Sins of the Angels Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  EPILOGUE

  THIS ANGEL FOR HIRE

  Trent smiled, reaching out a hand to her. “Detective. Good to meet you.”

  Trent’s hand closed over hers with a surge of power that jolted through her, searing every nerve, every fiber; flooding her with an energy that was not her own, but belonged to her in a way she did not understand. An energy that made her more aware in that instant of Jacob Trent than of life itself. That tried to repel her even as it drew her into its source.

  And then … then she saw the wings. Rising from Jacob Trent’s shoulders, spread in fiery, golden glory behind him. Wings, like those of a giant bird.

  Or an angel.

  She might never have seen this man before, but somehow she knew him …

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  SINS OF THE ANGELS

  An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author

  Ace mass-market edition / October 2011

  Copyright © 2011 by Linda Poitevin.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN : 978-1-101-54440-2

  ACE

  Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ACE and the “A” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For Mom and Dad.

  Wish you could have been here for this …

  and for so much more.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  So very many people have made this book possible. These are the ones who deserve special mention.

  My husband, Pat, for his love and unfailing belief in me. Chloé, Emilie, and Mikhaila, for inspiring me to lead by example. Maureen Daly, for the wonderful kitchen chats that fanned a spark of imagination and inspired me to delve deeper into angel mythology. Paty Rutenberg, for being so much wiser than me and saving the one and only draft of a story that became the seed for this series. Isabelle Michaud, RCMP officer extraordinaire, for the enthusiasm and the many reads to make sure I had my details right. Karen Docter, for taking the time to write to an unknown contest entrant a letter of such encouragement that I carry it with me still. Isabelle and Lyne and the staff of their coffee shop, for allowing me to stake out a corner in which to write. My agent, Becca Stumpf, for raising the bar and then helping me reach it. My editor, Michelle Vega, for taking me under her wing and believing in me and my story.

  See? Angels really do exist.

  PROLOGUE

  It was done.

  There could be no turning back.

  Caim stared down at the destruction he’d wrought and held back a shudder. They would come after him, of course, as they had the first time. They couldn’t allow him to succeed. Couldn’t risk him finding a way back and opening a door to the others. They would send someone to hunt him, try to imprison him in that place again.

  His breath snared in his chest and for a moment the awfulness of the idea made him quail inside, made his mind go blank. An eternity of that awful, mind-hollowing emptiness, that nothingness. His belly clenched at the thought. It was a miracle he had escaped, and whatever happened, he couldn’t go back. Could never go back.

  He focused his thoughts, made himself calm. He could do this. He could find the right one and return to where he belonged; it was just a matter of time. A matter of numbers.

  Caim gazed at the corpse by his feet. It was also a matter of being more careful than this. He crouched and touched a withered fingertip to the crimson that welled from the gash in the mortal’s chest. He rubbed the viscous fluid between thumb and forefinger and studied his work, displeased at the lack of control he saw there. The haste.

  He scowled at the frisson of remembered, wanton pleasure that even now edged down his spine, making his heart miss a beat. He so disliked that side of himself, the part that thrilled at the destruction. He had never wanted this, had tried so hard not to give in to what she had claimed to see. He wished he’d had another choice; that she’d given him another choice.

  But whether he was here by choice or not, he would do well to maintain better control. If one of her hunters had been near just now, his search would have been over before it began. He’d been so caught up in his task, he wouldn’t have felt an approach until it was too late.

  No, to stay ahead of her, ahead of the hunter she sent for him, Caim needed to rein himself in, to contain the bloodlust that clouded his mind. To be disciplined. He lifted his head and breathed in the alley musk, scented with rain and death. He needed to be faster, too. Finding one of the few he could use among the billions that existed now—the task seemed nothing short of monumental.

  He wiped his bloody, clawed fingers on the corpse’s clothing, and then, on impulse, reached over and spread the corpse’s arms st
raight out, perpendicular to the body, and crossed the ankles over one another.

  Pushing to his feet, he surveyed his handiwork with bitter satisfaction. Perfect. Even if she never saw it herself, she would know of his contempt, know what he thought of the esteem in which her children still held her.

  He drew a breath deep into his lungs and stretched his wings over his head, letting his body begin to fill out again, taking on flesh and warmth. He reveled in the fierce pleasure of his own aliveness; the pull of wet cotton against his skin; the remains of the fierce summer rain dripping from his hair; the thick, sullen night air, unrelieved by the storm that had proclaimed his return. The sheer gratification of feeling.

  Then, folding his wings against his back and casting a last, dispassionate glance at the remains on the pavement, he turned and started down the alley toward the street. His mind moved beyond the kill to other matters. Matters such as finding a place to stay. Somewhere to hide, where a hunter wouldn’t think to look for him.

  Caim emerged from the alley onto the sidewalk and looked up the deserted pavement to his left, then his right. Somewhere—

  He paused. Stared across the street. Smiled.

  Somewhere … interesting.

  ONE

  That was the thing about a murder scene, Alexandra Jarvis reflected. It would be difficult to drive past one and later claim that you couldn’t find the right place. No matter how much you wanted to.

  She wheeled her sedan into the space behind a Toronto Police Service car angled across the sidewalk. Alternating blue and red spilled from the cruiser’s bar lights, splashing against the squat brick building beside it and announcing the hive of activity in the dank alley beyond. Powerful floodlights, brought in to combat the predawn hours, backlit the scene, and yellow crime-scene tape stretched across the alley’s mouth.

  And, just in case Alex needed further confirmation she’d found the right place, a mob of media looked to be in a feeding frenzy street-side of a wooden police barricade, their microphones and cameras thrust into the faces of the two impassive, uniformed officers holding them at bay. One of the uniforms glanced over as she killed her engine, acknowledging her arrival with a nod.

  Alex took a gulp of lukewarm, oversugared coffee and balled up her fast-food breakfast wrapper. She’d bought the meal, if it could be called such, out of desperation on her way home, as a combined supper and bedtime snack. The nearest she could figure, it was the first food she’d had in almost twenty hours, and she hadn’t made it past the first bite before she’d been called to this, another murder. Even knowing what she’d have to view when she arrived at the scene, she’d gone ahead and eaten it. Working Homicide had that effect after a while.

  She dropped the wrapper into the empty paper bag, drained the remainder of her coffee, and tossed the cup in to join the wrapper. Then she slid out of the air-conditioned vehicle.

  The early-August humidity slammed into her like a fist, rising from the damp pavement and the puddles that lined the uneven sidewalk. Alex grimaced. After a storm like the one that had raged from midnight until almost three, knocking out power to most of the city’s core for the better part of an hour, surely they’d earned at least a brief respite from the sauna-like weather.

  She fished in her blazer pocket for a hair elastic, checked that her police shield was still clipped to her waistband, and raised her arms to scrape back her shoulder-length blonde hair as she kneed shut the car door and started toward the alley.

  The media piranhas, scenting new prey, engulfed her.

  “Detective, can you tell us what—?”

  “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 ra
in 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 …