Sins of the Warrior (7 page)

“We fight smarter.”

Mika’el raised an eyebrow at her. “You have an idea?”

The female Archangel tossed her flaming red hair over one shoulder and leaned across the table. “The breaches have been here, here, and here”—she jabbed a finger at three spots on the map—“all positions that are the most easily defended from a geographical perspective.”

“And?”

She straightened. “And yet we’ve had difficulty defending them because the majority of our forces are elsewhere. Guarding the
least
defensible positions.”

They all studied the map for a moment, then Zachariel grunted. “You’re saying we’ve inadvertently created new weaknesses for ourselves.”

“We put angels at the weaker geographical points for a reason,” Azrael pointed out. “Any breaches there would be more difficult to contain if they occurred.”

Mika’el held up a hand to ward off further debate. “Let Gabriel finish.”

“Azrael is right. It makes sense to protect our more vulnerable positions, and yes, if we redistribute the angels more evenly, we put those positions at a higher risk. But there are only five of those places, and there are six of us.”

“You’re suggesting we tie five of us to fixed locations?” Uriel shook his head. “What if none of the Fallen ever attack those places? We’d be no more than glorified sentries.”

Four heads nodded assent. Mika’el scowled at the map. They were right. But so was Gabriel.

“What would you have us do?” he asked.

“The sheer length of the border is what’s killing us,” she said. “Six of us cannot police it effectively. Not when the others are—”

“Fucking useless?” Azrael muttered.

“That will do,” Mika’el growled. “I’ll not blame Heaven’s forces for something that is beyond their control, and neither will you. Understood?” Taking the other Archangel’s agreement for granted, he gave Gabriel a curt nod. “Go on.”

“I think it makes more sense to redistribute our forces over the longer stretches, keeping a bare minimum at the danger points. Then, as Uriel said, five of us remain at those points as well. Glorified sentries or not, we’d be more effective there than doing what we’re doing now.”

Assuming the increased forces along the rest of the border could summon the collective will to hold back the enemy. It was a big assumption. Mika’el rested his hands against the table and drummed his fingers in a restless rhythm. “And the remaining Archangel?”

“Would remain near the center of the front line. As a last resort.”

“It would be a tremendous distance to travel in either direction if anything happened.”

“Yes.”

Mika’el frowned at the map. He sensed the dissent in the others and didn’t blame them. The idea was counterintuitive, going against basic military strategy. On the other hand, that could be the very reason for trying it. At the least, it might put the Fallen off their stride for a bit and buy Heaven some time—buy
him
some time—to find Emmanuelle.

As if conjured by his thoughts, a knock sounded at the war chamber door. He looked around as it swung inward for Verchiel. Something electric sparked in the pale blue gaze that met his. He caught his breath, and the Highest Seraph nodded. They’d found Alex.

“Right.” He turned back to the others. “It’s worth a try. Gabriel will oversee the planning and execution in my absence. Raphael will be her second.”

“Hold on.” Azrael put an arm out to stop him as he stepped away from the table. “What absence? Where are you going?”

Mika’el met each of the Archangels’ gazes in turn. He’d said nothing of his doubts to any of them so far, talked to no one but Verchiel of his fears. Sooner or later, however, they would have to know. They deserved to know. He took a deep breath, but a touch on his hand stopped him. Verchiel, pressing a slip of paper into his palm.

“Go,” she said. “I’ll deal with this.”

“I should be the one—”

“You’ll be the one to save us. Go.”

With a last glance at the gathered Archangels, he nodded. “Tell them everything.”

“Even…?”

“Even that.” Curling his hand over the paper Verchiel had given him, Mika’el strode from the chamber. The Highest’s voice followed him across the threshold and into the empty stone hallway.

“We need Emmanuelle to come home,” she said calmly, “because we’re losing.”

Mika’el closed the great oaken door on the utter silence that followed her words.

ALEX HUDDLED IN THE
corner of the room, unmoving, unblinking. The blanket someone had placed around her slipped further off her shoulders with every breath, every treacherous beat of her heart in her ears. She did nothing to retrieve it. Could do nothing.

