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him filtered through, and he became aware of the cleanup operation near his feet as someone picked up pieces of shattered cup and blotted up coffee. Still the blue eyes never wavered, never left his.
    He fought back the urge to seek out Verchiel on the spot and demand an explanation for this crisis. An explanation of how a mortal could have seen a Power in his angelic form and damn near set off his full wrath.
    Ten minutes ago he wouldn’t have hesitated to increase his energy vibration to its normal level, to step out of the mortal realm and into the heavenly one. Ten minutes ago, he’d been confident his disappearance into thin air and his absence for the barest flicker of mortal time would go unnoticed. Now the awareness in a mortal’s eyes had changed the very parameters of his world.
    Someone jostled his arm.
    â€œDamn,” he heard a man mutter beside him. “Would you look at that?”
    Doug Roberts stepped forward, moving between him and the woman, severing their eye contact and allowing Aramael to take a breath he hadn’t known he needed. Aramael watched the police supervisor stoop and pry something loose from the woman’s clenched fingers, then straighten and hold it aloft.
    Roberts whistled and shook his head. “The whole bloody handle gave way,” he said to the woman. “You’re lucky you weren’t burned. You are okay, aren’t you?”
    Aramael saw her blink, focus on the cup handle in Roberts’s hand, and blink again.
    â€œLucky,” she echoed in a tight, hollow voice. “Yeah.”
    She’d never know how lucky. Unleashed against a human, the Power could have caused a lot more than a coffee cup to explode, and all the Nephilim blood in the world wouldn’t have saved her. Aramael shoved his fists into his front pockets. Verchiel had one hell of a lot to answer for.
    The woman’s stare returned to him and he stiffened, self-preservation stirring in him again. Rigid and watchful, he waited as her slow gaze moved over him, resting briefly on his shoulders. After a moment, she raised her eyes to his, wariness written across her features. Aramael waited for her to speak. Braced himself for the questions.
    But instead, the woman’s expression turned bleak. He watched as her mouth tightened, her throat convulsed, her chin lifted. Watched as she looked away and focused on empty air.
    â€œExcuse me,” she whispered. “I should—I have to—excuse me . . .”
    She walked away, her back stiff and her movements jerky. Beside him, Aramael heard the police supervisor grunt.
    â€œHuh. What the hell got into her?” Roberts murmured. “Why don’t you wait in my office, Trent? I’ll make sure she’s okay and then we’ll get down to business.”
    Aramael nodded. “Take your time,” he told Roberts. “I’ll just get another coffee.”
    And see about raising a little angelic hell.
    Â 
    ARAMAELSLAMMED OPEN the solid oak door with little regard for its antiquity and even less regard for the nerves of those on the other side of it. A startled shriek greeted his entry. He towered over the diminutive female Virtue who had just dropped an armload of files onto the marble floor, scattering paperwork across the office foyer.
    â€œWhere is she?” he demanded. He scowled for emphasis, but his fierceness only seemed to rob the Virtue of speech. He studied the five closed doors that ringed the reception room. He’d never been here before—never had reason to be—and had no interest in playing find-the-Dominion. He cinched in his temper a few notches.
    â€œVerchiel,” he grated. “Where is she?”
    The Virtue opened her mouth but emitted no sound. She hastily extended an arm, pointing to a door on the left. He brushed past her, ignoring the alacrity with which she jumped away from physical contact with him, and pushed into Verchiel’s office.
    Two long strides