cleaning and bandaging. In turn, the bandaged helped tend the others, two dozen in all. Two dozen out of more than twice that number present in the bar.

Emmanuelle slammed a door on the thought. She cut a length of first-aid tape, crouched at Wookie’s side, and secured the gauze around his forearm. He cleared his throat, and she lifted her gaze to meet his. Clear, steady gray eyes looked back at her from the overgrowth of hair that had earned him his name.

“A place goes up in flames like that, there’s going to be questions,” he said.

“And if I had answers, I’d give them to you.”

“I meant cop questions. Especially if one of theirs”—he jerked his head toward the living room to which Emmanuelle had exiled the woman—”is missing. Your handler is going to want to talk to you.”

Surprise rocked her back on her heels. “You know about that?”

“That you’re an informant? We all do.”

“You never said anything.”

Wookie shrugged. “It was none of our business. It’s not like any of us has anything to hide anymore.”

Not if they wanted to be within ten miles of her, no. It was her one ironclad rule:
Keep your noses clean
. She surveyed her friend and self-appointed bodyguard through narrowed eyes. “But you’ve never tried to keep anything from me. News. Rumors. You’ve always spoken openly when I’m around.”

Another shrug. “Some of us may be jaded sons of bitches, but who are we to stand in your way of trying to make this a better world?”

Emmanuelle cut a second strip of tape. She pressed it in place, half on gauze, half on skin. “And the rest of it?”

“Rest of what?”

“What happened at the bar. The…warrior and the other one. You must have questions about them.”

“Are you going to answer them if we do?”

Her gaze flicked up to his again. “I don’t know.”

“Well, when you decide, you let me know. Then I’ll ask.”

She swallowed, her throat suddenly tight. But before she could formulate an answer, the back door swung open. The kitchen occupants collectively held their breath, and then relaxed as Wookie’s older brother stepped inside. From the threshold, the man they’d dubbed Preacher surveyed the damage. His gaze skimmed over Emmanuelle and settled on Wookie.

“Has an ambulance been called?” he asked.

“No need, big brother. Everything’s under control.”

Wookie delivered the words in a casual, comfortable tone, but a fine tension hummed through the forearm beneath Emmanuelle’s hands. His brother had only been with them for a few weeks. So far, he’d accepted without comment the colorful backgrounds and personalities, but his loyalty was untested. Emmanuelle watched Preacher scan the room a second time. Then, his face settling into a calm determination, he rolled up the sleeves of his black clergy shirt.