Linda Poitevin - Sins of the Lost

He just needed time.

Lucifer looked up at the sound of a tap on his office door. His aide, Samael, stood in the opening, an aura of apology surrounding him. Lucifer scowled.

“Still nothing?” He tossed down his pen. “Bloody Heaven, how hard can it be to trace them?”

Samael leaned a shoulder against the door frame, his reluctance to venture inside clearly written across his expression, right beside the scars that served as Lucifer’s permanent reminder about who truly ruled Hell.

“I warned you this could take a while,” he said. “They’re Nephilim. Without Guardians we can eavesdrop on, we have no way to trace them other than through the woman.”

Lucifer’s nostrils flared, and the hand he rested on the desk curled into a fist. Across the room, Sam shifted. Lucifer didn’t bother telling him it was the thought of the woman that irritated him and not Sam’s news. He liked the former Archangel this way: a little nervous, a little cautious, a lot respectful.

No, Sam wasn’t the issue. The woman, on the other hand . . . now, she infuriated him. The defiance, the sheer insolence . . . His fingers curled tighter. Killing his child, maiming herself so she could not bear another . . .

He glowered at his aide. “Have we made any progress?”

“We’ve located where the woman works, and we’re watching her around the clock. It’s just a matter of time until she reaches out to her sister.”

“ Watching her? Why in bloody Heaven would we sit back and watch ? Take her, damn it. Make her tell you where to find the sister.”

“That might not be wise. The Archangels have been watching her, too. At first it was only Aramael, and I thought it was personal, but now Mika’el is hovering over her. We don’t know what his interest is, but if we take her and he wants her . . .”

His aide’s voice trailed off.

“Bloody Heaven!” Lucifer thrust back his chair and rose, stalking to the window. Weariness wound through him. What was the Archangel up to now? The warrior had been such a thorn in his side. The only being in all of Heaven, other than the One, powerful enough to take him on and not be decimated in the process. First rallying the Archangels to force him across that damnable Hellfire barrier, then derailing his attempt to mold his son, and now returning to interfere yet again.

Bracing a hand on either side of the window, he stared out at the gray, brittle landscape. The gardens that defied his efforts to recreate Heaven had declined yet further. Nothing remained but the withered corpses of what he’d intended. Bitterness filled him, settling like dry dust on his tongue.

For the first time in his existence, disquiet slithered down his spine. A possibility he’d denied for more than six thousand years took form low in his belly, gelled into certainty.

I’m going to lose it, he thought. I’m going to lose it all.

Maybe not now, maybe not even soon, but eventually.

It was inevitable.

For an instant, the realization paralyzed him. Held him as a fly might be held by a spider, passive and unmoving, tangled beyond hope in strands of unbreakable silk. He shook off the suffocating cling of the metaphor. Loss might be inevitable, but it wouldn’t happen yet. Not if he could help it.

Not until he had ensured humanity’s absolute, total destruction. He spun back to face Samael.

“What about the Nephilim? Are we at least ready for them?”

“We’re working on it. The city we chose has been abandoned for a long time. It’s not an easy task readying it without drawing attention to ourselves.”

“You’ve had human interference?”

“Not in Pripyat itself, no. We caused the radiation levels to spike, so they’ve shut the area down tight. The only way in is through checkpoints, and we control those. Making arrangements for supplies without alerting the Guardians has been interesting, but so far we’ve managed. The pregnant humans, however, are another matter. We’ve had to assign a watcher to each of them to prevent them from ridding themselves of the babies.”

“Can we not just move them to the site right now?”

“And end up fighting the war with Heaven in the midst of your unborn army? That might not be the wisest course of action. We’re better off waiting until after the births. We’ll only need a few Fallen to tend the children then, and the rest of us can draw the host away from them. Keep them occupied. Besides, we’re not sure what the radiation levels in the city might do to the mothers. If they became ill, they might not be able to carry the babies to term.”

“But the infants themselves won’t be harmed.” A statement, not a question, and one that dared contradiction.

Samael shook his head. “Not as far as we can tell. We’ve harvested a few over the last week as test subjects. So far they seem to be thriving.”

“And how long before the rest are born?”

“Only a week.”

Lucifer gritted his teeth at the placating tone of his aide’s voice and resisted the urge to throw something at him. Such as his desk. “Fine. Then that’s how long you have to find the Naphil’s sister.”

Fleeting exasperation crossed Samael’s face, and then he nodded. “I’ll see that the trackers step up their effort.”

“No. Not the trackers. You.”

“Me? But I—”

“The others don’t know how important this is. You do. The Nephilim need a leader. They need this child I will father. If their place is as ready as you claim, then you’re free to pursue this for me. Find the Naphil’s sister, Samael. And don’t come back until you do.”

Verchiel found the One seated beneath an arbor in the rose garden, eyes closed, so still that she might have been one with the wood. Loath to disturb her, Verchiel paused, studying the lines in the beloved face. Lines she was certain hadn’t been there before. Her heart squeezed in on itself. She looks so . . . fragile .

Her hesitation deepened. Perhaps she should leave, come back later.

“Come,” her Creator said. “Sit with me.”

“If I’m disturbing you . . .”

A moment’s silence, then the One’s eyes opened, and some of the lines smoothed away from her forehead. She patted the bench beside her. “Not at all. I was just containing my son’s folly. Again.”

Verchiel crossed the sweep of lawn and settled on the seat. “How is that coming?”

“It isn’t. Every time I think I have it under control, it finds another escape. I’m not sure how much more the planet can take without self-destructing.”

“And you? How much more can you take?”

“A good question.” The One pulled a spray of roses toward her, inhaling deeply. “I suppose as much as I must. But we’re not here to talk about me.”

Guilt ensnared Verchiel’s voice and held it captive. It was true. She had come in search of the Creator for other reasons. More selfish ones.

The Creator’s hand covered her own in her lap and squeezed. “Tell me.”

“It’s just—” She blinked away the sheen of moisture blurring the garden. “You have always . . . been. The very idea you can cease to do so terrifies me.”

The One’s hand pressed hers. “Not cease, Verchiel. Alter. I’ll still be here, just not like this.”

“But this—this is how we know you, One, and I don’t know how to go on without that.” Verchiel turned her hand over in the One’s until their fingers linked. “Your counsel, your guidance, your very presence . . .”

“All of that will still be yours. You’ll just have to pay closer attention. I’ll still be a part of you, as all mothers remain a part of their children. My voice will be in yours if you choose to hear it. My counsel and guidance in your heart if you choose to heed them.”