Hot tears spilled over onto her cheeks, burning the tiny cuts inflicted by Aramael’s wings the day before. She dashed them away with one hand and reached for the doorknob with the other.
“Neither did I,” she told him.
Samael sprawled on the park bench beside Mittron, arms extended along the back, legs outstretched across the sidewalk so that pedestrians had to go around him. He sent a sidelong glance at the Seraph, who sat with hands wrapped around a Styrofoam cup of coffee. Eyes closed, Mittron inhaled deeply. He brought the mug to his lips and sipped at the scalding liquid. The tremble in his hands was half what it had been scant minutes before.
Mittron looked over. “Whatever you gave me, it’s good.”
“You expected otherwise?”
“I haven’t been thinking clearly enough to expect much of anything lately. This makes a nice change.” Mittron took another sip of coffee. “So. You want to take over Hell, do you?”
“I’d like there to be a Hell when all this”—Samael waggled the fingers of one hand—“is over.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Lucifer isn’t what he used to be, Seraph. The idea of wiping mortals from the planet consumes him to the exclusion of all else, including the survival of his followers.”
“And this has changed how?” Mittron asked dryly.
Samael grunted. “Maybe you’re right. Now that he’s this close to achieving his goal, however, I’d rather like to know I’ll survive.”
“He’s close? How close?”
In a few clipped words, Samael brought Heaven’s former executive administrator up to date on what had happened in his drug-induced absence: Seth’s choice of the Naphil, the Nephilim army waiting to be born, Lucifer’s obsession with fathering a child to lead that army—and his complete lack of interest in whether any of them, including himself, survived the war yet to come.
Mittron was silent when he finished. Then, “Former Archangel or not, the Fallen will never follow you. You’re not strong enough.”
“Not me. Seth.”
“Seth! But you just said—”
“I said he gave up his powers. I didn’t say he couldn’t get them back.”
“And why would he want to do that? He gave up everything to get rid of them, and he didn’t make the decision lightly. He’s right where he wanted to be. He has the woman.”
“Not if I can convince him otherwise.” Samael withdrew the next of Lucifer’s journals destined for Seth’s hands and laid it on the bench between them. Mittron’s eyebrows went up.
“That’s your plan? You’re going to convince him with a book to take back his powers and overthrow Lucifer?”
Samael grinned at an elderly woman forced to maneuver her walker onto the rough grass to get around his feet. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to judge a book by its cover?”
Mittron set down the coffee and picked up the leather-bound volume. He flipped through a half dozen pages, then looked up at Samael. “Lucifer’s journal?”
“One of a thousand and eleven at last count. Six millennia of history as seen through the eyes of the Light-bearer himself. A rather ugly read, if you ask me.”
“I still don’t see—”
“A son should have the opportunity to know his father, don’t you think? Especially when they have so much in common, such as an obsession with the females in their lives. Females who insist on choosing the good of an entire race over the ones who worship them.”
Speculation narrowed Mittron’s eyes. “You think you can turn Seth from the woman? After he gave up all that he did for her?”
“I know I can.”
Mittron closed the journal. “Even if you succeed, we’re talking about Lucifer. There’s no guarantee Seth will be strong enough to take him on—with or without an army. Or that Hell will survive if he does.”
“Perhaps not. But I can guarantee neither it nor we will survive if we don’t at least try.”
“So you’re choosing between the lesser of two evils and you want me to join you?”
“Unless our fearless leader has a sudden change of heart—and I wouldn’t hold my breath on that—yes. That’s exactly what want.” Samael raised an eyebrow. “So what will it be, Seraph? Take a chance on my plan, or return to your Judgment?”
Mittron took a swig of coffee, staring out across the little park.
“Tell me what you need.”
Aramael frowned as Alex joined him beside her sedan. “Are you—?”
“Don’t.” Her throat aching, Alex brushed past him and went around to the driver’s side. Seth’s gaze bored into her back from his vantage point in the apartment window, but she refused to turn. She didn’t trust herself not to break down if she did. “Just get in.”
“Alex, if there’s—”
She rested a gloved hand on the car roof, holding on for dear life to the door handle with her other. Steeling herself, she looked across the car into Aramael’s concern. His caring. Her knees trembled and she locked them so they couldn’t fold beneath her.
“Can you leave?” she demanded.
Can you go away forever and take all of this with you? The pain of having known you, the agony of still doing so, the heartache that you’re inflicting on the man I’m trying so hard to love? Can you please—please—break this connection between us before it destroys me?
Aramael shook his head slowly, sadly, responding to all her questions, spoken and unspoken. “You know I can’t.”
Her breath slid down her throat like a thousand shards of glass. She wrenched open the car door. “Then no, Aramael. There’s nothing you can do. So get in, shut up, and leave me the hell alone.”
Chapter 43
Alex gathered up the scattering of messages. Two from the Internet techs looking to clarify the list Roberts had given them; one from Riley, giving her an office location in case she wanted to stop by—at least doing so was a suggestion now and not an order; and one from Roberts ordering her to his office.
She eyed the coffee room longingly, and then, suppressing a sigh, shed her coat and scarf and dropped them onto her chair.
Roberts’s door stood open. She tapped on the door frame. “You wanted to see me?”
His back to her as he stared out the window, her supervisor waved her in. She took a seat and frowned. Hadn’t Roberts been wearing that same suit yesterday? Had something else come up after they’d sent her and Seth home from the hospital?
She opened her mouth to ask. He spoke first.
“There’s a press conference in Ottawa tomorrow afternoon.” Roberts let the blinds fall back into place with a metallic clatter. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he turned and leaned back against the window ledge. “The federal health minister is announcing a country-wide implementation of the same measures we used here for the SARS scare in 2003.”
“SARS! But we quarantined—” Alex broke off. “You’ve got to be kidding me. They want to quarantine pregnant women? That’s their answer to this?”
“No. That’s their attempt to contain things, at least for a while. It will apply only to women in their first trimester. Beyond that, there doesn’t seem to be much danger. World Health is recommending the measures be taken globally as a precaution while they work to isolate the virus.” Roberts held up a hand to ward off her pending outburst. “Our hospital incident night before last wasn’t an isolated one, Alex. Demonstrations are springing up at clinics across the globe and ten more women—that we know of—have died giving birth to those babies. People need to believe we have a handle on this thing, or we’re going to lose any chance at control.”