Hot.

"Alex?"

No. Not hot. Cold.

"Alex."

Cold inside. Hot out. Odd.

"Open your eyes, Alex. Give me some indication you're still alive, because I'm not permitted to bring you all the way back and I sure as hell can't face telling Aramael you're dead."

And tired. So tired.

And smoke? Not good. Should move. Get out.

But so tired...and heavy. The sensation of heat contrasting with cold grew stronger. She cracked open one eye and watched the flames licking at her blackened extremities. She frowned. That didn't look good. She needed to move. But how? Maybe if she rested for a bit—

"Damn it, Alex—"

Wait...that voice. She knew that voice.

She forced her eyes a fraction wider. Saw more flames. The beginnings of fear twisted through her. Out, Alex. Get out. She tried to force her limbs into action, but no part of her responded with so much as a twitch. Inside, she grew colder.

She felt a gentle touch on her cheek.

"Oh, Alex," the voice said sadly.

Seth. It was Seth. Talk, Alex. Say something to him.

She tried to swallow. Agony screamed through her, her throat its epicenter. She waited until the world righted itself and the dark faded. That hurt. She released the breath she'd held in a long, low groan, barely audible to her own ears. The hand on her cheek went still, then cupped her jaw with utmost care.

"I heard that," Seth said, "and it's good enough for me. Hold on, I'm going to make some of this better."

Alex felt a hand at her throat. Fragments of memories crowded in on her, black with terror, but her attempt to struggle resulted only in the barest lift of her chin and another jolt of pain. The hand covered her throat, accompanied by an intense heat...and then a slow lessening of the pain there. A tear trickled from the corner of her eye and pooled in her ear.

The hand lifted away.

"Is that any better?"

She considered the question. Swallowed cautiously. Tried her voice. The odd sound that emerged was nowhere near the yes that she intended, but it made Seth chuckle.

"I'll take that as an affirmative."

The hand returned, spreading over her chest. More pain accompanied it, radiating outward, making her grunt. More heat. Another slow ease. A steadying of her heartbeat, whose threadiness she hadn't noticed until now, and a gradual sensation that her limbs once again belonged to her.

"I know I'm hurting you, but I don't dare move you until we look after at least the worst of it," Seth said. "I won't be able to do everything, though, or it will raise questions. Can you bear with me for a minute more?"

Alex shook her head. All the while Seth tended to her, she'd sensed her extremities growing hotter and hotter, and now they felt like they were in an incinerator. "Feet," she croaked. "Hands. Hot."

"What? Oh, hell—"

Instant relief. Alex looked past the figure crouched at her side and saw that the flames had retreated several feet and that her skin was no longer charred. The overall heat seemed to have decreased, too, as if a bubble had been created around her and her rescuer.

"Sorry about that. I think I need practice at this nursemaid stuff." Seth slid an arm under her shoulders and levered her into a sitting position. "Let me take care of your nose and your head, and then I'll get you out of here, all right?"

"Wait—Jen? Nina?"

"They're safe. Both of them."

He reached for her nose, but Alex put a scorched hand over his.

"Aramael?"

Seth went quiet for a moment, staring at their hands. Then he looked down at her. "I don't know."

A new wave of cold washed through Alex. In the distance, she heard the wail of sirens. "Caim didn't—he didn't—" She paused and made herself form the question she needed to ask. "Aramael is all right, isn't he?"

Seth's black eyes went soft. "I thought you saw."

"Saw what? Damn it, Seth—"

"Aramael killed Caim, Alex."

Relief, hot and heavy and sweet, would have made her collapse if she hadn't already been on the floor. Aramael was alive. And the monster was dead.

"Thank God."

Seth remained silent, his jaw flexing. The sirens grew nearer.

"Seth? What is it?" Alex realized that he hadn't actually said that Aramael had lived and her belly turned liquid. "He is alive, isn't he? Seth?"

Seth sighed. "It's not that simple."

She wondered if she had enough strength in her arms yet to smack him. She scowled. "Nothing is ever that simple with you people."

The sirens died into silence outside her house. Seth lifted his head to listen and took his hand out from under hers.

"They'll be coming in soon. I need to get you out of here."

Alex smacked at the hand heading for her nose. "Not until you tell me what the hell is going on with Aramael."

"I don't have time—"

"Make time."

He glared at her. "No wonder you've caused so much trouble. Fine. He's alive. Now let me get you out of here so we can take care of things before the place is overrun with firefighters."

Alex pushed away the distraction arising from the take care of things idea. "That doesn't tell me anything, and you know it. Where is he? Is he hurt?"

Quiet sympathy emanated from Seth.

"Aramael destroyed another being, Alex. He committed the unforgivable in the One's name. The repercussions—" Seth broke off and then finished, "The repercussions are immeasurable at this point."

She remembered then. Swallowed painfully. "The pact with Lucifer—he broke it."

"Let's just say he opened doors we would have preferred to keep closed."

