He stiffened, hearing a note in her voice that he didn’t like. Verchiel went to the One’s chair and ran her hand over the back of it. She gazed out the window. Mika’el waited, bracing for what he suspected would come next. The Highest didn’t disappoint.
“It won’t work,” she said. “We’re not strong enough to fight a war and still hold all of this”—she waved—“together.”
“Don’t,” he said. “Not yet.”
Verchiel heaved a sigh. “We have to talk about it, Mika’el. She might be our—”
“I said not yet.”
“Then when?” She turned to him, annoyance creasing her brow. “It could take us weeks to find her. We haven’t heard so much as a whisper from her for six thousand years—or about her, for that matter.”
They’d been watching for her? His mind answered the question even as it formed. She was the daughter of Heaven. One of its biggest losses—and greatest regrets. Of course they’d been watching for her . . . just as he himself had meticulously avoided doing so. He stalked past the Seraph, headed not for the door and the waiting throng, but for the glassless window and the eminently more manageable concerns of war. Verchiel’s voice followed him.
“I know this is difficult for you, but at least let me begin looking.”
Grief, guilt, and utter despair wrangled for the upper hand in his chest. He stepped through the floor-to-ceiling window and into the gardens.
“Mika’el!”
Unfurling his wings, he left her behind.
Her, but not the memories of Emmanuelle.
Chapter 76
Striding into the war council chambers, Mika’el unsheathed his sword. He laid it across the table with the others. Six Archangels fell silent. Six sets of eyes watched grimly. He didn’t prevaricate.
“What you’ve heard is true,” he said. “She’s gone.”
There was a collective inhale, and then chaos.
A dozen questions came at him in what seemed to be a single breath, battering against his ears, his skull, his already bloody heart. Resting his hands on the table, he dropped his head, waited for the accusatory voices to die down. They ended with a single harsh question rising above the others.
“Why in bloody Hell didn’t you stop her?” Raphael demanded.
Mika’el lifted his head to glare at him. “Because she wanted this. It was the only way she could stop Lucifer.”
The others blinked at him.
“She took him with her?” Azrael asked. “He let her?”
“Yes. To both questions.”
Another jumble of voices ensued. Again he waited. Again one voice rose above the others.
“So that’s it. Hell’s ruler is gone. The Fallen are on their own,” said Gabriel.
“No.” Aramael pushed back his chair and stood, his hands fisted. “No, they’re not. Seth will take his place.”
“We don’t know that for certain,” Mika’el said, “but given Seth’s lack of cooperation so far, yes, it’s possible he’ll step into the void.”
“Not possible. Definite. I know him better than you do, Mika’el. He’ll feel we forced him into this, forced him to give up Alex. He’ll be bitter and angry, and this will be his way of getting back at us.”
“Even if you’re right, it changes little. We’ll still be fighting the same war whether Seth is a part of it or not.”
“Except the Fallen,” growled Aramael, “will have a leader.”
And we won’t.
The former Power didn’t speak the last part. He didn’t need to. The words hung over the table all the same, stark and unforgiving in their truth. Drawing himself up to his full height, Mika’el glowered at him, hating that he was right but still refusing to consider the possibility raised by Verchiel. He would not—could not—go there.
“Then we’ll just have to work harder at remaining united,” he snapped. “Starting now. With us. Any objections?”
When no one spoke, he raised an eyebrow at Aramael. Scowling, the other took his seat again. Mika’el nodded.
“Good. Then you each know what you’re to—” He stopped as Gabriel, the only female among their company, cleared her throat. “Yes?”
“What about the Nephilim?”
“What about them?”
“The babies have all been born, and they’ve all disappeared. Do we just leave them out there like that, or—?”
Mika’el understood what she was asking. For a brief moment, standing there in the One’s profound absence, he had wondered the same thing himself. He’d also reached a conclusion. He let his gaze travel the table, meeting each of the others’ in turn.
“The One might no longer be here,” he said quietly, “but her legacy lives on in us. All of us. We uphold her ways, is that understood?”
Slowly, one by one, the Archangels nodded.
“Then as I was saying, you know—”
A chair crashed to the floor as Aramael surged to his feet again. Mika’el sighed.
“Now wh—?” He stopped midword as the other Archangel grabbed his sword from the table, scattering the others—and their owners—in all directions. Mika’el leaned across the table and seized Aramael’s wrist, holding him fast.
“Tell me,” he ordered.
Ferocious eyes fastened on his, and Aramael wrenched his arm away. “Something’s wrong,” he said. “Alex needs help.”
Chapter 77
It took every particle of self-control Aramael possessed to remain at the war council table and not bolt to Alex’s side. His whole being vibrated with her need for him, resonated with his desire to respond to her summons. But with Mika’el scowling that way and Raphael’s narrowed eyes grimly daring him to so much as twitch, he didn’t dare. Getting into a fight with another Archangel—or several of them, for that matter, would only slow him down.
Gripping the tabletop with one hand and his sword in the other, he repeated his words, “Something is wrong. She needs help.”
She needs me.
“Damn it, Aramael, you were to sever your connection to her,” Mika’el said.
“The same connection you counted on to protect her from Samael when you thought he was followed her?” Aramael snarled back. Painfully aware of the tension threading through the others, he reined himself in. Made himself breathe. “Let me check on her. Please.”
“This time and how many others?” Mika’el shook his head. “The Hellfire is down, Aramael. An attack is imminent. I cannot spare you.”
You cannot hold me.
He bit back the ill-advised challenge and locked his knees against the need to leave. Whatever had drawn Alex to summon him, it grew more urgent with every second—and it wasn’t going away.
“You don’t understand,” he grated. “I need to see her.”
Raphael snorted. “I knew you’d be a liability.”
“Raphael,” Mika’el said.
His golden eyes venomous, the Archangel subsided.
Mika’el studied Aramael for what seemed eternity. “You’re certain she’s in danger?” he asked at last.
“What does it matter? She’s a Naphil!” Raphael exploded. “His only loyalty is to—” He broke off, staring at the hand Mika’el placed on his arm, then at the warrior. “You have got to be kidding me.”
“Well?” Mika’el asked Aramael.
Aramael noted distantly that the table had begun to smolder beneath his grip. Alex had called on him only twice when he hadn’t already been there watching over her. Both times her life had been threatened. Neither time had ended well for her.