Sins of the Angels (2 page)

“Can you describe—?”

“Is this death related—?”

The questions flew at her, fast and furious, and became lost in each other. Alex elbowed her way through the throng and shouldered past a television camera, wrapping the elastic around her fistful of hair. If they knew how many coffees and how little sleep she operated on, they wouldn't be so eager to get this close.

She patted her pockets in an automatic check. Pen, notebook, gloves . . . Lord, but her partner had picked a fine time to retire and take up fly-fishing. Davis was a hundred times more diplomatic than she was, and she'd always counted on him to run media interference for her at these times. She hoped to heaven his eventual replacement would be as accommodating.

“Don't know, can't say, and no comment,” she replied, and winced at the snarl in her voice, glad her supervisor wasn't there to overhear. “We'll let you know when we have a statement for you, just like we always do.”

The uniform who had acknowledged her arrival lifted the tape so she could duck beneath it.

“Yeah,” he muttered, “and the sharks will keep circling anyway, just like
they
always do.”

Alex flashed him a sympathetic look and headed down the alley, her focus shifting to the tall, lanky man silhouetted against the floodlights, and to the scene he surveyed.

Her stomach rolled uneasily around its grease-laden meal. Even from here, she could see the remains of a bloodbath: telltale shadows darkened the brick walls on either side of the narrow passageway; rivulets of the night's rain, stained dark, pooled on the alley floor; crimson reflected back from puddles lit by the floodlights.

She flicked a glance at a sodden cardboard box, catalogued it as nothing out of the ordinary, strode deeper into the narrow passageway. A numbered flag, placed by Forensics, marked a blurred shoe imprint in a patch of mud. Another sat beside a door where nothing visible remained, perhaps the site of something already bagged and tagged.

Alex drew nearer to the scene and inhaled a slow breath through her nose. She held it for a moment before expelling it in a soft gust. If this was the same as the others, if it was another slashing . . .

She drew her shoulders back and lifted her chin. If it was another slashing, she would handle it as she did any other case. Professionally, efficiently, thoroughly. Because that was how she worked. Because her past had no place here.

She stepped over the electrical cables powering the floodlights. Staff Inspector Doug Roberts, in charge of the Homicide Squad where Alex worked, turned. A smile ghosted across his lips but didn't reach his strained eyes. Alex made out the vague shape of a human body beneath a tarp stretched out just beyond him.

“Have a good sleep?” Roberts asked. Even raised over the guttural thrum of the generator powering the lights, his voice held a dry note. He knew she'd never made it home.

Alex produced a credible return smile. “Nah. I figured the concept was highly overrated, so I settled for caffeine.”

She ran a critical eye over her staff inspector's height, noting the two days' growth along his jawline. Perspiration plastered his short-cropped hair to his forehead and she felt her own tresses wilt in mute sympathy. If the air out in the street had been heavy, here in the alley it was downright oppressive. The man looked ready to drop.

“What about you?” she asked.

“Ditto on the sleep, but I missed out on the caffeine.”

That explained it. Given enough java in his or her system, a homicide cop could run almost indefinitely, but without . . .

Alex's gaze slid to the tarp. “Well?” she asked.

“We won't know for sure until the autopsy.”

“But?”

Silence. Because he didn't know, or because he didn't want to say?

“Chest ripped open, throat slit, posed like the others,” he said finally.

“Damn,” she muttered. She scuffed the toe of her shoe against a weed growing through the pavement. Four in as many days, with the last two less than twelve hours apart. One of the floodlights gave a sudden, loud pop, and the light in the alley dimmed a fraction. Underneath a loading dock, someone bellowed for a replacement bulb, his voice muffled.

Alex pushed a limp lock off her forehead, scrunched her fist over it for a moment, and said again, “Damn, damn, damn.” She released her clutch on her scalp. “Is Forensics finding anything?”

“After the rain we had? We're lucky the body didn't float away.”

“Maybe the killer's waiting for the rain,” Alex mused. “Maybe he knows it will wash away the evidence.”

“So what, he's a disgruntled meteorologist? How does he know it will rain hard enough?” Roberts shook his head. “The weather's too unpredictable for someone to rely on it like that, especially lately. None of these storms this week were even in the forecast. I think it's just bad luck for us.”

She sighed. “You're probably right. So, has the chief called for a task force yet?”

“Not yet, but my guess is that it's about to become a priority. I'll put in a call and get the ball rolling. The sooner we get a profiler working on this psycho, the better. You have a look around here, then go home, okay? I've put Joly and Abrams on point for this one. You've been on your feet longer than anyone else on this file so far, and you need some sleep.”

Alex rolled her eyes. “If this guy keeps up at the rate he's going,” she muttered, “I can pretty much guarantee that won't happen.”

“If this guy keeps up at the rate he's going, I'm going to need you on your toes, not dropping from exhaustion. So let me rephrase that:
get
some sleep.”

The head of Homicide Squad stalked away. Alex watched him cover the distance to the end of the alley in remarkably few long-legged strides, dodging a police photographer who looked to be performing a weird kind of dance in an effort to catalogue the scene's every angle, and then bulldoze his way through the waiting scavengers. With a sigh that came all the way from her toes, she turned back to the bloody, rain-washed alley.

Roberts was right. The others
were
getting more downtime than she was on this case. They always did on slashings, because as much as she liked to pretend that her past had no bearing on her present, no one else brought the same unique perspective to these cases that she did. The kind of perspective that made her drive herself a little harder, a little longer . . .

