Sins of the Flesh

Stepping behind the Dumpster, she moved several large metal cans and found the package she’d stored long before dawn in anticipation of tonight. She opened it and tucked a knife in her boot, strapped one to her thigh and slid her third blade into a sheath at the small of her back. Finally, she lifted her sword and settled it in place lying flat along her spine.

She checked her watch. Sixteen minutes had elapsed since she’d left Kuznetsov standing in the street. That left her nine minutes’ leeway in her time line.

She pulled out her phone and downloaded and saved the video Roxy had sent her. Then she hit Play.

Black-gloved hands wielded blades with expert skill as they skinned a man’s chest. Not a mortal man. A soul reaper. Rumor had it that a week after the video aired, the skin had been sent to Sutekh as a gift, stretched and pinned in place in a black plastic frame. It was a clear step toward war, but the killers had yet to make themselves known.

The soul reaper’s skin was tattooed: an ankh with wings and horns. The dark mark. The mark of Aset. A mark no soul reaper would willingly put on his body. Someone had put the ink into his skin, an inverted mark.

But Calliope wasn’t interested in any of that. It was old news.

What she wanted was a fresh clue. She wanted to know who had done the deed.

The Underworld was divided in much the same way that Topworld crime syndicates marked territory in human cities. Territories were held by Osiris, Hades, Pluto, Izanami, Sutekh—the überlord of chaos and evil—and a vast list of lesser gods, demigods and genies that populated all major and minor religions. There were handshake alliances, but they were fragile, the balance determined by territorial and volatile creatures.

Killing the soul reaper was a sure way to upset the balance. Pinning it on Aset, Sutekh’s ancient enemy, sealed the deal. Despite the inverted ankh tattooed in the reaper’s skin, Calliope wasn’t convinced that Aset or her Daughters had been in any way involved. Whoever the killer was could have meant to divert attention from the truth.

The video was grainy and dark, jumping around like grease in a hot pan. There were no faces. Only the reaper’s chest and two sets of black-gloved hands. Knives with black blades. Blood. An oblong bowl.

Wait.

She paused the feed and stared at the lower-left corner. Ungloved fingers holding the bowl. Short nails, clipped and neat. A ring in the shape of a scarab beetle.

She knew that ring. Kuznetsov wore one exactly like it, as did every Setnakht priest.

Interesting, but not revelatory. She’d already suspected they were somehow involved. This was just confirmation.

She hit Play again and watched a little more, her eyes scanning the corners and the background before returning to the main action. Later, she’d take her time, watch it frame by frame. She’d get a copy to a Topworld tech who would look at anything for a price. He might be able to enhance the video and see things her eyes missed.

For a few seconds, she focused on the blades. One moved into the foreground. The very end of the hilt was visible for an instant, the design unusual.

Again, she paused the feed then glanced at her watch. Seven minutes and forty-three seconds of her nine minutes were up. The video would have to wait.

She turned off her phone, tucked it into the pocket at her hip and zipped it closed.

Then she moved, little more than smoke in shadow.





MAL TOOK THE STAIRS to the twenty-sixth floor. He was in no rush. In fact, he wanted to let his soon-to-be good buddy Pyotr Kuznetsov settle in and relax.

The hallway was empty, not a soul about. Soul. He grinned at the private joke. Slipping a narrow pick from a black leather case, he applied it to the lock on Kuznetsov’s door. Of course, he could simply have turned the handle and torn it free, but he still enjoyed the challenge, the thrill of a lock giving beneath his hand.

Besides, he didn’t want to leave a broken handle visible to anyone who might walk past. Nothing to alert suspicion. He had no desire to invite human notice. That tended to make things messy.

Within seconds he felt the tumblers turning, the lock opening. He stepped inside, pulled the door shut behind him and locked it once more.

Anticipation hummed. He had a good feeling about this. The High Reverend was going to be a fount of information. They were going to have a friendly, guy-to-guy talk about his role in the killing of three women. Three whom Mal knew of, anyway.

More important, Pyotr Kuznetsov was going to share intimate details about what role he had played in Lokan’s death. Mal meant to get his answers, even if he had to rip out the bastard’s heart to do it.

He was going to enjoy helping his new pal Pyotr remember—and share—every second of the night Lokan died.

Mal glanced around, the darkness presenting no impediment to his reaper sight. His senses were attuned to even a whisper of sound. No guards. One heartbeat.

Too easy. No chase. No challenge. Where was the fun?