Sins of the Flesh

“Come,” he said and extended one hand toward her.

She shuffled forward, her feet sliding along though she didn’t consciously will them to move. And then memories flew at her like angry wasps. She had been in her office. She had turned and seen a man in the shadows. He had asked her questions, and she had answered. But he had wanted more. Information that she did not have.

Wrapping her arms across her belly, she tried to still her feet. But they kept moving. Against her will.

She remembered then that the man had reached for her, his hand shooting forward from the shadows. She had felt pain, horrific, indescribable pain, and when she had looked down she had seen the man’s hand buried in her chest and her blood dripping to the ground.

A soul reaper had come for her.

Her gaze jerked down. Her clothing was not blood-stained. She lifted her hand to her chest. There was no wound there.

“Sit,” Abasi Abubakar ordered, his voice soft.

Panting with fear and horror, she moved to the chair directly before him and sat.

He rose and went to a table that held an ornate Middle-Eastern teapot and small glass cups.

“You are pale,” he said and then poured tea in a glass. He added cubes of sugar then carried the glass to her and stood over her, holding the steaming cup. “Drink.”

She took the glass and sipped, her hand shaking so badly that liquid sloshed over the sides, burning her fingers. The sensation sent relief cascading through her. She could not be dead if she felt pain. Yes. That was surely true.

“Do you know why you are here?” Abasi asked, resuming his seat on his gold-inlaid throne.

No. Yes. She had done terrible things. Killed innocents. And participated in the murder of… Someone important. She could not recall, and as she pushed and strove for answers, terrific pain slammed through her skull. It was as if every time she drew too close to remembering some forbidden truth, a wall stopped her and no matter how hard she tried, she could not get around it.

“You participated in the murder of a soul reaper,” he said, his voice cold now, his words clipped. “Do you remember now?”

The pain in her head intensified.

“No,” she whispered, confused and appalled by the very thought. She was Sutekh’s worshipper. She would not kill one of his minions.

“My son,” he corrected softly, and before her horrified gaze Abasi Abubakar’s features melted away, to be replaced by a young and handsome man. Fair-haired. Familiar. She had seen that face. Where?

On the dead soul reaper.

“No,” she whispered again, the word broken and hoarse.

Yes. She remembered flashes. Blood. Knives. A black bowl.

The glass fell from her hand, shattering into a million shards on the stone floor. Because she did remember. She and Kuznetsov had made a pact. They had been there when the soul reaper was killed. She had held the bowl that caught his blood. But they were not the killers. It was—

With a cry, she grabbed her head, the memory bursting into such pain that she let loose a wild howl that went on and on. She fell to the floor and rolled from side to side, whimpering.

She saw the faces of young girls. Daughters of Aset. She had been part of their deaths. She and Kuznetsov.

“What do you remember?” His voice was gentle, luring her to trust, to tell all.

She stared at the being before her, his features changing again and again, melting between forms with incredible speed. And she knew he was her master.

“Sutekh,” she whispered and then rolled until she was on her knees, her forehead to the floor.

“Tell me,” he ordered, his tone almost kind.

“For you,” she gasped. “To bring you back. To let you walk in the sun.”

“How?”

“The prophecy. The blood of Aset. The blood of Sutekh. And the God will pass the Twelve Gates and walk the Earth once more.” She lay on the cold stone floor and sobbed as he stood over her. She wanted to touch him. To reach out and lay the tips of her fingers against his sandaled feet.

She dared not.

“A mortal could never kill a soul reaper. You had help. Underworld allies. Tell me,” he coaxed, so gently. “Surely you remember.”

She wanted to. She wanted to tell him everything. But she could find nothing of value in her thoughts. She babbled Kuznetsov’s name and the names of the Marin brothers, mortals who had been there that night. But they were dead. Killed. Who else?

“A child,” she whispered. “A little girl was there. She left before anything began.”

“The child is not important to you. Tell me who killed the soul reaper.” There was something commanding in his tone and something so frightening it iced her blood.

As she reached deep inside her mind for that memory, she came against that smooth, obsidian wall, and the pain exploded like an overripe tomato slammed by an angry fist.

A scream tore free, and another.

“Nothing coming to you?” Sutekh asked softly. “Nothing at all?”