Sins of the Flesh

Her heart slammed against her ribs. Her senses hummed with the need to get Kuznetsov the hell out of here.

It had been a very long time since she had allowed emotion to shoehorn aside logic. This was not like her. Her responses were out of whack. She could almost believe that the reaper’s blood was messing with her mind, like a bad drug.

In a strange way, that possibility decreased her agitation. It offered a logical explanation. She could work with that.

The glass door and freedom beckoned. She slammed her palm against the auto-open. Almost there.

“Hey!” The concierge’s hand closed on her wrist. She turned her head to the right, ready to hurt him if she had to.

Someone shouldered between them.

The weird, wired feeling that had set her skin prickling ramped up into overdrive.

“Hello, Calliope,” the soul reaper said.

Instinctively, her hand dropped to the knife at her thigh, only to find the sheath empty.

Steel flashed as he flipped her knife in his hand so the blade tucked up against his forearm, out of sight of the human who was buzzing beside them like a gnat.

Wonderful. Now he had her sword and two of her knives.

She lifted her head and met his gaze.

His eyes were the pale gray of metal so cold it burned the skin.

And his lips peeled back in a smile that promised retribution and blood.





CHAPTER SEVEN



The blood which dropped from them was captured…

—The Egyptian Book of the Dead, Chapter 18

“HAPPY TO SEE ME?” Mal asked, careful to keep his body angled so the human wouldn’t see the bloodstain on his shirt or the knife tucked against his forearm. Most mortals tended to be disturbed by blood, and he’d prefer to get the hell out of here without further mayhem.

“Thrilled beyond measure.” Calliope’s gaze lingered for an instant on her sword, which hung down his back in its makeshift black silk sheath. He bet she wanted that back, but her expression gave nothing away. In fact, her features were completely serene, offering no clue as to her emotions. He clamped his hand on her upper arm, enjoying the flare of anger that turned her eyes from cat green to darkest jade. He’d like to see her eyes change color while she was under him, or over him, or up against a wall, naked and wild.

And he had a feeling she would be wild, once he stripped away the heavy layers of her control.

He blinked as the thought hit him with a feeling of déjà vu. As though he’d had her under him or over him. But he’d remember those eyes if he’d seen them before…

Except, yeah, he kept thinking he had seen them before. Not crystal green. Not cool and reserved. Those eyes in a different face. Or maybe that face with different eyes.

“You brought that down without signing up for a move time.” The concierge distracted Mal from his thoughts, poking his index finger into the rug in choppy bursts, like a woodpecker going at a tree. “I’m going to have to check the elevator for damage. And you’re going to have to sign the appropriate paperwork now.”

“How much damage could a rug do?” Mal asked, enjoying the secret irony. In Calliope Kane’s hands, no doubt a great deal. But the concierge wouldn’t know that.

Mal held out a C-note, folded between his second and third fingers, then blinked as he realized Calliope was mirroring his movement. His gaze slid down her catsuit-clad form, and he wondered where she was hiding her wallet. The only curves and bumps he saw were the ones that ought to be there.

Ah, there, a zippered pocket on her hip.

There was silence for a heartbeat.

“I guess not much damage.” With a smirk, the guy took Mal’s offering then plucked the bill from Calliope’s fingers. He backed off a bit, his expression going from belligerent to almost friendly. “But she should have followed proper moving protocol.”

“Absolutely. She should have followed protocol—”

“She is standing right here,” Calliope said, her tone devoid of inflection.

“Sisters—” Mal shook his head and shot the concierge a mano-e-mano look “—gotta love the way they call you at all hours. To help with a rug.” Turning to Calliope, he winked. “And it looks as though you don’t even need me after all. You’ve already done the tough job. Got everything rolled up nice and tight.”

He waited with anticipation for her to stiffen up like an overstarched collar. He liked the idea of getting under her skin.

She denied him that pleasure. She didn’t even blink.

“She’s your sister?” The concierge was the picture of confusion. “That’s—” He grimaced. “I don’t look at my sister like…” His voice trailed away as Calliope shot him a look that would shrivel a man’s balls.

She shifted the rug on her shoulder.

“Must be heavy,” Mal murmured, all solicitous concern. “Why don’t you let me help y—”

“Touch it, and lose a finger,” Calliope said, her tone low and flat.