She sat in silence, still cradled against him, listening to the sound of splintering wood downstairs, the muffled shouts from her lawn, the roar of flames that surrounded but did not touch her. Seth placed his hand over her nose and she winced at the crunch of cartilage moving back into place. A little more strength trickled back into her body. She thought about the repercussions Seth had mentioned.

More monsters at large in her world, undoubtedly. Monsters, and a war beyond mortal imagination. The Apocalypse. All because an angel and a human had dared to touch, dared to connect.

"Where is he?" she asked.

"Hold on."

Seth wrapped his other arm around her and a sudden explosion shook the house. The flames along the hall fell back for an instant and then flared anew, higher than before. Alex shrank back into the shelter of Seth's body. The shouts on the lawn receded.

Seth looked down at her reassuringly. "We need to keep the firefighters out," he explained. "It will look as if you were attacked by the killer"—he touched her throat—"and that he died in the fire. There will be questions, but when the killings end, the investigation will close."

"My house—" Alex stopped. A war between Heaven and Hell loomed and she worried about her house? "Never mind. Tell me where Aramael is."

"The Archangels have him."

She wouldn't know an Archangel from a Guardian, but something in Seth's tone made her heart go cold. "I take it that's not good."

"No."

"But you'll help him."

"I'm sorry, Alex—"

She pulled away and turned on him. "He killed Caim because of me."

Seth nodded.

"He told me that he and I—that we were a mistake."

"Yes, but—"

"So this is how Heaven handles its mistakes? By punishing the victim? How the hell is that ultimate good?" Alex threw her bloodstained arms wide. "What the fuck happened to justice?"

"I told you, it's not that—"

"If you say it's not that simple one more time, Seth Benjamin, I swear to God I will kick you in the balls—angel or no angel."

Seth raked his fingers through his hair, his forehead furrowing. "This is out of my hands, Alex. What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to help him."

He stared at her, frustration stamped between his brows. "Fine. I'll try."

"Not try. Help."

"Damn it, Alex—"

"He doesn't deserve this, Seth."

Seth's angry gaze held hers for another moment, and then he closed his eyes briefly before opening them to regard her in defeat. "You're right. He doesn't, and I will do everything in my power to help him."

Alex released a long, unsteady breath. "Thank you."

"Now can I please get you out of here?"

"I want to see him again."

"You're joking." Seth stared at her and then groaned. "You're not joking."

"I want to say good-bye. I should have that much."

Seth was silent for so long that she wondered if he'd heard her. Then a gentle hand stroked her head. "Yes," he said. "You should."

He carried her down the stairs, removing whatever protection he'd placed over her as he descended the last few steps, he explained, so that the heat would sear her skin and her lungs and the smoke would sting her eyes. So that she would emerge from the fire looking like she'd been caught in it and there wouldn't be questions about how she'd emerged unscathed. He set her down in the front hall, steadied her, sheltered her from the worst of the heat as she coughed and struggled for air. Wiped away the tears streaming down her cheeks.

"I'll try my best," he said. "For everything."

Then he stilled the flames between her and the door and pushed her through the smoke, and she stumbled across her porch and into the waiting arms of a firefighter.

Chapter Thirty-seven

They took him to Mittron's office, depositing him with a telling lack of care in the middle of the floor. Aramael staggered, righted himself, and threw himself at his winged captors.

"Damn you both to Hell!" he snarled. "She's still alive! I have to go back to her—"

The Archangels' black wings meshed together, forming an impenetrable wall. A barrier no one short of the One could breach. Where Aramael was strong, backed by Heaven's wrath, the One's enforcers were stronger—their power rooted in her Judgment. Cold, compassionless, absolute. The chill from their touch would linger on his soul for a long time—and he would beat himself bloody and senseless against their might before they moved a feather from his path.

With a roar of frustration, he gave up his assault and stood in the center of the room, hands fisted, chest heaving with exertion, heart shredding within him. "Bastards!" he spat.

One of the Archangels—Raphael, whose skin was nearly as dark as his wings—turned glittering eyes on him, then crossed his arms and stared into the distance. Aramael glared at him for a moment more and then spun to face the door as it opened to admit the Highest Seraph.

New fury, ugly and personal, rose in him. "You son of a bitch!"

He leaped for Mittron's throat. Heard the rustle of a wing that wasn't his own. Picked himself up from the opposite wall. Swiping the blood from his nose with the back of his hand, he glowered at Raphael, now standing between him and the Highest.

"You've no idea what he's done," he told the Archangel. "This—all of this—is because of him." He turned his glare on Mittron. "I'm just not sure if it was accidental or deliberate."

Mittron raised an eyebrow. "Serious accusations, Power. I assume you have evidence to back them?"

Aramael wiped another drip from his nose. He didn't know what, if anything, Seth had found, but the Highest's supreme confidence told him that a search for information had probably been wasted in the first place. He stayed silent.

"I didn't think so." Mittron looked to the Archangels and inclined his head. "Thank you for bringing him so quickly. If you wouldn't mind waiting outside—" He broke off and glanced at Aramael. "But bind him first."

