Sins of the Angels

by Linda Poitevin

  “You mean you don’t know? How could you not know? What does his file say?”

  “I haven’t seen it yet. It’s being transferred over from staffing.”

  Alex almost shook her head to clear it. This made no sense. They wouldn’t have transferred someone onto the squad without advising the staff inspector in charge … would they?

  “You really didn’t know? And you’re okay with that?”

  Roberts glared. “In case you haven’t noticed, it’s been a little busy around here lately. I’m sorry you’re not happy with Trent, but you can’t keep running around the city on your own, especially with this asshole on the loose. You need a partner.”

  “A desk jockey isn’t a partner, he’s a liability.”

  “He’s another body on the street when we need all the bodies we can get.”

  “He thinks reading files is a waste of time,” she growled.

  “Deal with it, Detective.”

  “Damn it, Staff—”

  The phone on Roberts’s desk rang, stopping Alex midobjection. And possibly pre-official-reprimand, she thought, watching her supervisor’s frown turn to a glower. She clamped her mouth shut and waited for him to answer his call.

  “Roberts.” He listened for moment, then said, “Hold on, would you?”

  He put a hand over the receiver, lowered it from his ear and grimaced. “Look, I know it’s not ideal, but we’re all struggling right now. Just do what you can with Trent. Keep him close and don’t take chances, and forget the files for now. Take him over the scenes with you—a fresh perspective can’t hurt, and maybe he’ll surprise you.”

  Alex crossed her arms. “Is that an order, sir?”

  Roberts sighed. “Yes, Detective. That’s an order.”

  ARAMAELWATCHED THE woman leave the police supervisor’s office, her face reflecting the same unhappiness he felt. Whatever she’d discussed with her superior had not gone well. She started across the office toward him, determination palpable, and Aramael tensed with the certainty that Verchiel’s mess was about to descend from unacceptable to intolerable.

  Damn it to Hell and back, protecting this woman was wrong on more levels than he could count. He was a Power, not a bloody Guardian. And for any angel to remain near a Naphil like this, conversing, interacting—the very idea galled him.

  Aramael met the woman’s gaze and saw the deep flare of recognition in her eyes once again. Felt the same flare within himself. The woman’s steps faltered and he bit back a curse. The hunt, he reminded himself. Think about the hunt. With an effort, he forced his focus away from the approaching woman.

  Speed would be his greatest obstacle. Caim’s decline from Fallen Angel to monster had stripped him of the ability to escape the mortal realm, but he could still accelerate his energy vibration enough to move at phenomenal velocities within its boundaries. To track him, Aramael needed to be able to move with at least the same speed, if not faster. The simplest of feats, rendered impossible if he had to remain at the woman’s side, exist at her vibration level. He’d never even make it to the scene of an attack before Caim’s energy trail went cold, and if Caim decided to take his search global—

  The woman stopped in front of him. She crossed her arms and jutted out her chin.

  “You get your wish,” she said. “I’m supposed to take you with me and go over the scenes again. But first we need to get a few things straight.”

  Aramael raised an eyebrow. Was she scowling at him?

  “I don’t know what section you’re from,” she continued,

  “but it is glaringly obvious you don’t know the first thing about running an investigation. So here’s how it’s going to be. I call the shots. You watch, you listen, and you keep your mouth shut. You do what I say, when I say it, or your ass is in the car. Are we clear?”

  Shock rendered him speechless for several seconds. Wrestling with a foreign pride took several more. No one less than an Archangel—not even the Highest Seraph himself—spoke to a Power like that. Ever. While one of the Sixth Choir might never use their powers against any other than a Fallen Angel, the potential to do so was there. The ability obvious. Palpable enough to command a certain level of respect that Aramael hadn’t even known he expected until now.

  Until this woman dared to defy him.

  “You presume a great deal, Detective Jarvis,” he said through clenched teeth, only just refraining from calling her Naphil.

  She slid into her jacket, checked her sidearm, and gave him a stony look. “As do you, Detective Trent. Now, are you coming or not?”

