Another moan, this one his own. He clamped his teeth down on his tongue. The metallic, salty tang of blood filled his mouth. Through a haze of tears, he focused on the building into which the Naphil woman had disappeared. Screw Mika’el and Samael and Aramael. If she returned, if she came outside again now, before the pain took over and immobilized him completely, he’d take the chance.
A shriek broke through the incessant buzz of voices. He slammed his head against the brick again but felt nothing. No impact, no pain, no distraction. He’d run out of time. He had to find relief while he still could. Winding fingers into his hair, he pressed bloody, scarred knuckles against his skull. Forced air into his lungs. Stay focused. It helps. Think about the woman . . . about Aramael . . . Mika—
Anguish shredded his already tattered core.
Sometimes focus helped.
Sometimes it didn’t.
Sobbing, he staggered down the street.
Chapter 13
The outrage that had powered Alex’s exit from the café deserted her by the time she stepped out of the elevator on the fourth floor, leaving her deflated, shaking, and wanting nothing more than to go home to Seth.
Or to puke her guts out.
Leaning against the corridor wall, she rested hands on knees and stared at the thinly carpeted floor.
And if I do go home? What do I tell him? That the Heaven that turned its back on him—tried to kill him—needs his help? That they want him to take back what nearly destroyed him in the first place?
Her head sagged. Hell, she couldn’t even tell him why. She hadn’t stuck around long enough to find out what lay behind the Archangel’s announcement, because whether or not Michael had been willing to tell her more had been a moot point. She hadn’t been in any shape to hear it.
She shuddered. She couldn’t get involved again. Not in the battle between Heaven and Hell. She’d nearly died the last two times—had died, for all intents and purposes. She didn’t think she could survive a third time, even if Seth could bring her back again.
Which he couldn’t.
Unless he took back those damned powers.
The cell phone at her waist vibrated. Taking it from its holster, she stared at the caller ID. Home. Seth. Hell. Her thumb lingered on the answer button, moved sideways, pushed ignore. She replaced the phone, then, inhaling deeply, stepped into the chaos that was Homicide.
“That’s it?” Lucifer asked. He didn’t look up from his desk.
Samael risked a scowl at the top of the Light-bearer’s head. “I’m not sure I understand.”
Lucifer continued scrawling in yet another of the damnable journals in which he recorded his every move, his every thought. “That’s all the news you have. Speculation about the Appointed, garnered from a human, no less. Nothing about the Naphil’s sister or niece.” His tone remained conversational. Even. Too much so.
Samael shifted, assuring himself that he did so for comfort and not as a way to move closer to the door. “No, but—”
“Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear enough with regard to my expectations.”
“I understand the woman and her sister are a priority, Lucifer”—bloody Heaven, how he hated that placating tone in his voice—“but this is important, too. If Mika’el is right and Seth is able to take back his powers—”
“What my son does or doesn’t do has no bearing on me.”
“I disagree. Any battle with Heaven is already weighted against us—heavily. If they convince him to take back his powers and align himself with them, it could very well have great bearing.”
At last Lucifer laid aside his pen and the journal in which he’d been writing. He sat back, eyes closed, resting one elbow on the chair’s arm. He pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Exactly how many times must we go over this, Archangel?” he asked wearily. “I don’t care about Heaven. I have what I want—or I will, if you can focus long enough. Once the Nephilim army is in place and my child born to lead it, the One will be able to do nothing to stop humanity’s annihilation. With or without Seth on her side.”
“Maybe not, but she’d have an excellent chance of destroying Hell.”
“That could be a problem,” Lucifer conceded. “If I cared any more about Hell than I do Heaven.”
Samael’s breath left him in a hiss. So. They were back to that, were they? He scowled. “Damn it, Lucifer, if we’re to survive, this has to be about more than just the mortals.”
“Again you assume I care.”
Samael stared at the One’s former helpmeet, at his slumped shoulders and closed eyes. He thought he had seen the Light-bearer’s every mood, every frame of mind, but this—this was new. And it bore far too great a resemblance to defeat for his liking.
“With all due respect,” he said, “those of us concerned about our continued existence do care. Wiping out the mortals is one thing, but what about the ones who followed you, who remain loyal to you? We deserve—”
Lucifer’s eyes snapped open, purple fire burning in their depths. “You deserve what? My undying gratitude? My return loyalty? For fuck’s sake, Archangel, when will you get it through your head that I don’t care? I can’t care. Not about you, not about the others, not about myself. My entire existence is about her. For her. Because of her. Heaven and Hell and the whole damned universe could implode, and it wouldn’t matter to me because I just. Don’t. Care.”
Thick, bitter betrayal rose in Samael’s chest and sat heavy on his tongue. “So that’s it? We’re just supposed to admit defeat? Throw away our lives for you without trying? That’s what you want from us?”
Across the room, Hell’s ruler held up one hand, rubbed thumb across fingertips and formed a fist. His gaze locking with Samael’s, he tightened his fingers until the knuckles stood white against his already pale skin, then spread his fingers wide. Agony shocked through Samael, driving him back against the door, holding him there.
Through streaming eyes, he watched Lucifer rise and stroll across the room. The Light-bearer stopped before him, placing a hand on the shoulder he had once ruined.
“No, Samael, I do not want an admission of defeat. Do you know why? Because my definition of defeat differs from yours. You do know what I would consider that to be, don’t you?” His fingers squeezed, and the pain of a thousand knives sliced down Samael’s arm and across his chest. Lucifer leaned in, close enough for the warmth of his breath to stir against Samael’s ear. “Well?”
“Mortals,” Samael ground out from between clenched teeth. “Allowing mortals to live would be defeat.”
“Exactly. And your deaths, Sam? The deaths of each and every Fallen One who chose to follow me? How do you think I would define those?”
“I don’t—”
Another tightening of Lucifer’s grip.
Samael’s knees gave way, but he couldn’t fall. Couldn’t escape the hold on his shoulder pinning him upright. His sweat-slicked hands scrabbled at the doorknob.
“Think hard,” the Light-bearer encouraged.
“Sacrifice!” he choked. “Death is sacrifice!”
“Necessary sacrifice,” his tormentor clarified. “Excellent. You do understand.”
With a final, vicious squeeze, Lucifer released him. Samael slid to the floor, fighting back the black that threatened, the nausea that would surely bring further punishment. He listened to Lucifer’s retreating footsteps. The creak of leather told him the Light-bearer had settled into the chair behind the desk; the scratch of quill tip against paper said he continued writing.