After examining his own clothing, the old guy finally looked up at him. “Drink?” he asked, his voice gravelly with age.
Michael nodded as he placed the flashlight under his arm and took a step forward. “Sir, do you have any family I could call? Someone who could come get you?”
The old man eyed him strangely and then smiled. Flashing a row of yellowish teeth, he launched at him.
Unprepared for the sudden attack, Michael stumbled backward. Before he could recover, the old man was on him. Using shocking strength, the elderly male wrapped one bony hand around his throat and tossed him several feet.
Michael slammed into the brick wall and slid down. A brief surge of panic shot through him as he recalled the hours of training meant to prepare him for all the random shit one came into contact with on the street, but this…this was different. He struggled to his feet just as the old man backhanded him against the wall, cracking his head in the process. Dazed, he tasted blood on his lip.
The man bent down, a greasy lock of gray hair falling across his face. He picked Michael back up by the throat, dangling him several feet off the ground. “Officers of the peace are always my favorite to kill or turn.”
Gasping for air, Michael pried on the old man’s bony fingers. The pint-size grandfather held him, all six feet and then some, suspended in air. No amount of training at the academy could have prepared him for this. To be honest, he’d never been this scared shitless before. Not even when, at the age of six, he found his mother dead from self-inflicted slits to her wrists.
The man brought Michael’s head close to his and laughed. His heart slammed painfully against his ribs as the man brought his head close and laughed, the raw sewage and sulfur stench of his breath engulfed him. Week-old vomit or rotten meat smelled better than this.
Then he saw his eyes. A black, frothy liquid seeped from the corners and spread over the whites of his eyes, covering the dull blue irises. Terror turned Michael’s flesh cold. He knew he was going to die. Here, in a rat- infested alley in Anacostia, murdered by a deranged nursing-home patient. He reached for his gun, but it was too late. Just as he took what he knew would be his last breath, he heard something land softly behind the old man. Without warning, the grip on his throat was released.
Michael crumpled to the dirty alley, clutching his bruised throat. Even in his shocked state, he registered the silver dagger that pierced through the man’s chest, right through the heart. A wound like that should have been a bloody mess, but there was no blood. Not even a trickle.
The dagger retracted quickly, and the man slumped to the ground in a lifeless heap. Only a whisper of air reminded him he was not alone. Climbing to his feet, he leveled his gun at his would-be rescuer.
A young woman stood in front of him. She was a tiny thing, with snapping, angry green eyes and a head full of auburn waves that fell past her breasts.
“I just saved your ass, and you’re going to shoot me?”
For a moment he did nothing, and then he sputtered, “What the hell just happened?”
The woman glanced down at the body and then slowly back at him. “What does it look like?”
Michael shook his head as he reached for his handcuffs. “All right, you’re under arrest. Drop your weapon now, and put your hands up!”
The feisty little redhead snickered, holding up her hands. “What weapon?”
His gaze darted over her hands. They were empty. The only thing he noticed was two wide silver cuffs adorning both wrists. “Where’s the knife?” he demanded through clenched teeth. “The knife you used to kill the man!”
She dropped her hands to her hips. “You mean the man who was choking the life out of you?”
“Show me the weapon now.” He reached for his shoulder radio, needing to call this in. A would-be murderer and a murderer. There was going to be a crap-ton of paperwork to do tonight.
She simply scowled at him. “You know, I really don’t have time for this.”
His gun lowered a fraction of an inch. “What?”
That was all she needed. She moved lightning quick. Before he could squeeze off a round, she knocked the gun out of his hand with her forearm and punched him right in the jaw.
His head snapped back, but not before he caught the startled look on her face, and as he slipped into oblivion he heard her shout, “Crap!”
…
Lily stared down at the young officer, astonished and more than a little disturbed. Nervously wiping her hand across the front of her white tank, she stepped back. The minute her hand had connected with his flesh, she had known.
Damn it all to Hell. And she’d bet her rosy left butt cheek from the way he froze in front of the deadhead, he had no clue what he was. Cursing again, she pulled out her beat-up cell from her back pocket and dialed Luke.
He answered on the second ring. “What up?”
“We’ve got an epic problem in Anacostia. I need you and Remy now. You better call Nathaniel, too. This is going to involve the police.”
“Aw man, Lily. What the hell did you do now?”
Lily rolled her eyes, clicking the phone shut without answering. She nudged the cop with the tip of her boot. Yep, he was out cold and not coming around anytime soon. Squatting, she studied his lax face.
“Crap. Crap. Crap,” she hissed.
It wasn’t like she’d known when she punched him. She wouldn’t have if she did. On second thought, she probably would’ve still clocked him. But she may have softened the blow a little if she’d realized he was one of her kind.
A Nephilim.
Chapter Three
“You knocked him out cold, Lily. Damn.”
She spared a wondrous smile for Luke. “He was going to shoot me.”
He frowned, glancing back at the softly snoring man sprawled across the bed tucked away in the Sanctuary. “I thought he was going to arrest you.”
“That was after he was going to shoot me,” she corrected.
His handsome face soured as he turned back to her. “I don’t think I like him.”
Ah, there was that dangerous undertone. Luke saw her as the little sister he probably never wanted. Hell, she grew up idolizing him while he spent time showing her the ropes. She still idolized him even when it was widely known that her skill surpassed his. Still, whenever anything seriously threatened her—which wasn’t often —his boyish charm and easy nature would disappear. Luke could be downright murderous when provoked, especially after Anna.
Wincing at the thought of the beautiful Nephilim Luke had most definitely loved, she patted his heavily muscled arm. “Nah, I don’t think he would have seriously shot me.”
That did nothing to erase the scowl. “Better wake up soon.”
Lily glanced back at the officer, reading his name tag. Officer M. Con? “I bet his first name is Michael.”
He snorted. “That’s what we call irony if so.”
The Archangel Michael, the patron saint of police officers, was probably rolling his eyes somewhere up there or having a chuckle. Or he was sharpening his righteous blade and taking aim at this young man’s neck. Archangels didn’t look too kindly on the Nephilim, although they fought on the same side of the big guy upstairs. Well, most of the time.
“He’s still out?”
They looked up as Remy entered the room with a broad smile spread across the deep chocolate hue of his face. His ropy dreads were tucked back. He cuffed Lily on the shoulder. “Damn, girl, always something.”
She shrugged dainty shoulders, glancing back at the officer. He’d been out since the moment he’d hit the
