Sins of the Angels

by Linda Poitevin

“Oh, please.” Seth rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “Don’t you start with that one-day-you’ll-fulfill-your-destiny crap. I’ve heard quite enough of it from Mittron, especially lately.”

  Verchiel flinched at the Highest’s name and interest flared in the Appointed’s gaze. He settled back into the chair, resting one ankle atop the opposite knee and waggling his eyebrows.

  “Having issues with His High and Mightiness, are we? How intriguing.” His gaze narrowed with sharp perception. “What exactly was it you wanted to see me about, anyway?”

  Verchiel hesitated, and then got up to close the door. She returned to the desk and took her seat. “A favor. A very quiet favor.”

  One dark brow ascended. “I see. Am I to take it you’d prefer a certain Seraph didn’t know about this favor?”

  She nodded.

  “Go on.”

  In a few brief words, Verchiel outlined Aramael’s dilemma and her solution. The Appointed remained silent for a long moment when she had finished, appearing to study the toe of his shoe with great interest. At last he looked up.

  “There’s no way you can keep this from Mittron. You could face exile.”

  She swallowed. “I know.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why do you care so much about Aramael? Why are you willing to risk your own existence on this?”

  Verchiel’s throat went tight. She wanted to look away from the dark intensity of Seth’s gaze, but wouldn’t let herself. “I was the one who sent Aramael after Caim the first time. I thought their closeness as brothers would give Aramael an advantage, an edge. Let him find Caim faster. I was right, but it was more difficult for him than I had anticipated. It did something to him and he has never been the same.”

  Black eyes watched her for another few seconds, weighing, considering, seeming to know she hadn’t told him the whole truth. That it had been Mittron’s idea, not hers, and she had allowed herself to be swayed by something that had no longer existed between them. Then Seth uncoiled from the chair and stood tall again.

  “I’ll do it on one condition. I take full responsibility.”

  “I can’t let you—”

  “Verchiel, he can exile you. But me?” Seth stuck his hands into his pockets and strolled toward the door, tossing a grin over his shoulder. “He has no choice but to put up with me. Let me know when the Guardians have been informed of my arrival.”

  Verchiel stared after the Appointed for a long moment, and then closed her eyes and massaged the now perpetual ache in her temple, hoping she hadn’t made yet another error.

  ROBERTS WAS ON the phone when Alex and Trent arrived in the office at the appointed midday hour, but when Alex would have passed by his office, he rapped on the window and motioned her in. She obeyed, only too glad to get away from her partner and drop into one of the chairs across from her staff inspector while he finished his call.

  She cradled her wounded arm across her chest, willing the throb to subside and cursing her lack of foresight in not bringing any painkillers. Even with Trent doing the driving, an ache had settled into the limb that put her teeth on edge. Now the headache had returned, too.

  Roberts covered the receiver’s mouthpiece. “Bad?” he asked.

  Alex produced a smile she hoped wasn’t as wan as she felt. “I’ll live,” she said.

  Roberts lifted his hand from the mouthpiece. “Yeah, I’m still here. Go on,” he said into the phone. He opened his top left hand drawer, rummaged in it, and extracted a plastic bottle. He leaned across and set it in front of Alex. “Keep them,” he murmured, then ended his conversation, “Okay, Dave. Thanks for getting back to us so fast on this one. We owe you one.” He reached over and dropped the receiver back onto its cradle.

  Alex picked up the bottle and opened it, shaking two caplets into her hand. Her trembling hand. She frowned at the appendage, willing it to be still. The tremor intensified. She slipped the pills into her mouth, forced herself to swallow, and tucked the offending hand into her lap, still clutching the bottle of painkillers. The caplets lodged at the base of her throat.

  Roberts regarded her balefully. “You should be at home.”

  “I’m fine.” Alex ignored his snort. “So? What do we have?”

  His sandy eyebrows ascended. “Other than what I sent you?”

