Sins of the Angels (21 page)

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.

Then, when she didn't think she could hold on for another second, Trent veered off and Alex saw a flood of people pouring in the door behind him. Doctors, nurses, orderlies, the cop who had greeted them at the door. Her hold failed as others took her place; then a nurse was steering her toward the door along with Trent, pushing them both out, shutting the door behind them. Alex sagged against the wall, arm throbbing with fire, and listened to the screams that wouldn't stop.

Trent's hand closed over her shoulder and she started, glancing up at him.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

All right? She had no idea. She was still reeling from what had just happened. Hell, she still wasn't sure what
had
happened. She swayed, feeling the strength in his touch, fighting the impulse to turn and shelter in it. She pulled away.

“I'm fine,” she lied. A white lie, really. When she stopped shaking, she would be fine. Maybe.

Inside the room, their suspect's cries diminished, then faded altogether. A few minutes later, the door opened and the medical staff began filing past her. The cop brought up the rear.

“What the hell happened in there?” he asked, shock in his voice. “What'd you guys say to him?”

Alex roused herself. “Very little, actually. And we got nothing from him.”

The uniform snorted. “You won't, either. Not today, anyway. They gave him enough to knock him out for hours, they said.”

Alex peered through the open door at Martin James, lying deathly still under the restraints that held him in the bed, his eyes the only indication of life. Eyes that tracked past her to the man standing at her side. Eyes that lost their drug-dulled haze and focused with sudden intensity and—recognition? A shiver spiked down Alex's spine. She glanced at Trent, found him rigid and equally focused on the man in the bed.

She pivoted back to James and, stunned, watched him mouth a single, unmistakable word.

“You,” Martin James said.

She waited until they reached the car before she rounded on Trent. “He knew you,” she said without preamble.

Trent shrugged as he unlocked the driver's door. “I've never seen him before last night.”

“He knew you,” Alex repeated, “and he was afraid of you.”

Perhaps because James, too, had seen wings? She squashed the thought. Other than that brief flare of unearthly blue light, it had been too dark in the alley for James to have had a good look at Trent. He had to have known her partner from somewhere else.

“Was he?” Trent opened the door and reached in to touch the electric lock button. Alex's door clicked in response.

She scowled. “He was terrified, and you know it. Why?”

“I'm a cop and he's a murder suspect,” Trent pointed out with an edge of impatience. “Does he need another reason?”

No. Yes. Maybe.
But whatever response Alex might have decided on died unspoken. Behind her, and far above, came the sound of shattering glass. She turned and looked up, searching for the source. A shower of glints and sparks rained down, brilliant in the afternoon sun, landing in a discordant, tinkling chorus over cars and pavement. She hadn't fully registered their meaning when foreboding drew her attention upward again—

In time to see a man in a hospital gown tumble from a ninth floor window, free-falling silently, horribly, through the air.

Verchiel paused outside the Highest Seraph's door. She did not want to be here, did not want to speak to Mittron again—did not want to deal with any of this. She rested her forehead against the oak barrier between her and certain confrontation. How could she have allowed this? Could she not have foreseen what would happen? No matter that Mittron commanded the obedience of nearly every angel in Heaven, herself included, she should still have fought harder against what her every fiber had told her was wrong.

Should have, but once again hadn't.

She sighed, raised her head, and knocked.

“In,” came Mittron's disembodied voice.

She pushed open the door.

“You look unhappy,” Mittron greeted her from beside the window, his bearing aloof, his eyes cold.

“The mortal who attacked the woman—”

“Is dead. I know.”

Verchiel's heart missed a beat. The event had only just occurred; did Mittron have another angel monitoring Aramael? Monitoring her? “You know?”

“I ordered it.”

She felt for the door frame behind her and leaned against it. “You! But that would be”—she caught back the word
murder
and finished instead—“interference of the most direct kind.”

“I didn't order him killed, for goodness' sake. Only that he be allowed to do as he wished, to take his own life.”

“But—”

“The man's mind was destroyed by what happened, Verchiel. He would never have recovered. Allowing his death was a mercy rather than interference. It will have no effect on the pact. Besides, we couldn't risk him telling the woman what he had seen. It would have raised too many questions.”

Verchiel's lips tightened. The Highest Seraph's shortsightedness astounded her sometimes. “Perhaps, but his death will raise other questions. Many others. The woman already suspects something about Aramael's presence there, and this will only make matters worse.”

“Really, Verchiel, you worry too much. Our only concern with the Naphil is keeping her out of Caim's hands. She is of no import beyond that.”

Verchiel glowered at him. “And Aramael? Is he of no import either? With all due respect, Mittron, your interference makes an already impossible hunt even more difficult for him.”

Mittron's gaze sparked amber fire. He drew tall. Threatening. “You overstep, Dominion.”

Verchiel wrapped her hands into her robe and gritted her teeth against a retort. Former soulmate he might be, but he was also her superior, and continuing to question his judgment would only lead to a formal reprimand and certain suspicion regarding Seth's imminent involvement in the whole mess. If she truly wanted answers to the increasing number of questions she had, or to assist Aramael, she would do well to back down while she still could.

Swallowing her indignation along with her pride, she inclined her head. “You're right, Highest. Forgive me.”

“Are we going to have a problem with seeing this assignment through, Verchiel? If so, perhaps you should consider removing yourself and letting someone else take over.”

Verchiel raised an eyebrow. As if any other Dominion would agree to take on Aramael. She was the only one of her choir who wasn't petrified beyond words by him. But when she opened her mouth to share the observation, she hesitated. Wait. Mittron knew full well how wide a berth the others gave her charge. He had to know that none of them would agree to the task, and that he would have to take it on himself. So why would he even suggest the idea? Unless that was his intent. But why?

“Well?” Mittron asked.

Verchiel buried her reaction to the question under an ingratiating smile and a reassurance. “That won't be necessary, Highest,” she murmured. “I'm quite capable of finishing this.”

She'd better be, because Mittron's heavy-handed approach might well put Aramael over the edge—and turn the idea of all hell breaking loose into a reality.

 

ALEX MADE A
beeline for her desk the moment she and Trent arrived back at the office from the hospital. Trent could deny it all he wanted, but she'd swear on her own sanity that her so-called partner and Martin James knew each other. She paused, remembering the current, questionable state of said sanity, then shrugged irritably. The point was, if Trent had lied about knowing James, what else was he keeping from her? She couldn't put it off any longer: she needed to know what the fuck she was dealing with.

A picture of wings flashed through her mind as she reached for the phone. Her hand jerked sideways, knocking over a container of pens.

Whom,
she corrected herself.
Whom she was dealing with.

She dialed staffing.

“Hey, it's Alex Jarvis from Homicide. I need you to access a file for me.”

A presence loomed over her and she looked up to find Trent, his brow like one of the storms plaguing the city. She put her hand over the receiver and fixed him with a level stare. She didn't even pretend politeness.