Sins of the Angels (17 page)

“But—”

“I'll stay with her,” Aramael said. He watched Alex go still. Knew she wanted to refuse his offer but had no other options. Waited for her to reach the same conclusion.

Alex nodded, a single, curt incline of her head, and looked up at him at last.

“Thank you,” she said.

Her eyes did not echo the gratitude.

Alex sat in silence as Trent negotiated the corner onto her street and drove through the sleeping neighborhood. They had exchanged neither word nor glance during the twenty-minute ride from the hospital. Roberts had issued directions to Trent before they left and the man had followed them unerringly, leaving her to sit beside him, separated by a few inches that might as well have been an unbreachable chasm.

Leaving her time to relive yet again the moments in the alley; to try to convince herself that her version of events hadn't happened. Couldn't have happened. Just as Trent couldn't have wings, just as those bullets couldn't have passed through him this afternoon, just as she couldn't keep having that insane, visceral reaction to him.

Alex ground her teeth together. She was tired of going in these same circles over and over again, trying to rationalize what she'd seen and felt, trying to find—or create—an acceptable explanation. Trying to ignore the whisper of possibility that she was perfectly sane, and there were things in play here that were—

She pressed fingertips between eyebrows, slamming the brakes on her unfinished thought as Trent pulled into the driveway. Fuck, ideas like that made her question her sanity more, not less. She tried to think past the pounding in her skull, to find a way out of the endless loop in which she was trapped.

Maybe she should just pretend that none of it had happened. Maybe she could start fresh in the morning, hoping against hope that her world would have returned to normal, that all of this would be relegated to the status of a bad dream. Maybe that smack on the head had been harder than she realized, and—

Alex paused, contemplating the last idea.

As excuses went, that one might actually work. Any hit hard enough to knock a person out was bound to scramble things somewhat. The explanation didn't work for the entire day, but right now she'd settle for rationalizing any small portion at all, and the idea
did
fit with what the others believed had happened in the alley.

Trent slid out of the vehicle.

Lightning, they'd said. A freak bolt that found its way between the buildings to the knife in her assailant's hand, its energy enough to knock her from her feet. Lightning from the sky, not an invisible blow from a man standing amid golden flames, his face dark with anger, his wings outstretched—

Alex suppressed a shiver. Lightning. Just lightning, and the hospital had assured them her attacker would live. Even if the doctors couldn't explain why there hadn't been a mark on him. No hint of a scorch mark, no singed hair. Instead, all the damage had been internal: bruised organs, internal bleeding, massive fluid retention.

All of which he would survive.

The car door opened beside her, making her jump. She stared up at Trent for a moment, then, with a small, tight shake of her head, rejected his assistance and levered herself out of the seat with her good arm. No matter how rational she wanted to be, she still couldn't accept his touch.

Couldn't forget the brush of her fingers against unseen feathers.

She shivered in spite of the night's mugginess. Crossing the lawn, she made the short climb to the unlit, covered front porch that stretched across the face of her older home. The steady trill of crickets filled the night, unbearably loud to a head that already felt like a hundred strong men with sledgehammers had taken up residence in it. Her arm throbbed ten times worse than her head, and her scraped hands burned like blazes. So did her cheek, for that matter. She hurt in so many places, in fact, that she'd given up keeping track.

And that was just the physical pain.

Alex gritted her teeth. No, she told herself. She would not deal with the other stuff right now. Not tonight. Tonight she had reached every limit she knew she had, and exceeded others she'd never dreamed existed. She'd had enough for one day. Enough voices, enough hallucinations, enough memories.

Enough, in truth, not for a day, but for a lifetime.

Supremely conscious of Trent's presence behind her, she crossed the porch and turned to hold out her hand for her keys. Trent reached past, unlocked the door, and pushed it open.