That made sure she wouldn't sleep much until it was over.

THE DOMINION VERCHIEL,
of the Fourth Choir of angels, stared at the Highest Seraph's office door for a long moment, and then raised her hand to knock. As much as she didn't look forward to delivering bad news to Heaven's executive administrator, she could think of no way to avoid the task, and standing here would make it no easier.

A resonant voice, hollowed by the oaken door, spoke from within. “Enter.”

Verchiel pushed inside. Mittron, overseer of eight of the nine choirs, sat behind his desk on the far side of the booklined room, intent on writing. Verchiel cleared her throat.

“Is it important?” Mittron asked. He did not look up.

Verchiel suppressed a sigh. The Highest knew she would never intrude without reason, but since the Cleanse, he had taken every opportunity he could to remind her of her place. In fact, if she thought about it, he had been so inclined even prior to the Cleanse, but that was long behind them and made no difference now. She folded her hands into her robe, counseled herself to ignore the slight, and made her tone carefully neutral.

“Forgive the intrusion, Highest, but we've encountered a problem.”

The Highest Seraph looked up from his work and fixed pale golden eyes on her. It took everything Verchiel had not to flinch. Or apologize. Her former soulmate had always had the uncanny knack of making her feel as though any issue she brought before him was her fault. Over the millennia, it had just become that much worse.

“Tell me,” he ordered.

“Caim—”

“I am aware of the situation,” he interrupted, returning to his task.

Irritation stabbed at her. She so disliked this side of him. “I don't think so. There's more to it than we expected.”

After making her wait several more seconds, Mittron laid aside his pen and sat back in his chair, giving her his full attention. “Where Caim is concerned, there is always more than expected. But go on.”

“The mortals have launched an investigation into Caim's work. They're calling him a serial killer.”

“A valid observation.”

“Because the police officers involved will be more likely than most mortals to put themselves in his path, I thought it prudent to warn their Guardians. Have them pay particular attention to keeping their charges safe.” Verchiel hesitated.

“Yes?”

“One of the officers doesn't have a Guardian.”

“Every mortal has a Guardian.”

“Actually, not every mortal has.”

“Rejected his, has he?” Mittron shrugged. “Well, he has made his decision, then. He is of no concern to us.”

“That's what I thought at first, but I thought it prudent to make certain and—well,
she
is of concern. Great concern.”

The Highest Seraph frowned. He sat up straighter and a shadow fell across his face, darkening the gold of his gaze to amber. Then the creases in his forehead smoothed over.

“She is Nephilim,” he said.

“She is descended from their line, yes.”

“That does complicate matters.”

“Yes.”

“What do you suggest we do?”

Verchiel shook her head, no closer to a solution now than she had been when she'd first heard the news herself. She moved into the study and settled into one of the enormous wing chairs across from him.

“I don't know,” she admitted.

“How pure is she?”

“We're not sure. We're attempting to trace her, but it will take time. Even if the lineage is faint, however—”

Mittron nodded even as Verchiel let her words die away. “There may still be a risk,” he agreed.

“Yes.”

Mittron levered himself out of his chair. He paced to the window overlooking the gardens. His hands, linked behind his back, kept up a rhythmic tapping against his crimson robe. Out in the corridor, the murmur of voices approached, another door opened and closed, and the voices disappeared.

“What about assigning a Guardian to her?” he asked, his voice thoughtful.

“None of the Guardians would stand a chance against a Fallen Angel, especially one as determined as Caim.”

Mittron shook his head. “Not that kind of Guardian.”

“What other kind of Guardian is there?”

“A Power.”

“A Power? One of my Powers? With all due respect, Mittron, there is no way a hunter would agree to act—”

“Not just any Power,” Mittron interrupted. “Aramael.”

Verchiel couldn't help it. She snorted. “You can't be serious.”

Mittron turned from the window to face her, his eyes like chips of yellow ice, and Verchiel's insides shriveled. She paused to formulate her objection with as much care as she could. She needed to be clear about the impossibility of Mittron's suggestion. She had allowed him to sway her once before where Aramael and Caim were concerned, and could not do so again. And not just for Aramael's sake.

“Hunting Caim very nearly destroyed him the first time,” she said. “We cannot ask him again.”

“He is a Power, Verchiel. The hunt is his purpose. He'll recover.”

“There must be some other way.”

“Name one angel in all of Heaven who would risk a confrontation with a Fallen One to protect a Naphil, no matter how faint the lineage.”

Verchiel fell silent. The Highest knew she could name no such an angel, because none existed. Not one of Heaven's ranks had any love for the Nephilim, and Verchiel doubted she could find one who might feel even a stirring of pity for the race. The One herself had turned her back on the bloodline, a constant reminder of Lucifer's downfall; had denied them the guidance of the Guardians who watched over other mortals, and left them to survive—or, in most cases, not—on their own.

But where this particular Naphil was concerned, surviving Caim was essential. For all their sakes. Verchiel felt herself waver. She rested her elbow on the chair's arm.

“It will consume him,” she said at last.

“Caim already consumes him, which is why we will ask him. The moment you mention Caim's name, Aramael will do anything necessary to complete the hunt, even protect one of the Nephilim.” Mittron left the window and returned to his desk. Apparently having decided the matter was closed, he lowered himself into the chair and picked up his pen. “See to it. And keep me informed.”