  SIX

  Alex shot her passenger a filthy look as she jabbed the key into the ignition and twisted it. She presumed? That was rich, coming from a pencil pusher who thought he could play at being a detective in the middle of a serial-killer case. Who was he trying to kid? Better yet, who did he know to make this whole situation even possible? Whoever it was had to be high up on the ladder. Talk about connections.

  She made a mental note to go after staffing for his file when they got back to the office, then jerked the gearshift into drive, jammed her foot onto the gas pedal, and pulled out of the parking space with a squeal of tires.

  She’d meant it when she told Roberts that Trent was a liability. Apart from the time and effort it would take to train him, she also had to worry about keeping him in one piece if anything went down. And make sure he didn’t endanger anyone else. And put up with that goddamn superior attitude he had going on.

  If Trent was aware of her simmering displeasure, however, he gave no sign, and fifteen minutes later, Alex wheeled the car into the mouth of the alley where the previous night’s body had been found. While the wooden barriers were gone, yellow tape still fluttered in the faint breeze, waiting for the city workers to clean up the residual gore. Alex shuddered. For all the grimness of her own job, she didn’t envy them theirs.

  She shoved the gearshift into park and switched off the ignition, then opened her door and climbed out into the humidity that lay like a damp, woolen blanket over the city. Leaning down, she peered in at Trent. “Are you coming?”

  He didn’t move and, for a second, hope flared. Maybe he’d refuse to follow directions and Roberts would have no choice but to—

  Trent pushed open his door and slid out. In silence, Alex locked the doors, pocketed her keys, and joined him at the front of the car. Together they ducked under the drooping crime-scene tape and, separated by about as much distance as the alley’s parameters would allow, walked into the gloomy depths. The pungent aroma of rotting garbage, overflowing from two Dumpsters, assailed her.

  She kicked a plastic water bottle out of her way. “So, how familiar are you with the case?”

  “Familiar enough.”

  “Have you looked at any of the files?”

  “No.”

  Accounting, she decided. If he didn’t have any street smarts and he didn’t believe in reading files, he’d most likely been a number cruncher in his prior post. Great. Now she had to train him in the field and in the office.

  “All right, just tell me what you know about the case so far. Start with the victims.”

  Trent frowned. “What do they have to do with anything?”

  Alex closed her eyes and promptly stumbled into a pothole. She staggered, regained her balance, and flashed Trent a look of dislike. This was shaping up to be a very long afternoon.

  “A lot,” she said through her teeth. “Trust me. Why don’t I just summarize for you?”

  “If you want.”

  She felt certain he meant if you must, but she crammed her hands into her front pockets, hunched her shoulders, and forged ahead. If nothing else, she consoled herself, reciting the facts would further solidify them in her own mind.

  “Martine Leclaire was the first,” she said. “Seventeen years old, street kid, no fixed address. No job, no friends, no record. She’d been in town for about three weeks, as far as we can figure. We’re still trying to track down her next of kin.”

&nb
sp; Alex studied the brick walls hemming in both sides of the alley. “Walter Simms was two days later. Fifty-three, widower, lived alone. Semiretired, a few close friends, quiet social life. We found no connection to the first victim.”

  A tremor started in her center. Despite her careful recitation of just the facts, images from the crime scenes of the last two weeks crept back, scarlet gashes as vivid in recall as in real life.

  “Detective?” Trent asked.

  Alex’s chest tightened. The scent of garbage mingled with the remembered one of death, clawing at the back of her throat. Annoyance sparked in her. Slashing or no slashing, it wasn’t like her to be this on edge. She forced herself to continue.

  “The third victim was a day after Simms. Connor Sullivan, twenty-two, university student. Active social life, lived at home with his parents. Again, no connection to the others. We found our fourth”—she waved vaguely at the alley in which they stood, then tucked her hand back into her pocket—“last night, less than twelve hours after Sullivan. Another female, approximate age twenty to twenty-five. We haven’t identified her yet, but it doesn’t look like she was from the street. So far there’s been no pattern with regard to time of day or location, but all the vics died the same way, and they were all posed to look like they’d been hung from a crucifix. That’s why the psych profiler suggested a religious connection in the meeting today. Not that it helps much if we never get any bloody evidence.”

