“Fine. I’ll increase our surveillance. Now can we please move on?”
“To what?”
Hesitation flickered across her companion’s face, just enough to make ice crystals form in her veins. Hell, maybe she should have driven away when she had the chance.
I could still leave. Before he tells me why he’s here, I could walk out. Just like that. Stand up, pay for my coffee, and—
“We need Seth to take back his powers.”
The air hissed from her. “Excuse me?”
“His choice has had repercussions—”
“Stop.” Holding up both hands against his words, she leaned back in her seat, as far away from him as the chair would allow. “Why hasn’t Seth told me this?”
Michael’s expression turned wooden. “He doesn’t know.”
“You haven’t spoken to him?”
“I thought it best to speak to you first.”
“Then this conversation is over.”
“You don’t understand. The world—”
“No, you don’t understand.” She glared at him. “You wanted to kill him. His own mother wanted to kill him. You would have cut him down where he stood in that alley if Aramael hadn’t helped me get to him, even after you promised to give me time to help him. You lied. To him, to me—” She broke off, remembering their very public location.
“I did what was necessary,” Michael growled. “You don’t know all that’s going on—”
“And I don’t want to. The only reason you’re coming to me is because you know Seth won’t give you the time of day on this. He made his choice, and you made yours.”
“Damn it, Naphil—”
Alex slammed a fistful of change on the table beside her untouched coffee. She stood. “You told me once that I was done with your affairs, and now I’m telling you. I’m done. And so is Seth.”
Iron fingers clamped over her wrist.
“If Seth doesn’t take back his powers—”
“What, you’ll put out an assassination order on him?” she hissed. “Oh, wait, I forgot. You already did that. For God’s sake, Michael”—how ironic that she should invoke the Almighty’s name at a time like this—“you’ve done enough to him. You know that, or you’d be talking to him, not me. Just let him go. Please.”
Michael’s jaw flexed. “We can’t.”
“Then grow a set and talk to him yourself. Because I’ll be goddamned if I’ll do your dirty work for you.” Tugging free, Alex pushed past the man with the newspaper and stalked out of the café.
Chapter 12
Mika’el watched Alex stride across the street and into the police station, her every line rigid. Leaning an elbow on the table, he raked his fingers through his hair. Well. That had gone just swimmingly. He grimaced.
Who was he kidding? It had gone exactly as he’d expected. Except for her parting shot, perhaps. His grimace became a scowl. Grow a set? Bloody Hell, she had nerve.
Still, he couldn’t fault her reaction. Every accusation she’d made had been accurate. He’d given her no reason to trust him—or to listen to anything he had to tell her. Even though he knew damned well what Seth’s reaction would be, he should have at least talked to him first. Maybe if he had—Mika’el went still.
Across the street, the man who’d followed the Naphil from the restaurant, newspaper tucked beneath his arm, stopped to speak with another lounging against the side of the police station. Another that would appear human to mortal eyes, but Mika’el saw what they could not. An aura of power that marked him as an Archangel—but not one of Heaven. Not anymore.
Samael.
Halfway out of his chair, Mika’el froze as the other looked up, locking gazes with him. Golden eyes gleamed with bitterness, hatred, challenge.
Thrusting back the chair with a force that sent it crashing to the floor, he put his hand to his side. It closed over nothing. He hadn’t brought his sword, hadn’t thought he would need it. And if he’d had it, he still couldn’t have gotten to his foe without pulling out of the mortal realm, something he and Samael both knew he wouldn’t do in full view of dozens of people.
As if he’d read his thoughts, Samael bared his teeth in a mock grin, sketched a salute in his direction, and strolled around the corner. All sense of his presence disappeared. The man with the newspaper looked around at Mika’el, his expression confused.
Bloody Hell. Mika’el picked up the chair and slammed it back into place at the table. A murmur of alarm washed through the restaurant. The waitress reached for a telephone behind the counter. Reining in his fury, he strode through the crowded restaurant and pushed out onto the sidewalk. He scanned the street for the newspaper man, but he, too, had disappeared.
Bloody, bloody Hell.
What was the sole Fallen Archangel doing watching the Naphil?
Mittron, former executive administrator of Heaven, sagged back into the grimy building entrance, staring at the posters of barely clad women plastered against the glass. He struggled to think through the fog that had become his brain. To sort out the unexpected turn of events.
He’d spent weeks making his way here, using every spark of ingenuity he possessed—in his coherent moments—to find the woman. To discover where she lived, where she worked. To see if maybe, impossibly, the connection he’d tried so hard to sever between her and her soulmate might have survived. Because if it had, if she could call Aramael to her in a time of need, if enough of the immortal survived in the former Power to do for Mittron what he had done for Caim . . .
He inhaled shakily, pressing palms against the rough brick behind him. So many ifs. And such a crude plan, born of desperation and a far cry from the beautiful, intricate schemes he had once woven. He hadn’t held out any real hope that it would work. He’d just needed to focus on something—anything—to keep the insanity at bay.
When he’d found Aramael—now an Archangel with the ability to take his life a thousand times over—already camped out on the Naphil’s doorstep, it hadn’t just been fortuitous, it had elevated crude to possible. Desperation to a soul-consuming need for oblivion.
But now Mika’el and Samael hovered around her, too? What purpose could either of them possibly have for a Naphil? Especially one so far removed from her bloodline as to have been rendered useless? A faint whisper touched the edge of his consciousness, and his fingers spasmed into fists. No. Not now. Not yet. He needed to think, to focus.
He gritted his teeth against the wound reopening in his soul. He would have to leave soon, before the whispers became wails. Before they turned to the mind-destroying screams of every soul lost to the Fallen, his to bear for eternity, underscored by the anguish of the One he had betrayed.
Grinding already lacerated knuckles into the brick, he slammed his head back against the wall, trying to mask mental agony with physical pain. Needing to think clearly for a few minutes more.
Mika’el and Samael didn’t matter. This was about the woman. He needed to catch her alone. Force her to call for Aramael the way Caim had done. If Aramael’s connection remained strong enough, he would be able to do for Mittron what he had done for his own brother and put him out of his misery, end the suffering inflicted by their Creator.
But he had to move soon. He didn’t know how much longer his mind would survive. So many of the human drugs had already lost their efficacy, and he was running out of new ones to try. If he couldn’t mask the voices anymore, his Judgment would become the torture the One had intended. An eternal, soul-shattering persecution he would never escape.