Free Sins of the Angels by Linda Poitevin Page A

even a hint of one. Only that need to complete a connection between them. To reach out to her, to the descendant of a Grigori, and—
    Alex cleared her throat at his elbow.
    Aramael dug deep and found the edge of purpose that drove him. Clung to it as he turned to his charge.
    â€œAre you just about done?” Alex asked.
    He flipped the notebook shut in answer and held it out to her. She took it from him and tucked it back into her jacket pocket.
    â€œSo,” she began.
    Bloody hell, he couldn’t continue like this.
    â€œWe need to talk,” he said.
    Alex studied him with guarded reservation. “About what?”
    â€œThe killer.”
    â€œWhat about him? Or them?”
    â€œHim.”
    Alex lifted an eyebrow. “We have to consider the possibility there’s more than one—”
    â€œHim,” Aramael repeated.
    â€œYou sound awfully sure of yourself, Detective. Care to share why?”
    â€œNot here.” He looked over her head and out across the city. He shouldn’t do this—shouldn’t even be considering it—but he had to do something , and Mittron and Verchiel had left him little choice. “Can we go somewhere else?”
    A pause. Then a scowl. “Fine. I’ll just see if they need us for anything here first.”
    â€œNo.”
    Alex stopped in mid-swivel. Slowly turned back to face him again.
    â€œI beg your pardon?”
    â€œThis is a waste of time.”
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œYou’re not going to find him this way.”
    â€œAll right,” she said, “then how will we find him?”
    â€œWe need to talk,” he repeated. “But not here.”
    He saw her waver, her sense of duty warring with curiosity. At last she fished the car keys out of her pocket.
    â€œWe’ll get a coffee,” she said. “You’re buying.”

EIGHT
    Alex slid into the red vinyl booth across from Trent and righted her overturned cup to await coffee from the approaching waitress. Trent did not follow suit.
    â€œNot a coffee drinker?” she asked.
    â€œNot really.”
    â€œTea?”
    â€œI’m fine. Thanks.”
    Alex slid her cup to the edge of the table. She watched the waitress pour coffee, shook her head at the offer of a menu, and watched the woman depart again, headed for another booth near the door. Across the table, Trent stared out the window, jaw clenched, fingers drumming on the worn tabletop. Alex suppressed the urge to reach across and smack his hand into silence, partly because it would be rude, mostly because she didn’t dare touch him again.
    She picked up the sugar dispenser, dumped a rough teaspoon’s worth into her cup, and stirred her coffee. Then she set the spoon on a napkin she pulled from the dispenser. Determined to follow through on her decision—arrived at on the drive over—to try once again for a fresh start with her new partner, she cleared her throat.
    â€œSo. Nothing like coming into a new section in the middle of chaos,” she said. “Talk about trial by fire.”
    â€œAre we going to talk about the killer or not?”
    For a moment, Alex was speechless. Then, when words threatened to return, she opted to drown them in a gulp of stale, lukewarm brew so she wouldn’t say something she probably shouldn’t.
    Like Kiss my ass .
    She scowled at the pedestrians passing by on the sidewalk, deciding she liked this man less and less with each of their encounters. Even without taking into account his propensity for sprouting feathered appendages or setting her soul on fire with the slightest touch.
    Maybe she should just flat-out refuse to work with him and take her lumps. Roberts wouldn’t be happy, but facing his displeasure couldn’t be any worse than this.
    Then again, how much worse could this get? If she and Trent could get past circling one another with raised hackles, and she could get past her unruly hormones, surely things