  Alex shrugged her shoulders with the impatience they all felt at the complete absence of leads. “Anyway, right now we’re looking for anything that might tie the victims together, no matter how obscure it seems. Staff Inspector Roberts thinks you may offer a fresh perspective.” Unable to resist the challenge, she added, “So? Any insight?”

  Trent’s expression turned flat. “They were all human.”

  Alex watched him stroll to the center of the alley, uncertain how she should take the bald statement. A poor attempt at cop humor? Trent turned in place, his gaze moving over the graffitied walls and littered roadway and then settling on the massive bloodstain near his feet. She considered joining him, but the memory of the tarp-covered victim held her back. She pulled her hands from her pockets and crossed her arms. Staying professional and focused was one thing, subjecting herself to unnecessary suffering quite another.

  Trent looked over at her. “You’re uncomfortable here.”

  “Murder scenes aren’t my favorite place to be.”

  “You’re a cop. You’re not used to this?”

  She recalled a similar conversation with Joly the night before. “Are you?”

  “You’d be surprised at what I’m used to, Detective.”

  He walked away, farther into the alley’s depths, moving with the grace of the very fit and giving Alex the sudden, unsettling impression of a predator. Desk jockey or not, the man kept himself in shape. She wouldn’t want to meet up with him in a dark alley. She shot a look at her surroundings and pulled a face. Wow. Talk about a bad choice of cliché.

  Trent paused beside a battered metal door several meters away and Alex watched him pivot, his sharp gaze probing the alley’s nooks and crannies. Pencil pusher or not, at least he looked like a cop examining a crime scene.

  She sighed. Maybe Roberts was right. Maybe she should give the guy a chance. Maybe, if he was willing to learn and could keep that attitude of his under control, he might be trainable.

  Maybe if she toned down her own attitude, his might follow.

  Damn, but she hated being professional sometimes.

  Clenching her teeth and pasting a tight smile to her lips, Alex stalked down the pavement toward Trent’s entirely too broad back. When she reached him, she stopped, shuffled her feet, and cleared her throat.

  Play nice, she reminded herself.

  ARAMAEL’S FOCUS SLIPPED as the woman halted behind him and he felt her impatience, her tightly leashed annoyance. Her heat.

  He shoved the latter thought away and considered ignoring her, but even if he did manage to reconnect with Caim’s fading energy, it would serve little purpose. A fresh trail was difficult to follow; a cold one nearly impossible.

  He wheeled to face the woman. “We’re done.”

  One of her eyebrows shot up. “We are?”

  “There’s nothing here.”

  Her eyebrow descended again, met its companion above her nose. “I see. Apart from the fact that Forensics has already been over the scene, you would know this because … ?”

  “I just know.” Aramael waved an impatient hand. Even if he could have explained himself to this Naphil, he had no desire to do so.

  “Right. Because of your extensive investigative experience, I suppose.”

  He glared at her. First she challenged him and now she mocked him? The pride he hadn’t known he possessed flared anew. Damn it to hell, he’d never had to engage in actual discussion with a mortal—everything he had ever said to one of them had been accepted without question, without effort, helped along by a Guardian’s influence.

  Apparently the Ninth Choir had a use after all.

  The woman’s lips thinned. “Look, Trent, when I said I call the shots, I meant it. I’m not happy about having to train you in the middle of a serial case, but I’m willing to do so. If you cut the crap.” She met his eyes squarely. “So. Truce?”

  Aramael stared at the hand she held out to him and, in the space of a single heartbeat, a single sharp inhale, felt reality shift beneath his feet. Shift, and then turn inside out as the Naphil he’d been sent to protect became the very center of his universe.

