Sins of the Flesh

She picked up her pace, and when she reached the foyer, her options clicked like a camera, snapshotting her plan: a lovely Bokhara carpet stretched over the travertine tile. One problem solved.

Working quickly, she moved the rug, flopped Kuznetsov on the underpad and rolled him snug as a bug, so he was cushioned and muffled. Then she rolled the rug on the outside. She hefted him onto her shoulder with only moderate effort, thanks to the soul reaper’s generous donation of red cells, plasma and life force.

A stack of mail on the console table caught her eye as she passed. She grabbed the first letter, memorized the name and address, then tossed it back on top of the pile. She owed these people for a balcony door and a rug.

She moved to the front door, paused and reached deep inside herself, searching for calm. The soul reaper—she didn’t want to give him the courtesy of using his name, not even in her thoughts—might well be out there, waiting for her. She closed her eyes, let her senses search for him and found nothing.

Which meant nothing. She already knew exactly how good he was at concealment.

Besides, whatever heightened abilities she had at the moment, she’d stolen from him. He was still stronger, faster and able to hide in plain sight. But she was out of time. She’d have to take the risk.

Unsettling. She was used to being in control, knowing the way any scenario would play out.

She was not fond of sliding by on the seat of her pants. Twice in two days was unbearable.

Tense, ready to bolt, she hauled the door open, knowing without a doubt that she was about to encounter something. But her ability to read upcoming events was crackling like static, pushed out of whack by the soul reaper’s blood.

The murmur of male voices came from her left. She dropped the carpet and took a defensive crouch, knife in hand. At this moment, she truly regretted the loss of her sword and its longer reach.

Two men rounded the corner of the hallway that cut at right angles to this one. Humans, with a faint whiff of supernatural clinging to them. They were Topworld grunts, mortals who did jobs for supernaturals. Some did it purely for money, believing they were working for the mob. Some did it because they knew the score and hoped to earn a supernatural’s favor, and with it, eternal life.

They had no idea what price they’d pay for that.

The man on the right was slower, lagging a half step behind the one on the left. The possible ways this scene might unfold played out in her mind. She calculated her options, analyzing her wisest course in a matter of seconds.

The rug lay at her heels.

They didn’t so much as glance at it, just kept their eyes locked on her. And she kept hers locked on them.

“Hello,” she greeted them.

They stopped dead and exchanged a look, clearly not expecting that. The one on the left had stopped first, which meant he’d be the one to move on her first.

She was already stepping aside as he lunged like a bull.

She spun, ramming her elbow into his solar plexus. Then she kicked back, nutting the guy on the right with her heel. They both doubled over, breath rushing out, knocking heads on the way down. She caught one by the throat and pressed hard on his carotid sinuses. The color drained from his face and his eyes rolled up as he closed his thick fingers around her wrists. Finally, he went out like a snuffed flame. She let go and he dropped with a meaty thud.

“I just killed your friend,” she lied to the second guy as he lifted his head, wheezing from the pain of getting kicked in the scrotum. She grabbed his throat and pressed, taking care not to overdo it. “Tell me who you work for, and I won’t kill you.”

“Big Ralph,” he croaked without even a hint of reluctance.

Calliope sighed. Loyalty was such a rare commodity.

Big Ralph was a Topworld grunt who ran prostitutes for Asmodeus, the Underworld demon of lust. Calliope had never met him, though his name had come up during conversations with Roxy a time or two. He was one of her sources.

“What did he send you to do?”

She tightened her hold. He clawed at her wrists, but he would have been no match for her at the best of times. He didn’t have a hope in hell while she was amped on reaper blood.

“Is today your day to die?” she whispered.

His eyes widened and he made an effort to shake his head, though her grip on his throat constrained him. She eased up enough to let him talk.

“There’s supposed to be a guy here who Big Ralph’s boss wants to talk to.”

“And you were generously going to play escort. Who’s Big Ralph’s boss?” she asked, not because she didn’t know, but because she wanted to see if he did.

“Don’t know. I swear it.”

“Who’s the guy he wants to see?”

“Kuznetsov.”

Of course. It was just that kind of night. “You’re on the wrong floor.”

The guy brightened. “You know which floor he’s on? We weren’t sure.”

“So you were what? Going door-to-door?”

The expression on his face said it all.