  Sent her—? Ah, hell. The envelope. She envisioned it sitting on the table in her entry, still unopened, where she’d set it when she’d gone upstairs to escape the partner who wouldn’t go away. She rested her good elbow on the arm of the chair and cradled her cheek in her hand. “I forgot to look at it,” she admitted. “Sorry.”

  “Never mind, it was just the autopsy results. You can look them over later, but in a nutshell, yesterday’s body matches the others to a T. Pattern of cuts, weapon, everything. That was the lab on the phone just now.” Roberts inclined his head toward the instrument on his desk. “Some of the blood we found on your attacker last night matched the victim’s.”

  Alex felt herself blanch. She hadn’t wanted to think about the possibility last night that her attacker might be connected to the murders, and didn’t want to hear evidence now that supported the idea.

  “Of course,” Roberts continued, “that’s the good news.”

  “And the bad news?”

  “The knife used on you isn’t the murder weapon, and while your blood was in the expected spray pattern on the suspect’s shirt, the victim’s was smeared.”

  “So, what, unless our boy went home and changed his shirt halfway through the slicing, we’re looking for a second person?”

  “Are you surprised?”

  Professionally speaking? No. With the number of victims they’d found, more than one killer was entirely within the realm of possibility. If she listened to Trent’s certainty about the issue, on the other hand …

  She rested her good elbow on the arm of the chair and leaned her chin in her hand. “Did the suspect wake up yet? What did he say? And who is he, anyway?”

  “Martin James, age twenty-eight, unemployed. He’s done time for break and enter and narcotics possession, but nothing more.”

  Alex frowned. “He doesn’t sound much like he has the makings of a serial killer.”

  “Neither did Ted Bundy at first,” Roberts pointed out. “Anyway, he did wake up and Bastion and Timmins went by the hospital to talk to him this morning, but he was tanked on sedatives. They’ve reduced his dosage, so he should be coherent soon. If you’re up to it after the meeting, would you like to take a shot at him?”

  Alex’s stomach recoiled a little at the idea of facing her attacker—and their potential killer. She glanced at her bandaged arm and thought of the damage inflicted on the victims so far. There but for the grace of God …

  She shut down the latent possibilities behind the thought and nodded. “Of course.”

  “Take Trent with you, and let him do the driving.”

  Well. She supposed now was as good a time as any to tell Roberts she wanted out of the partnership. “About that—”

  Roberts’s office door opened and Joly stuck his head in. “Channel Six news, Staff. You should see it.”

  It was a report on their serial killer, now dubbed the Storm Slasher, and the journalist had been busy. She knew about the posing of the bodies, and what she lacked in actual detail beyond that, she’d more than made up for in wild speculation. Silence reigned for a long moment when the report ended and the television went dark.

  “Fucking hell,” someone murmured behind Alex. “The occult? Where in God’s name did she get that from?”

  She heard Joly reply, “Maybe she’s not that far off. You have to admit this one is about as weird as we’ve ever had. I mean, come on. A storm every single time the guy hits? We haven’t been able to find so much as a flake of skin with usable DNA. He has to at least be some kind of weather psychic or something.”

  Alex looked over her shoulder at her colleague.

  Joly shrugged. “Be honest, Jarvis
,” he said. “You’ve felt it, too. There’s something about this guy that just isn’t natural.”

  Her gaze swept past him to Trent. Met the watchfulness in his expression. Felt the pull of his presence. The image of a winged man among flames flashed through her brain.

  Whack on the head, drugs, stress, lack of sleep, she told herself, repeating the mantra she’d come up with on the ride to the office. The explanation for the last twenty-four hours of her life. An explanation that didn’t even begin to fit but was all that stood between her and the alternative.

  Either of the alternatives.

  “All right, knock it off,” Roberts growled. “It’s bad enough having the media and the public going off the deep end without us following suit.” He fixed a grim look on the group as a whole. “What I want to know is how that reporter knew about the posing of the bodies. If anyone in here has been talking to the press about this case, writing tickets for jaywalking will be the high point of his or her pathetic career, is that clear?”

  Nods and scuffles all around.

