Sins of the Angels (11 page)

She stared again at Trent. He didn't look in her direction, but she felt his attention on her all the same. His awareness of her, echoing her own sensitivity to him. Her heart stuttered in her chest. Roberts had continued speaking, and now something he said snagged her attention.

“What did you just say?”

“I said, even with this rain, we got here soon enough that we might actually find some evidence.”

“Before that.”

“What? The part about Trent having such good hearing?”

“Is that what he told you? That he heard something?”

Her staff inspector's forehead creased. “Is there a problem with that?”

Alex hesitated. Was Trent's claimed sixth sense something she wanted to share? She glanced at her partner again and noted the tension that had crept into his posture, as if he knew what they discussed and didn't want her to continue. Which gave her ample reason to do so. She straightened her shoulders.

“We were sitting in a coffee shop two blocks away,” she told Roberts. Trent turned his head and Alex recoiled under his fury. Then she lifted her chin, met his anger glare for glare, swallowed hard, and made herself continue. “He said he could feel the killer. Physically hauled me out and brought me here. Told me to wait while he went into the alley alone.”

Silence met her words. She saw a muscle flex in Trent's jaw and she deliberately hardened her own expression and turned her back on him and looked up at her staff inspector.

“It was raining,” she said harshly. “And thundering. There was traffic and we were
two blocks away
,
inside
a building. Trent didn't
hear
anything.”

Doubt mingled with outright skepticism on her supervisor's face, and he looked in Trent's direction. “You're telling me you think the guy's psychic?”

“I'm telling you what happened. What he told me. He said he could feel the killer. Feel him stalk the victim, feel him kill . . .” Alex trailed off and shivered. “You had to be there, Staff, it was downright weird.”

“You're sure that's what he meant.”

“We're here, aren't we?”

Roberts said nothing for a moment, then muttered, “Shit.”

Oh, she'd second that, all right.

“Now can we ditch him?” she asked, her tone light but not entirely kidding.

“You know I don't hold much stock in the whole woowoo thing,” Roberts said.

She counted on it.

“But nothing about this case remotely resembles normal, and right now, I don't care if the guy's a card-carrying member of the fucking Magic Wand Society,” her staff inspector continued. “He came within a hair of nabbing our killer, and if there's any chance he can get that close again—”

Alex swallowed bitter disappointment. “You're serious.”

“With six bodies? You bet your ass I'm serious.”

“Well, then, can we at least put him with someone else?”

“I'm not going to start screwing around with partnerships in the middle of this, Alex. You're a big girl. I'm sure you can figure out a way to work with the guy.”

“That's it? That's all you have to say?”

“Unless you need another direct order, yes. That's all I have to say.”

ARAMAELWATCHED THE
dozen or so people swarming over the scene, collecting every particle that hadn't been swept away in the storm of Caim's strike. Behind him, he felt the tug of Alex's presence, sensed her every move as though a cord ran between them.

Between a Power and a Naphil.

With an effort, he restrained himself from putting a fist through the brick wall at his side. The very idea he could feel any connection to a descendant of the Grigori—worse, let that connection interfere in a hunt—was insupportable. Unforgivable.

It flew in the face of Heaven itself.

Aramael felt Alex's approach and knew he'd become the subject of her attention again. The thought sent a tingle along his limbs. His breath locked in his lungs, denied exit by the heart lodged at the base of his throat. Bloody hell, he couldn't let this continue. Not if he wanted to catch Caim.

He heard her stop behind him and clear her throat. Hated himself for the sudden damp of his palms. He drew the shreds of defeat about himself, using them to rekindle the anger he needed to stand against her.

He turned on her. “I told you not to follow me. I told you to stay on the sidewalk.”

Aramael watched her flare of surprise give way to annoyance. Good. Anger was good. Familiar. Better by far than the vulnerability he had glimpsed following his survival of the shooting. A vulnerability that had, in turn, stirred in him a feeling that had taken several long minutes to identify.

Because Powers didn't feel compassion any more than they felt connections. Not for any mortal, but especially not for a Naphil.

Alex crossed her arms, responding to his challenge. “Are you telling me you actually expected me to let you go it alone? You've been watching too much television, Detective Trent. Real cops don't work like that. You and I are
partners
. We work together. As a team.”

Aramael scowled at her. “You don't understand.”

“Then enlighten me. You can start by explaining why the hell you told Roberts you didn't see the suspect.”

Too late, Aramael tried to hide his surprise. She'd seen Caim? He'd been so caught up in the frustration of losing his brother, he hadn't considered the possibility.

She nodded, as if she'd read his thoughts.

“I only caught a glimpse before you shoved me back, but yes, I saw him. Because you told Roberts you didn't see anyone, however, he now thinks stress is interfering with my judgment. So I repeat: why did you lie to him?”

“It's complicated.”

“Then fucking uncomplicate it.”

Aramael hesitated. Damn it to hell and back, it would be so much easier if she knew at least some of it. But what? The fact she was in danger and he'd been sent to protect her? He'd known her only a few hours and was already certain she would never let him stop there. She would demand more, much more than he could reveal under the cardinal rule against interfering with a mortal.

“I can't.”

