Sins of the Angels by Linda Poitevin Read Free Book Online

through the room, punctuating her unease. No mortal, not even a Naphil, should have been able to see an angel like that, without invitation or intervention of any kind. It should have been impossible— was impossible. Yet it had happened, and not to just any angel, or even any Power.
    Verchiel rested her elbows on the desk and cradled head in hands, feeling her misgivings rise again. Aramael was the most volatile of an already explosive choir. If he hadn’t been able to regain control, if he had—She lifted her head. But he hadn’t. Not this time, anyway, and she would just have to make sure there wasn’t a next time.
    Verchiel stood and paced the perimeter of the office. A breeze stirred the curtains at the open window and wandered into the room, heavy with the scent of the gardens beyond. It seemed unlikely that the woman could be to blame. The first Nephilim, direct descendants of the Grigori, had displayed some interesting traits, but their abilities had diminished with each generation, becoming more and more diluted until nothing remained. So unremarkable had the line become, in fact, that Mittron had ceased having them tracked almost three millennia ago. Had they relaxed their vigil too soon?
    A darker concern nagged at her. What if the fault lay with Aramael? For all his volatility, he’d always been as careful with regard to protocol as any of the others, and had never had an adverse incident. But what if she’d been right about this hunt pushing him over the edge?
    What if he wasn’t in control anymore?
    She stopped by the window and pushed the linen panel to one side. The gardens beyond lay peacefully, reflecting no trace of the turmoil that had just shaken the realm. Or the perpetual threat of war that overlay it.
    Verchiel tightened her lips. No. Whatever had gone wrong between Aramael and the woman, she would, as he had said, have to find it and fix it. When war did come, it wouldn’t be because of anything as preventable as a mortal’s unexpected glimpse of an angel. Not if she could—
    She stopped, her free hand raised to cover her mouth. The treachery of her thoughts reverberated through her.
    If war came, she corrected herself. Not when. If.

FIVE
    Alex splashed a handful of tepid water over her face and worked to still the churning in her belly. She turned off the single-lever faucet with a shaking hand—the one that didn’t jangle with the vestiges of raw, unfettered energy—and then raised her head to study her dripping reflection in the mirror over the sink. A sudden image of turbulent gray eyes replaced her own and she inhaled sharply. Her reflection’s nostrils flared and the angry eyes disappeared, but the memory, and its effect on her, remained.
    She released the breath she hadn’t intended to hold. A hundred questions crowded her thoughts, all vying for her attention. All centered on Jacob Trent. Who was he? Where did she know him from? Why had he looked at her like that, with such anger, such fury?
    Why did I see wings sprouting from his back?
    Alex’s stomach lurched again. She squeezed her eyes shut and rested her hands on the cool, porcelain edges of the sink. For the second time that day, long-buried memories stirred along the fringes of her mind—this time accompanied by the faintest whisper of a lifelong fear. What if . . . ?
    Enough. It’s not that. You’re not her. And you didn’t see wings.
    Inhale.
    Exhale.
    The shifting memories slid beneath the surface. She opened her eyes and stared at her reflection again. It scowled back, anger replacing panic. No wings. A trick of the light, maybe. Or glare from the overhead fixtures, combined with way too little sleep and way too much imagination. But no wings.
    As for Trent’s reaction to her—and hers to him, well, they’d just been mistaken, that’s all. Both of them. It was that simple.
    Or just simplistic?
    The bathroom door cracked open beside