Sins of the Flesh

She fixed him with a frigid look. “You asked. I answered. Your turn. Can you make us disappear?” She had answered. In fact, she’d told him far more than she imagined. She definitely knew whom the cartouche belonged to, and the fact that he had it in his possession troubled her.

“Fine. I don’t disappear. I merely prevent others from seeing me.” Three centuries back, when he’d first learned the trick, Mal had accepted it as magic. Now, he gave the credit to science. “The key is molecular vibrations. I can bend the bonds between atoms, rock them into different orientations. That alters the visible spectrum that reaches the viewer’s eye.”

It was as simple, and as complicated, as that.

When she made no comment, he continued. “I can bend the atomic bonds in my own molecules, but not yours. Or the rug’s. Or the High Reverend’s, and if the cops spot you walking down the street with the invisible man holding up the opposite end of this carpet, it’ll have the effect of drawing rather than deflecting attention.”

“Agreed.”

Wasn’t she chatty? Her tranquility made him itchy. She had to be pissed as all hell that he’d foiled her clean getaway, but there wasn’t a thing in her expression or tone to indicate that.

“I didn’t see your clothes,” she said.

“Beg pardon?”

“When you were bending your molecules in Kuznetsov’s apartment, I didn’t see you, or your clothes.”

“I can extend the ability a short radius around my body.”

She glanced to the left, then the right. “We’re exposed here. Can you summon a portal?”

“Not the best moment for a portal.” He was little surprised that she knew about them. Soul reapers could grab the energy that surged between Topworld and the Underworld and momentarily combine them to create a fracture between the realms, an icy portal that would allow them to travel directly to a place of their choosing. The ability wasn’t exactly common—or common knowledge—among other supernaturals.

Then he recalled that Gahiji had disgorged in her living room through a portal, chasing after Roxy Tam. That explained how Calliope was aware of them. “Unless I want the whole world to know that I can open a hole between dimensions, I need privacy—”

“We need to move,” she ordered sharply and led him into a narrow, dark alley between buildings as a third cop car sped past, proving his point about privacy. They both held still, blending with the shadows as the reflection of red lights danced along the wall.

He expected her to press for more information. When she didn’t, he asked, “You’re not curious?”

Her only answer was a one-shouldered shrug.

“You always this placid?”

She glanced back, eyes green and cool. “As a lake on a summer’s day.”

He thought about that for a second. “One filled with piranhas.”

Her lips curved in a cold, hard smile. “Watch out. Piranhas have a wicked bite.”

“Bite me any time, pretty girl.”

She made a dismissive gesture. “I already did.”

“Yeah. You did.” He wasn’t into pain, not giving it or getting it, but for some bizarre, twisted reason, the memory of her mouth on his forearm pulling his blood from his vein turned him on.

They kept moving, Kuznetsov and the rug that wrapped him joining them in a silent, fraught alliance.

Despite having been spotted with the rug, there was no hue and cry behind them. Which suited Mal just fine tonight, though usually he would have enjoyed a bit of a chase. But his forearm was stinging like a bitch. His chest felt as though someone had hammered a stake through it. Or a sword. And his shirt was damp and sticky with blood.

And speaking of blood, what hadn’t dripped, or been sucked, out of him was currently pooling in his groin as he watched Calliope Kane’s pretty, perky ass.

“Wait,” he ordered, figuring they were far enough from the building now that he could pause for a quick call.

She kept walking.

He tightened his grip on the rug and yanked back hard enough to fortify his message. She stopped but didn’t look back at him, just stood, staring straight ahead.

It was like a tug-of-war, each of them barking orders, pulling, tugging, vying for supremacy. He’d win, but it might be fun to let her think she had, just for a while.

The thought of how that would play out in bed didn’t help the direction of his blood flow.

He hauled out his cell, vaguely uneasy because she had given in too easily. He’d expected her to argue, to ignore his directive, maybe even to go for him, tooth and nail. He expected her to try to get the rug and Kuznetsov and hightail it for safety.

A reasonable expectation, given the damage she’d already managed to inflict on his person with exactly that objective in mind.

But she just stood there, not even asking why he’d wanted to stop. He thought that if he took his eyes off her even for a second, she’d pull a hidden weapon from—his gaze raked her from crown to toes—somewhere and gut him.