Aramael fought, but the skirmish with the Archangels was brief and ineffective, ending with his wings held motionless and his hands bound before him with a length of soft but unbreakable rope. Panting, he sent Mittron a murderous look as the door closed behind the Archangels.

"So," Mittron said. "The business of your future."

"No," Aramael snarled. "Alex first."

"The woman is the least of your concerns, Aramael. But if it will allow us to move forward, she lives. Apparently the Appointed shares some of your regard for her."

The relief flooding through Aramael turned confused, complicated by a dozen other emotions: gratitude for Seth having saved her; jealousy at the idea she would wake in the Appointed's arms and not his own; wrenching loss at the knowledge he hadn't had the chance to hold her again. That he never would.

He forced his shoulders to relax. She lives, he told himself. For now, that has to be enough. He had more pressing matters to pursue. "Why?" he asked. "Why have you done this?"

He thought the Highest might keep up the denial, but without the Archangels present, Mittron seemed willing to relax his guard. Happy to share.

"Change, Aramael. You were a perfect, predictable catalyst for change. With the help of your brother and the Naphil, of course."

"Change? What change?"

Mittron's face turned reminiscent. Brooding. "He was never good enough to sit at her side," he murmured. "I tried to tell her that. To warn her he could not be trusted. She didn't listen to me, of course, and she was broken. Destroyed by his betrayal. I was the one who held her together through it. I advised her, guided her, watched over her. I did everything for her. Without me, the mortals would never have survived."

Aramael shook his head to counter his confusion. Mittron seemed to be speaking of Lucifer, but Aramael didn't remember the events the way the Highest described. The One had been devastated, yes, as had they all. She had even been compassionate to a fault, perhaps, but she had never been less than the One, the ultimate power in the universe. Had never been weak in the way Mittron described. Had she?

He thought of the One's marked and continued absence from her angels' lives; how more and more of her instructions and wishes had been filtered through Mittron over the millennia. His blood ran cold, chilled his heart. Had they really missed something as monumental as the One's slow breaking down?

"But it made no difference," Mittron continued. "She relied on me, yes, but never really saw me. Never saw that it should be me at her side, that it should have been me all along."

Aramael's wings gave an involuntary twitch against their bonds. He thought he might choke. "This was about ego?"

The Highest's brows became an angry slash. "Careful, Power. I haven't yet meted out your sentence, and it can still change."

"I don't give a damn about my sentence. The One's decision had nothing to do with you. She swore she would never place anyone that high again."

"She will have no choice once Lucifer declares war."

"He can't. Not with the pact—" Aramael stopped. He stared at Heaven's administrator, and in a single, awful instant of clarity, understood his part in Mittron's drama. Saw beyond the pain of losing Alex, the grief of denying his brother, and the anguish of betraying the One. Saw the impact of his actions on the universe. His voice went hoarse. "I broke the pact."

"With an act of war against your own brother," the Highest Seraph agreed. "Just as I knew you would when I conceived of this idea four and a half millennia ago, when Caim wanted to come back to the fold and your testimony swayed the One to deny him. You were both so angry with one another, so betrayed. You were on the verge of striking out at him even then. You only needed a little motivation. A little guidance."

"But how?"

"Your soulmate had not yet been given a vessel. It was an easy matter to arrange for that vessel to be Nephilim when the time was right. Easier still to tamper with your cleansing so you would recognize her when that time came. Easiest yet to convince Caim there might be an alternative route to his return." Mittron stood up from his chair and stretched, looking smug. "Once events were put in motion, it was simply a matter of patience. The mark, I might add, of a brilliant tactician."

He picked up a paper and came around to hand it to Aramael. "Not the kind of tactics I can reveal to the One, of course, but I will have ample opportunity to prove myself against Lucifer."

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

"The agreement?" Mittron waved a careless hand. "Covered. Remember, I've had several millennia to work out the details. I must admit to a qualm or two when the Appointed became involved in matters, but I've used the opportunity to ensure I've erased all my tracks now, and when the time comes, Seth will no longer pose a problem."

"No." Aramael shook his head, ignoring the paper in the Highest's outstretched hand. "This is insane. You're talking about the end of the mortal race and possibly our own."

"The mortals are expendable, and I am more than capable of looking after our own."

The Highest's sheer conceit defied description. Defied understanding. Aramael's wings strained to extend, to respond to his need for power, but the Archangels' bindings held fast. He could do nothing. He would be exiled to Limbo knowing what Mittron was, knowing what he planned, and he would be completely helpless to do anything about it.

"Someone will find out," he told the Highest. "Someone will stop you."

"No one dares move against the Highest Seraph, Aramael. Except you, perhaps, and you will be safely removed from any interference. And now"—he waved the paper he held under Aramael's nose—"it is time."

Aramael stared at the parchment. A decree. He saw the seal on it. "That's—"

"The One's mark. Yes. She took a special interest in your situation." Mittron's voice was casual, but a tenseness around his eyes told Aramael the Highest wasn't as relaxed about this as he wished to portray. He jiggled the paper again. "Take it."