A photographer’s flash surprised her eyes into closing, but only once. She was prepared for the next and forced her lids to remain open. Forced herself to continue staring at the spray of red and the flecks of gray matter spread across the wall behind her sister’s slumped body.

Behind Jen.

A third flash. The police photographer muttered an apology and retreated awkwardly from recording the gore that had dried on her face and neck. The lanky frame of her staff inspector filled her field of vision as Roberts squatted before her. His hand covered hers, its heat near scalding. She flinched.

“They’re going to move her now,” he said.

His voice was gruff. Exhausted. A part of Alex wanted to apologize to him for what had happened, for adding to his burden. A larger, colder part of her recognized the ludicrousness of the idea. Her sister had died because of her. There were no words of apology big enough. She met his concern. Nodded her understanding.

“I know it’s late, but you’ll have to come back to the office. We need a statement.”

Another nod.

Roberts stared at her for a long moment, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. Then his lips went tight.

“What the hell, Alex.” The words were raw, seemingly ripped from him against his will. “You brought your
gun
into a
psych
ward?”

She looked past him, over his shoulder. Excuses—lame, pitiful, meaningless excuses—piled up in her mind.
There was no one at the nurse’s station when I went by. I didn’t think. I was tired. I wanted to go home, but I had to come here for Jen first. I had to tell her I’d seen Nina
.

I didn’t think
.

A forensics member wheeled a gurney into the room. Someone unzipped a body bag, and the
zzzzzzt
grated through the room.

I didn’t think
.

Invisible steel clamped around Alex’s throat. That was all that mattered. She hadn’t thought. And now Jen was dead. Holy mother of—

A god that didn’t exist.

She choked on a bubble of hysteria. Clamped her teeth together. Watched Jen’s lifeless body lifted onto the gurney, tucked into the bag, zipped away from sight. The coroner met her gaze, hesitated, and then wordlessly followed her sister from the room. Alex folded her arms over her belly.

Roberts’s hand tightened on her arm. “You okay?”

She nodded. Shook her head. Then shook, period. Tremors engulfed her, slamming her teeth together, rattling through her entire body. Muscles went so rigid that they screamed in agony. She heard Roberts say her name, his voice insistent, but she couldn’t make herself answer him because her jaw had locked shut. Roberts put his arms around her and called to Abrams to find a doctor. Footsteps thudded out the door.

Faint alarm sounded in the back of Alex’s mind. Could a person actually shake to death? Then fresh hysteria bubbled. Maybe. But it didn’t matter, because
she
couldn’t. No,
she
was going to get to live with this—with what she’d done to Jennifer—for thousands upon thousands of years. Millions of years.

Eternity.

Jennifer’s head exploded across her vision again, and Alex jerked back in her seat.

Ohgodohgodohgod
…

“Alexandra.”

The deep, imperious voice shot through her agony like a hot bullet through—

Fuck
. She gasped, seized her sanity in both hands, and held on with every atom of her being as she stared into the glittering emerald eyes of the Archangel Michael.

“I need your help,” he said.

If she’d still had her gun, Alex had no doubt she would have shot him. Twice.

She stood before Michael, fists clenched, trembling from head to toe. Her head swam from her violent lunge to her feet. Roberts had risen with her, and he reached for her arm. She shook him off and stepped forward, toe to toe with the Archangel who dared invade her grief. With every fiber of her being, she wished for the feel of her pistol nestled into her hand. Wished it wasn’t zipped away into an evidence bag. Wished she could fire the instrument that had taken her sister’s life at the being she held most responsible.

It didn’t matter that no bullet could hurt Michael. Or that he might not even let one near him. It mattered only that he would have known the level of her fury. Her contempt. Her utter lack of regard for who and what he was.

Because then, maybe, he wouldn’t be standing before her in a hospital room while her sister’s body was wheeled away, asking for—

“My
help?
” Alex snarled. “On what fucking planet do you live that you would think—for even a nanosecond—that I would help you? Oh, wait. I forgot. You’re from Heaven, where you
don’t
think. At least not about anything other than yourselves.”

Roberts seized her wrist. She pulled free.

“Get out,” she told Michael.