  “Good. Now let’s get our heads out of the fantasy world and back into reality. We have a killer to catch.”

  Alex trudged toward the conference room with the others, careful to keep to the back of the group and well away from Trent. She took up a position near the door, leaning her shoulder against the wall and cradling her injured arm against her side.

  Overnight, the task force had tripled in size, now filling the room to overflowing. Many of the people Alex didn’t recognize, but assumed were detectives from Toronto’s surrounding municipalities where the killer had struck; others were uniformed officers and detectives called in to assist from other sections within the city’s own force. On the opposite side, Delaney squeezed in between Bastion and Timmins, looking flushed and uncharacteristically disheveled, rather like her breakfast date had gone better—and longer—than expected.

  Alex shifted her arm and turned her attention to her staff inspector as his voice boomed through the room.

  Despite the number of personnel working the case, the meeting went quickly. Roberts reviewed the attack on Alex, focusing on the possibility they were looking for more than one suspect. With respect to the other victims, there was little to report. Two of the bodies remained unidentified. Apart from a general assumption regarding their killer’s sex, age, size, and fitness levels, the psychological profiler was stumped, and the geographic profiler didn’t yet have enough data.

  “We must have something else,” Roberts said. “We have tips coming in by the hundreds. Hasn’t anything panned out yet?” Silence met his query and he threw himself back in his chair impatiently. “Come on, people. We’re up to nine bodies—”

  Alex blinked. “Nine?” she interrupted. Last she’d counted, there were seven including the one tied to her attack.

  Across the room, a pencil snapped in two with a muted crack. Alex stared at the two slender pieces of wood in Trent’s hands. No one else seemed to notice. She forced herself to look away again.

  Roberts spared her a brief look. “We had two come in last night. One in Aurora, the other in Peel.” He returned his attention to the group at large. “Well? Nothing else?”

  Shit. The claw. She’d forgotten to tell him about the claw.

  “The what?”

  Alex saw that all attention had riveted on her. She realized she’d spoken aloud, and that Trent’s gaze had narrowed to that uncomfortable intensity again. She swallowed.

  “The claw,” she repeated. “When you sent us to the coroner yesterday, that’s what Jason Bartlett wanted to show us. He thinks it may be part of the murder weapon.”

  Roberts looked as if he didn’t know whether he was being fed a line or should have her committed on the spot. He looked to an impassive Trent, then back to Alex.

  “What is this, a bad joke?” he asked. “Exactly how hard did you hit your head, anyway?”

  Alex glared at him. “Not that hard,” she retorted, forgetting that she herself had just used her injury to explain away certain anomalies, “and it’s not a joke. Joly and Abrams saw it, too. The coroner found what looks like a claw in victim number four, our Jane Doe. They’re still waiting for DNA results, so they haven’t been able to identify where—or what—the claw is from, but they have an expert on big cats coming in from the zoo today to give them a hand. Bartlett’s supposed to call me when he has something.”

  She considered adding the weird temperature part to her revelation, but given the tension now permeating the room, decided to keep that detail for Roberts alone, especially on the heels of the news report. Judging by Joly’s tightened mouth, he was no more eager to share the information than she was.

  Roberts ran a hand over his buzz cut. Opened his mouth to speak. Closed it again. Then he rose from his chair and threw down his pen, sending it skittering the length of the conference table. “Fuck it,” he said. “I’m going for coffee.”

  TWENTY

  Aramael followed Alex down the hospital corridor, stopping beside her as she held up her shield for inspection by the uniformed officer stationed outside a room.

  “Is he awake?”

  “On and off, from what I gather. I don’t think he’s said anything yet. They check on him about every half hour.” The young cop—he didn’t look more than twenty—indicated Alex’s arm. “You the one he nailed? Lucky thing for you, that lightning.”