  He stepped back from the woman, struggling to regain his bearings. An ache began, low in his belly, spread outward to claim his entire being, became a desire to reach out to her and make himself complete. For an instant, he hovered on an unfamiliar, dangerous edge, and the universe itself seemed to hold its breath.

  Then an entirely new survival instinct surfaced, screaming at him to put space and time—however inadequate—between himself and Alex Jarvis. Space to buffer him from feelings he couldn’t have; time to recover from having those feelings in spite of their impossibility. He obeyed without question, turning on his heel and striding out of the alley’s confines, his jaw clenched and his fingers curled so tightly inside his pockets that his forearms went into spasms. He forced himself to focus on each measured step, trying to put his head together, to figure out what in all of creation had just happened.

  Because angels didn’t feel what he’d just felt.

  Not ever.

  And sure as hell not about a Naphil.

  Aramael arrived at the car and then tensed anew at the sound of firm footsteps behind him. The stitching around his pockets threatened to give way, and for the first time in his existence, he felt the damp of perspiration across his forehead. The footsteps halted. With no escape and no other choice, Aramael turned and met the woman’s seething glower. Several threads popped against his fists.

  “Right,” his charge greeted him tightly. “Obviously you have a problem. Care to share it?”

  He had no reply.

  “Damn it, Trent—” A trill interrupted the woman. She hesitated, seeming torn between answering the cell phone at her waist and finishing what Aramael was sure he didn’t want to hear. To his everlasting relief, she chose the phone. “Jarvis.”

  Distracted by the call, the woman crossed the few steps to join him beside the vehicle. She braced her elbows on the car roof and leaned her forehead into one hand, her sleeve whispering against Aramael’s arm.

  The ache exploded, scattering its searing fragments throughout his body, spreading until it claimed every corner of his being as its own. Then, before Aramael had recovered from the first blow, the woman flipped her phone closed and turned to him, and her lingering annoyance turned to alarm.

  “Trent? Are you all right?”

  He saw her reach for him. Knew he should pull away. Knew he couldn’t allow her to touch him. Too much happened inside him, too much that left him raw and
out of balance and entirely uncertain of his ability to control himself.

  But his new instinct for self-preservation seemed to have deserted him, and he could do nothing but watch in mixed fascination and dread as Alexandra Jarvis’s hand came to rest on his arm. Stand, frozen, as her eyes widened and the curtain of angelic illusion between them thinned once more.

  ALEX JERKED HER hand from Trent’s arm, but too late.

  Energy jangled through her, unstoppable, unfettered. Making her see again that which could not be. A man who looked as shell-shocked as she felt, and who was possessed of wings rising from his back.

  Magnificent, powerful, golden wings.

  Panic twisted in Alex’s gut. She stumbled backward, recoiling from Trent—and from her own reaction. Most of all her reaction. She did not see wings, and she sure as hell didn’t feel myriad emotions woven into the brief touch they had shared, either here or in the office. Didn’t feel those emotions vying for her attention, each as improbable as the one before it, all underlined by utter confusion.

  “Detective Jarvis—”

  At the sound of Trent’s voice, the wings rising beyond his shoulders disappeared. Alex blinked, swallowed, and felt cold fingers of dread brush against a mind that terrified her with its sudden fragility.

  No. Not that.

  Never that.

  With careful movements defined by their very deliberateness, she took the keys from her pocket and replaced the cell phone in its case at her waist. Then, with equal precision, she locked away the image of a winged Trent with the memories and the gut-congealing fear with which she’d lived a lifetime.

  “We have another body,” she said. “Staff Roberts wants us at the scene.”

  SEVEN

  Christine Delaney pushed the buzzer for a third time and stood back to peer up at the windows of the stately home. Not so much as the twitch of a drape. She checked her watch again. Three o’clock. Exactly on time. So where the bloody hell was Arthur Stevens, overbearing parent extraordinaire? Christ, she detested the way the wealthy set figured the world would fall in with their own personal schedules.