Sins of the Flesh

“Never.” He paused. “Step away. I have no wish to harm you. You can walk away from this untouched.” His gaze slid over her in leisurely perusal. His voice lowered. “Unless you wish to be touched.”


Ignoring that, she focused on her options, mentally tallying her strengths against his. The scale was heavily weighted in his favor. If only she could siphon a fraction of his power.

She blinked as the thought registered. There was a possibility…slim and repulsive, but there nonetheless.

Excitement stirred. She couldn’t kill him, but perhaps she could slow him down enough to facilitate her escape. With Kuznetsov. She had no intention of leaving the High Reverend behind.

A series of events and counterevents played through her thoughts.

Then the soul reaper reached for her and time spun away. Gray eyes, pale and clear and bright.

Eyes like his had haunted her for a century and a half.

She shook her head, clearing the memory, focusing on the moment. It was not the same man. That man was long dead.

But the images refused to go, the past blending with the present and the future.

A hand extending toward her. The sliver of light from between the curtains. The faint hum of the fan from the bathroom.

That was the future.

Her breath caught. She’d lived this scene before and would again; she had seen it in her mind’s eye, a portent of things to come. She’d seen him thrust his hand deep in her chest and tear out her still-beating heart.

Was that moment to be now?

Not if she could help it. Her fate was not set in stone. Her prescience did not account for all choices individuals could make, and that meant outcomes could change.

Arching back, she avoided his touch then kicked out at his knee, hoping for a distraction. For whatever reason, he didn’t go for her throat. Or her heart. He appeared to be considering his next move. That fraction of a second was enough.

In a practiced and perfected move, she bent her knee sharply, kicking her heel against the bottom of the long, stiffened leather sheath that hung down her back. The force was exactly enough to send her gleaming sword flying out the top, blade first.

Flicking her hand up, she caught the hilt as gravity drew the sword down. With her free hand, she snatched her knife from the sheath at the small of her back.

The soul reaper’s head came up and he moved. Fast. But not fast enough.

She spun and slashed horizontally through the curtains that covered the window. As the severed cloth pooled on the ground, she was already completing the arc, bringing the blade down toward the soul reaper’s shoulder.

Again, he moved, his hand little more than a pale blur. This time, he was almost fast enough.

She’d wanted to get his shoulder. His reflexes made that impossible. She barely managed to slice his forearm. Good enough. She hadn’t meant to maim or kill—not that killing him was even possible. She’d aimed merely to draw blood. And she’d succeeded.

“What the fuck?” he snarled, that pretty smile gone now, replaced by a grimace that bared his teeth and etched his features with pain and anger. “Do not make me hurt you.”

Blood welled in a thick line as the edges of his skin parted and the white of his bone shone through. That had to hurt. Soul reapers might not die, but they did feel pain—a fact that brought Calliope pleasure, despite her tenuous circumstance.

He wrenched her sword from her grasp and tossed it against the far wall. She offered no resistance. When he reached for her, she made no effort to evade, letting him close his fingers on her wrist, effectively blocking her from using the knife she still held. She didn’t need it now; her sword had done the job.

The smell of his blood was rich and thick in the air.

As he yanked her closer, she pretended to struggle, diverting his attention. He twisted the knife from her grasp even as he caught hold of her shoulder with his free hand, clearly expecting her to try to break free.

Instead, she launched herself against him, revulsion bubbling in her gut as she sealed her lips to the gaping wound on his forearm.

His blood filled her mouth.

Here was the reason she had seen him in her future. Not for sex, but for blood.

With a roar, he shook his arm as though trying to shake off an insignificant bug. She sank her teeth in, holding on like a pit bull.

The blood. There was only that. Horrible and beautiful. Repulsive and lush. Copper sweet. Salty. As always, she found the taste both vile and wondrous.

Conflicting emotions warred inside her: loathing, the thrill of victory, rage and hate. She locked them down. Let herself feel nothing. She focused only on the necessary task.

She was a pranic feeder. She sipped the life force of others to enhance her own.

At the moment, she didn’t see him as the most powerful supernatural the Underworld had to offer. Instead, she saw him as food.

She was old enough—and disciplined enough—that she usually fed by tapping into a being’s prana and taking a small sampling of what she needed. Without taking blood.