For a long moment, Alex stood without moving. She wanted to believe it was independence that kept her from going inside rather than trepidation, but a fine film of sweat on her forehead and the jitter in her gut said otherwise. She did not want to spend hours alone in the house with this man. Didn't want him imprinting his presence on her home, leaving behind traces of his warmth, his scent.

“I really am fine, Detective Trent. You don't need to stay.” She bit the inside of her bottom lip. Had he heard the same traitorous quiver in her voice that she had?

If so, he didn't comment on it. He didn't say anything, in fact, just stretched his arm into the house and switched on a light, making Alex blink in the sudden brilliance. Then he waited, face devoid of expression, arms crossed. Long seconds ticked by.

Alex's arm throbbed, her imagined chill settled deeper into her bones, and she felt herself sway. She bit down harder on her lip to distract herself, but knew if she insisted on continuing this standoff, she stood a good chance of passing out on the spot. Which would result in Trent staying
and
involve the touching she wanted to avoid.

She stepped past him into the house.

Trent moved into the living room, turning on more lights as he went. Another hundred men joined the sledgehammer ranks inside Alex's head.

Trent returned to the front hall and frowned at her. “You're in pain.”

“That generally happens when some asshole slices open your arm and shoves you into a brick wall,” she agreed. Then she regretted her sharpness. The man was hardly responsible for the twisted state of her sanity, and he
had
volunteered to babysit her tonight so that she could leave the hospital and come home—the least she could do was be civil.

“I'm sorry,” she said.

“Trust me,” he replied cryptically, “you're not the one who should be sorry.”

She blinked at him, decided he must mean her assailant, and shrugged. “He'll pay the price,” she said. “He already has, in a way. You don't get retribution much more divine than lightning, after all.”

A shadow darkened Trent's eyes. Guilt? Over what—dishing out the retribution in question? Alex gave an inward sigh. There she went again, blurring reality with the dark goings-on in her psyche.

Trent shoved his hands into his pockets. “Can I get you anything? Tea? Something to eat?”

Her stomach revolted at the very suggestion. “God, no,” she muttered. “But thanks. I'm going to take a shower. Help yourself to whatever you'd like. The kitchen is that way.” She pointed toward the back of the house. She crossed the foyer to the staircase leading to the second floor and contemplated the climb ahead of her. She desperately needed to wash this day from her body, but that was a
long
way up.

“What about your stitches?”

Hell. Alex remembered the list of instructions issued by the nurse, the first of which had detailed how she was not, under any circumstances, to get her stitches wet for twenty-four hours. Her head drooped.

“Maybe we could cover them,” Trent suggested.

The gentle note in his voice surprised her. The sudden lump that formed in her throat in response surprised her even more. She swallowed twice before her vocal cords cooperated enough to tell him where to find a plastic garbage bag, scissors, and tape. Then, when his firm tread had faded down the hallway, she sagged onto the stairs, rested her pounding forehead on her knees, and tucked her arm against her side.

The drugs they'd given her at the hospital had taken the edge off the pain, but that was all, and for the first time, she regretted refusing the additional medication the nurse had tried to press on her as she was leaving. Pharmaceutical oblivion held a certain appeal at this point.

Alex released a shaky breath. No. The last thing she needed right now was drug-induced hallucinations. Her mouth twisted. As opposed to the ordinary ones, for instance.

The hammering in her head settled into the same rhythm as her heartbeat. In the living room, the mantel clock chimed a soft three times. Already? Hell, even with Roberts pushing back the task force meeting until noon, she'd be lucky to get three or four hours before the alarm went off.

Trent's returning footsteps sounded. Alex gathered herself, lifted her head, and held out her hand for the supplies he carried. Trent's eyebrow rose. She bristled, and then slumped. He was right. It would take her forever to wrap her own arm, and she couldn't hope to do it well enough to keep her wound dry. She had no choice but to accept his help.

And that bloody touch.

