Sins of the Flesh

With a shake of her head, she pressed until he passed out. Then she dragged them both into the condo she’d just left and closed the door once more with a soft snick.

She checked her watch. The whole exchange had taken less than three minutes. But they were three precious minutes that she could ill afford to lose because she had no idea where the reaper was, or why he hadn’t followed. That was making her uneasy. The fact that he hadn’t come after her right away. The lack of a frontal assault heralded a sneak attack.

She hauled the rug with Kuznetsov’s dead weight onto her shoulder once more and hit the button for the elevator. A glance told her it was stopped on the twenty-sixth floor.

Kuznetsov’s floor.

Where she’d left the reaper pinned to the wall.

Her pulse ramped up as the car began its descent. She shifted to the side, knife in hand, held out of sight behind her thigh.

The doors slid open.

A birdlike, white-haired woman stood dead center of the enclosed space, blinking at her. Calliope kept the knife exactly where it was and didn’t jump to conclusions based on the woman’s appearance. Badass things often came in innocuous packages.

And the reaper could be in there, hiding in plain sight. She wouldn’t see him unless he wanted her to.

Her gaze dipped to the floor. No blood trail. While he might be able to hide himself, she doubted he’d be able to make his blood disappear once it left his body. So odds were that he hadn’t hitched a ride with the tiny, wrinkled virago who was glaring daggers at her.

“You can’t come in here with that,” the woman snapped, stepping forward to bar her way and pointing at the carpet. “You need to get the padding from the moving room and hang it. You can’t just use the elevator for moving furniture whenever you feel like it.” She hit the close button and muttered, “Rules are rules,” as the doors slid shut.

Calliope let the car go then hit the button again, mentally ticking off seconds. The goons were going to wake up and get their bearings. Worse, the reaper could show up at any time. She mapped the exit sign on her left. The stairs would be—

The doors opened. The second elevator was empty. She checked for blood drops and, seeing none, stepped inside, angling herself so the rug stretched corner to corner in order to fit.

High-end building. High-end security.

Keeping her head bowed to obscure her features, she cast a sidelong look at the far corner and, sure enough, there was the camera. She could throw something, smash the lens. But that would only alert security to a problem. Better to forge on, act as if she had nothing to hide. She dipped her head and kept her face hidden by the massive roll of rug and man on her shoulder.

As the car descended floor by floor, she willed it not to stop, not to let anyone on. The fine hairs at her nape stood on end and unease buzzed through her like bees through a hive. The lower the elevator went, the stronger the sensation grew.

Five floors…four…three…

Finally, the doors slid open.

She tensed. Someone was out there, and it wasn’t a low-level supernatural or Topworld grunt.

Her bet was on the soul reaper. It was a bet she’d prefer to lose.

The lobby appeared empty, except for the red-coated concierge behind his desk. Appearances could be deceiving.

She took a quick look but saw no traces of blood on the ground. How fast did a reaper heal? Fast enough that blood from his wound would no longer give him away?

Spinning, she took three steps toward the back of the building, aiming for the rear exit. The buzz turned brutal, as though a thousand fire ants crawled all over her, taking tiny little bites.

Plan C, then, which would be—she shot a glance at the concierge who was halfway around his desk now—brazening it out.

She headed for the doors. Attention fixed, she didn’t even glance at the concierge, though she picked up his movement in her peripheral vision.

He was scowling at the rug.

She walked faster, all her senses telling her the soul reaper was close. Too close.

The fact that she could sense him was bad. Very bad. She shouldn’t be able to. Soul reapers were impossible to detect, unless they wanted to be.

Which left two possibilities. He could be choosing not to dampen himself, wanting her to recognize, and fear, his presence.

Or taking his blood had created a connection between them. That possibility was one of the main reasons the Asetian Guard had rules about drinking from supernaturals. Because the connection could run both ways. Which meant that the reaper would be able to track her no matter where she went.

Either way, she needed to move quickly.

“Hey,” the concierge called just as she reached the glassed-in front of the lobby. The revolving door was a no-go; the rug wouldn’t make it through.

“Hey, you,” he called again, louder, closer. “You can’t just bring that rug down like that.”

The concierge was bearing down on her. The sirens outside were far too close now. The sensation that she was being stalked was crawling over her skin.