Alex's face went dark with anger. In spite of himself, a small admiration glimmered in Aramael. He'd never dealt this closely with a mortal before, never come to know one this intimately. He couldn't help but wonder if they all had Alex's courage, her capacity to stand up to something she so obviously didn't understand. To challenge it despite the underlying fear he sensed in her. Perhaps the One's faith in her mortal children wasn't entirely misguided after all.

He watched her hands clench at her sides.

“Detective Jarvis?”

Aramael went still at the interruption. He knew that voice; it was as unmistakable as it was out of context. Impatience sparked from Alex as she turned to the woman in uniform who had joined them.

“What?”

“Staff Inspector Roberts wants to see you again.”

“Now? Can't it wait?”

The uniform shrugged. “I'm just the messenger, Detective. Sorry.”

Alex closed her eyes for a second. “Fine,” she snarled. She leveled a ferocious look at Aramael. “I'll be back in a minute,” she said. “And just so we're clear, you and I are nowhere
near
done.”

Aramael watched Alex stalk away, waiting until he was certain she was out of earshot before he rounded on the uniformed cop who had remained at his side. Glared into familiar, pale blue eyes.

“It's about bloody time I got some help on this.”

Verchiel sighed. “I know it's difficult, Aramael—”

“You know nothing, Dominion.”

The other angel's expression clouded with what looked like guilt, but Aramael was unmoved. He spread his hands wide. His empty hands, because he had not captured Caim.

“Did either of you stop to consider how impossible this would be?” he demanded. “In your great wisdom, did you or Mittron give a single thought to how I might hunt without leaving Alex's side? How I could stay with her and not explain what the hell I'm doing? I had him, Verchiel. I had him, and I had to let him go.”

Verchiel quirked an eyebrow at that. “Had to?”

“You're the one who sent me to protect her,” he pointed out, hearing his own evasiveness and hating it.

“That's what you were doing? Protecting her?”

“What I'm doing,” Aramael enunciated between clenched teeth, “is the best I can. I told you I am not a Guardian, and shackled as I am by your lack of foresight, I'm not much of a bloody hunter, either.”

Verchiel glowered back at him, her own frustration evident in the crease between her brows. “What would you have us do, leave the woman to Caim?”

The idea hit Aramael like a fist to the center of his chest. He struggled for air, and to keep his reaction from the Dominion. He had seen what his brother was capable of, and the thought of Caim wreaking that kind of damage on Alex—

“Wait,” his handler said, her frown deepening. “You called her Alex just now. When did you begin thinking of her by name?”

The sharp question delivered a second blow. Wrung a reply from him he'd rather have kept to himself. “I didn't realize I had.”

But he knew, immediately and instinctively. It had been when Alex had answered her cell phone that afternoon, when she had reached out to him, irrevocably altering his entire universe. He met Verchiel's too-perceptive gaze. Felt it reach into his very soul.

“Aramael, why didn't you finish the hunt when you had the chance just now?”

“I told you.”

“I know what you told me. Now I want the truth.”

The truth? The truth was that the moment Caim's attention rested on Alex, the hunt had ceased to matter. Everything had ceased to matter except protecting Alex. Shielding her from Caim's very sight.

Verchiel almost certainly did not want that truth. Hell,
he
didn't want that truth.

The Dominion seemed to reach the same decision. She cleared her throat. “Well. Never mind. The important thing is, what can we do to make this easier?”

It was the obvious solution, but try as he might, Aramael could not speak the words. No Guardian could stand up to Caim, and even if another Power consented to protect Alex, Aramael could not give over that protection to someone else. Neither could he examine his reasons.

“I don't know.”

His handler sighed. “Think about it. I'll see if Mittron has any ideas. And, Aramael—”

Down the alley, Alex had turned and was heading back in their direction again, her stride determined, her head held high. Aramael looked at the Dominion wearily.

“For what it's worth, you're right,” Verchiel said. “We didn't think this through. I'm sorry.”

“What is it?” Alex peered at the thing resting in the stainless steel tray, seven to eight centimeters long, curved, black, and indisputably lethal. The light glinted from it as Jason Bartlett, the coroner, shifted his grip on the tray. Alex felt her skin crawl.

“It's a claw.”

“A what?”

“A claw. At least, that's what we think.” Bartlett dropped the tray onto the steel countertop with a loud clatter. “My best guess at this point is that it's from some kind of big cat, or maybe a bear, but I haven't been able to match it to any of the pictures I found. We're still waiting for results on the DNA, but I figured this was a rush, so I have someone coming in from the Toronto Zoo tomorrow to give us an expert opinion. You never know—we might get lucky.”

“A claw,” Alex echoed, staring down at the object. From the corner of her eye, she saw that Trent had remained by the door, showing no interest in their reason for coming to the coroner's office. That figured. “In one of the victims.”

“Victim number four.” Bartlett peered at a chart beside the tray. “Still a Jane Doe.”

The door beside Trent opened to admit an assistant medical examiner along with Raymond Joly and his partner. Alex flashed them a tight smile of acknowledgment and plucked two latex gloves from a box. She looked askance at Bartlett. “May I?”

“Be my guest. Careful, though. The thing is razor sharp.”

She lifted the claw gingerly from the tray and grunted in surprise. “It's cold,” she said. She held it up for Joly, who had come across the room to join her.

“I know. Like ice. It doesn't warm up no matter how long you hold it, except—” Bartlett paused.