Trent squatted in front of her, set the tape and scissors on the bottom step, and unrolled the white plastic garbage bag. Alex turned her head away and raised her arm. She wondered if he, too, remembered the overwhelming electricity that had surged between them. Wondered what he would think if he knew how she'd stared at him that evening, what she'd imagined. She braced for the feel of his hand.

Trent slid the bag over her arm, snipping off the bottom to fit it over her hand, his fingers gentle and jolt-less. Alex exhaled in relief. She looked down at his bent head as he unrolled a length of tape and clipped it off. He seemed so normal right now. Like a concerned colleague, and not some angel of wrath—

Trent looked up at her twitch. “Did I hurt you?”

Alex compressed her lips. Why did she keep doing that to herself?

“I'm fine,” she muttered.

Trent returned to his task, his movements reassuringly impersonal. Alex watched, still half expecting wings to sprout and send her world somersaulting out from beneath her again, but his shoulders remained solid and unchanging, and a tiny knot of tension unraveled in her belly.

He wrapped a long piece of tape around the top of the plastic and secured it just above her elbow. Everything about him seemed . . . normal. Not ordinary, exactly—no man who looked the way he did could ever be ordinary—but normal in the sense of not weird or bizarre. Normal in the sense of real.

Human.

A wry thought occurred to her. Maybe that whack on the head had been a blessing in disguise. Maybe it hadn't scrambled her brains after all, but had instead knocked some sense into her, made it possible for her to put things in perspective.

Or maybe it was just the drugs.

“You look amused.”

Alex realized Trent was watching her. Without thinking, she shook her head, sending an extra crash of pain through her already-aching skull. “Hell—I have to remember not to do that,” she murmured, cradling her forehead in her hand and waiting for the reverberations to die down.

“Do you have something you can take for the pain?” Trent asked.

“Upstairs. I'll take it when I go up for my shower.” She felt him wrap another piece of tape around her arm and smooth it into place. “Trent—”

“Mm?”

She hesitated. She'd had a sudden urge to apologize to him, but for what? Her imagination? Her paranoia? And what would she say?
I'm sorry I keep seeing you as a really angry angel
? Oh, yes, that was sure to erase any bad impressions made so far. And
I'm sorry I have the hots for you
would be about as good.

“Nothing.”

Trent looked up at her, his gaze assessing, then returned to his ministrations. He applied several more strips of tape to seal his handiwork and, a minute later, gathered up the remaining supplies.

“That should hold well enough.”

“Thank you.”

He rose to his feet and held out a hand to her. Alex hesitated for only the briefest of moments before accepting it and letting him draw her to her feet. A frisson of warmth slid through her, less than the jolt she had experienced from him earlier, but more than she had the right to feel from her new partner. With or without wings, Jacob Trent packed a powerful aura.

Alex withdrew her hand from his grasp and offered him a shaky smile—and herself a stern reminder about the dangers inherent along that particular path. “I mean that, Trent. Thank you. I guess I did need some help tonight after all.”

“Believe me,” he said quietly, “it was the least I could do.”

Alex felt her smile falter. She had the sense that his words held some greater meaning, but her brain shied sideways from any kind of analysis. She'd just started to get things
un
scrambled, and she would very much like them to remain that way. At least for a while. With an effort, she found her voice.

“I think I'll take that shower now.”

Aramael placed the tape and scissors into the drawer with careful precision, slid the drawer closed again, and then paused, staring at his outstretched hands. His traitorous, treacherous hands. Hands that had tended a mortal's arm but had wanted—coveted—so much more.

He curled his fingers tightly into his palms and watched his knuckles whiten. Somewhere, somehow, in the process of looking after Alex, his awareness of her had grown. Become more than some ethereal connection. Become . . . physical.

The scent of her hair, the warmth of her breath on his cheek, her proximity itself had triggered a longing in him that set every fiber of his being aflame, touched off an intensity of sensation so acute that the very texture of her skin had imprinted itself on his soul. Aramael's belly clenched and his entire body thrummed with pent-up energy—a foreign, nearly living force he had no idea how to handle.