Watching Kyra tend to the German shepherd’s injured paw with such love and devotion, as if it was her own child rather than the pet of a loud mouthed elderly lady that constantly criticized her, made me truly hate my job. In three and a half minutes a doped up seventeen year old was going to kick the front door in and shoot her twice in the chest, then stand over her dead body while he rummaged through the cupboards for drugs.
And what could I do about it? Not a damn thing. My only purpose for being here was to guide her benevolent soul to its final destination. Well, technically I could incinerate the bastard before he ever stepped foot inside the clinic—as an Archangel I had the power of God’s wrath at my fingertips—but meddling with destiny was a good way to end up on the wrong end of a lightning bolt from the big guy.
It wasn’t until Kyra shrieked and stumbled frantically away from me that I realized I’d assumed corporal form. Crap.