“You don’t know—”

“I don’t
care
. Just as
you
don’t care.”

“I never said I—”

“Fuck you,” she said. “
Fuck you
, Michael. And fuck all the others like you, and fuck Heaven and Hell, and fuck the one who—”

“Stop.” His voice cracked out, as sharp as the retort of a rifle, and wings that had been hidden made a sudden, shocking appearance, half unfurled behind him. Those who still moved about the room froze in mid-stride, mid-sentence, mid-breath.

Alex looked into the fury that glittered in the emerald depths of Michael’s eyes, eclipsing her own a thousand times over. Reminding her of the awful power she challenged. For a moment, she quailed, taking a step back, holding up a hand in apology. Conciliation. And then she remembered what she had become, the losses she would endure for eternity. She dropped her hand to her side. Fingernails bit into her palm.

“Or what?” she asked, her voice soft. Flat. “You’ll kill me? Be my guest. We both know you’d be doing me a favor.”

For the third time, Roberts’s fingers clamped over her arm. This time his grip was unbreakable. He leaned in and hissed, “What the hell is going on, Alex? Who
is
this?”

Alex met the challenge in Michael’s gaze, his steel-jawed, silent command. She waited for the familiar surge of defiance but felt nothing. Felt empty, hollow. Finished. She shook her head. “It’s nothing, Staff. He’s leaving.”

Michael opened his mouth to speak.

“Now,” she said.

“We’re not done, Naph—Alex.”

She laughed at that. A short bark that held no humor and made Michael’s eyes narrow dangerously.

“We’ve been done for longer than you know,” she said. “Now get the hell out.”

“In!” Seth’s voice barked through the door.

Samael pressed his lips together and inhaled a slow breath through flared nostrils. Then, pasting as pleasant a look as he could muster on his face, he pushed into the Appointed’s office. A shirtless Seth stood by the fireplace, scowling at the ministrations of the Fallen One changing his bandage.

Samael glanced at the exposed wound. It was still red and inflamed, but the green ooze had finally dried up. He nodded approval.

“That looks better.”

“I didn’t ask you here for a medical opinion. Have you found her?”

“It’s been less than a day. You can hardly expect—”

“I expect you to do as I’ve asked. Without making excuses.”

Samael set his teeth against the desired retort. “Of course. No, we haven’t found her yet. But I have found someone we can trust to look for her.”

“Everyone should be looking for her. Including you.”

The Fallen One unrolled a fresh length of gauze, his gaze flicking between them.

“Leave that.” Samael jerked his head toward the door. “Come back later.”

Curiosity turned to speculation, but the former Virtue nodded. Leaving his supplies on the low table before the fireplace, he retreated from the room in silence. Samael waited for the click of the door. Then he turned to Seth.

“I don’t think you fully appreciate how tenuous our situation is at the moment,” he said. “Your position here is hardly cemented, Seth. If the Fallen sense weakness—”

Seth vaulted the couch and backhanded him before Samael registered movement. From his new position on the floor against the opposite wall, he put the back of his hand to a split lip and stared up into cold, black eyes. Bloody Heaven, the Appointed became more unhinged by the day. Bloody,
bloody
Heaven.

Settling his back against the wall, Samael rested an arm across one upright knee, keeping a watchful eye out for any more sudden moves. “May I ask what that was for?”

“I’m sick of your lies and half truths, Archangel. I took back my power for you because you said I would have Alex, and now you try to excuse your failure to give her to me.”

“That’s not how the conversation went. I said you could have her, yes, but I never once said I would deliver—”

“Semantics!” Seth spat. “You wanted a ruler? You have one. You want me to lead your war? You give me Alexandra Jarvis. You have three days. After that, if I’m still unable to cross the threshold between the realms myself, I will pull every single Fallen One out of battle and send them after her. Do I make myself clear?”

Out of the father’s madness and into the son’s. Bloody,
fucking
Heaven. Lucifer would have laughed himself sick at the mess Samael had landed himself in. The sooner the Naphil died and they redirected Seth’s attention to where it belonged, the better.

“Perfectly clear, Appointed,” he said. “You’ll have her in three days.”