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.”
A tear spilled over onto Verchiel’s cheek. With a rueful sigh, the One reached out her free hand to wipe it away.
“Close your eyes,” she commanded.
Verchiel did.
“Now breathe.”
She inhaled.
“Do you smell the roses? The grass and trees and a thousand other scents that mingle with them?”
A nod.
“Those are my scents, Verchiel. The scents of my skin, my breath, my very essence. Every breath you take, every inhale, every exhale—that is me. The sun warming your skin and the breeze playing with your hair—those are me, too. Holding you, loving you, cradling you close. And the beat of your heart inside your chest? My very life force, made manifest in you.”
The One lifted her hand, pressing it against a soft, lined cheek. “This, the physical part of me to which you cling, this is but a tiny fraction of what I am, my angel. I am so, so much more than what you can touch or see or feel. I am everything. All you have to do is want to understand that.”
Verchiel sat. Listened. Strained to feel what the One described to her. She shook her head.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, “for not being strong enough.”
“Hush, child. After all you have been, all you have done, you have nothing for which to apologize. You are as strong as you need to be. The rest will come in time.”
Verchiel pressed a hand against the ache in her chest. This struggle was her own. The One did not need the extra burden of her doubt; she needed her help. Even if helping meant losing her.
“Tell me what you need me to do.”
“Watch over the Archangel Mika’el for me. He takes on too much—more than he needs to—and he’s terrible at asking for help.”
“He doubts Seth.”
The Creator of All looked out over the garden. Her gaze became distant again, her face shadowed with a sorrow that made Verchiel’s own pale in comparison.
“As do I, Verchiel,” she murmured. “As do I.”
Chapter 11
Alex steered down the ramps and around the pillars of the underground parking complex. Fatigue sat heavy behind her eyes, the result of another mostly sleepless night spent staring at the ceiling. Returning to work had seemed like a good idea, but now she wondered how long she could keep it up. Playing at being a cop, pretending everything was normal and not teetering on the edge of total destruction.
Just another day at the office.
Yawning, she rounded the final corner to her parking level. The sedan straightened out again . . .
And bore down on a man directly in its path.
Adrenaline shot through her and she jammed her foot onto the brake, but it was too late. She had no room to get around him, nowhere to go, no time. She braced for the impact. The car jerked to a halt, and she stared in horror out the windshield at—
Nothing.
No one slumped across the hood. No one hurled to the pavement by the collision of steel against flesh. No one at—
A tap sounded at the window beside her.
“Christ!” She whipped around in her seat, then froze. An emerald gaze met hers, holding it with a familiar, shoulder-knotting intensity. She stared at the arrogant features, the watchful stance, the broad expanse of black wings.
Michael.
A hundred possible reasons for his presence flitted through her mind, none of them good. For a second, she considered putting the vehicle back into gear and driving away. She might have done so if she thought she could get away with it.
But she didn’t think one ignored an Archangel.
Reaching for the electric window button, she saw that the glass between them had already dissolved. The desire to run away grew exponentially. She clamped her teeth together.
“Naphil.” Michael’s tone was reserved. Guarded.
Irritation sparked. They were back to that, were they?
“Archangel,” she responded.
Annoyance flared in the green depths. Good. Maybe he’d get the message . . . eventually.
“We need to speak.”
“About what?” Glancing in the rearview mirror, she saw another vehicle pull up behind her. “Wait. I need to move. There’s a café across the street from the main door. I’ll park and meet you there.”
Michael hesitated, most likely weighing the chance she might not show up. The car behind Alex tooted its horn. His gaze flicking toward the sound, Michael nodded, withdrew behind a concrete pillar, and vanished. Alex stared at the emptiness left behind, convinced she would never, ever get used to the disappearing act.
A second impatient toot jolted her back to the present. She waved a hand out the windowless opening—hell, she’d forgotten to ask Michael to undo that particular trick—and took her foot off the brake.
She found Michael seated by the window in the back of the crowded café. Sliding into the chair opposite, she shook her head at the waitress’s offer of a menu and asked for a coffee. Michael declined to order anything. With a huff of displeasure, the harried-looking woman stomped off to serve other, presumably higher-paying clients. Michael cleared his throat.
“You look well.”
Alex raised a brow. Small talk? From an angel? She reached past him for the sugar dispenser, taking in the stiff lines of his shoulders, his fists resting on the chipped tabletop.
“And you’re not here to exchange pleasantries,” she replied. “So you might as well get to the point.”
“I need your help.”
“I thought you said my part in your affairs was done.”
“It was supposed to be. Something has changed.”
She frowned. “This morning’s murder?”
It was Michael’s turn to raise an eyebrow.
She cast a look at the crush of breakfast patrons crammed into the restaurant. At the table nearest them, a lone man turned the page in his newspaper, giving it a snap to straighten it out. She lowered her voice.
“One of the pregnant women turned up dead. The baby was ripped out of her. Detective Henderson says there have been others. Five altogether that we know of. If I had to guess, I’d say the Fallen Ones are to blame.”
Beyond a brief flash of annoyance, however, the Archangel looked unperturbed. “I told you, the Nephilim are your concern, not ours. That’s not why I’m—”
She slammed down the sugar dispenser. “Maybe you didn’t hear me right. We’re already dealing with the Nephilim problem, Michael. Women across the globe are terrified of becoming pregnant, demand for DNA testing has soared beyond all capacity to provide it, and religious fringe groups are all over the Internet spouting off about the end of the world being nigh. But this? This is the Fallen Ones killing human women. That sounds like direct interference to me. The kind of interference you’re supposed to have rules about.”
Michael regarded her., She scowled back, silently daring him to say what they were both thinking: that the women would die anyway. He sighed.