  Alex went white and, without another word, pushed open the door and stepped into the room beyond. Aramael followed. He didn’t expect much from the interview. Witness reports had placed Martin James at the victim’s side with another man, which told Aramael the mortal had probably faced Caim, and most likely in at least partial killing-form. They’d be lucky if Martin remembered anything at all, let alone anything of use. No human had ever emerged with mind intact from a full-on encounter with a Fallen One in demon form.

  Folding his arms, Aramael leaned a shoulder against the glass and settled in to wait for Alex. He stared out, beyond the hospital grounds, to the city where Caim would already be stalking another mortal, another victim. Wondered how long it would be until he failed, again, to stop his brother.

  Behind him, he heard Alex cross to the lone bed occupying the room. She cleared her throat. “Martin, I’m Detective Jarvis from Homicide Squad. I need to ask you some questions.”

  As Aramael had expected, the man in the bed did not respond. Aramael tried to focus on sensing Caim’s energy, but found himself unable to shut out Alex’s words.

  “Martin, last night you attacked me in an alley off Dundas Street. Do you remember that?”

  Aramael pushed his awareness outward. Nothing. Not so much as a hint of his brother’s whereabouts. His mouth twisted. Not that it mattered, because even if he knew where to find Caim, he couldn’t go after him. No matter how much he wanted to.

  And oh, how he wanted to. Desperately. Twice last night he had felt Caim’s rising bloodlust; twice he’d known his brother had slain another mortal; twice he had been unable to pursue him, held back by the thread that connected him, unforgivably, to a Naphil woman. The thread that made him aware, even through Caim’s depravity, of Alex’s restless sleep in the room over his head, of her every breath, her every toss and turn.

  Bloody Hell. Aramael raked a hand through his hair.

  Alex’s voice continued. “You had a knife, and blood on your clothes. A lot of blood. Some of it came from the body of a man found at a construction site—”

  Her words broke off and Aramael turned to see Martin James’s eyes blink, shift to Alex, and then return to looking past her. Surprise twisted through him, and he straightened away from the window. Could he have been wrong? Could the mortal have retained something? Might he remember where he’d met Caim, or perhaps who the Fallen Angel pretended to be?

  Aramael filtered swiftly through the potential caught up in the idea. No Power had ever worked a hunt from concrete facts, or even needed to consider such an option, but what if it were possible? What if
he could figure out how Caim was choosing his victims, where he might be tracking them from?

  Alex leaned over the bed, her face inches from that of James. “Martin,” she insisted, “there was someone else at the construction site with you. Someone besides the man who was killed. Who was there, Martin?”

  The man in the bed shuddered. His eyes widened, rolled back in his head. Tanned, callused fingers clawed at the sheet covering him, and the metal stand beside the bed rocked sideways as the tube connecting him to a bag hanging from it pulled taut.

  Aramael hesitated a moment, and then stepped away from the wall and moved to stand behind Alex. In a way utterly alien to him, he extended a sense of calm outward from his center to envelop the man, fighting the innate impatience threatening to swamp his efforts. Grudging as the effort may have been, however, the terror that stood in Martin James’s way began to ease and he loosened his fisted grip on the covers.

  “Martin?” Alex prompted.

  Slowly, very slowly, the man focused on her, his mouth working as if he might speak. Then his gaze slid past her to settle on Aramael, and his face contorted with soul-deep, unstoppable horror.

  Aramael watched in resignation as the rest of the man’s mind disintegrated beyond reach.

  IT TOOKALEX a moment to realize where the low keening came from, and another few seconds to react. By the time she reached out to the man in the bed, he’d already ripped out his IV and was fighting with the sheet that covered him. She grabbed for him with her good arm, her hand closing on a fistful of hospital nightgown, and braced herself against the bed. Martin James’s first lunge told her she couldn’t hold on long.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Trent move to help her. James’s keening escalated, becoming a loud, nearly inhuman wail. His thrashing nearly took them both to the floor and Alex realized that the closer Trent got, the more frenzied became James’s efforts to escape. She tried to shout over the chaos, to steer Trent away, but James’s voice rose to a banshee-like shriek, drowning her out, his words running together in an endless babble, impossible to untangle.