Sins of the Flesh

The pain was so terrible she could not even form a reply. How long she lay there, sobbing and suffering, she could not say.

She only knew that suddenly, the pain was gone. She could breathe. She could think.

Pushing up on all fours, she caught her breath.

“Leave us,” Sutekh ordered.

Djeserit turned her head and saw the servant, bowed at the waist. The woman straightened, and Djeserit gasped. The servant’s ears had been removed, her eyes and lips sewn shut.

“She is still able to perform her duties quite nicely,” Sutekh said and then slanted a glance toward Djeserit, who huddled on the floor. “Perhaps you would serve me in a similar manner. Is that not your wish, Djeserit Bast? To serve your master?”

In horror, Djeserit scuttled back on all fours. Her every sense became hyperaware. She smelled lotus blossoms and heard the burble of a brook. She felt the stone, cold under her hands.

Sutekh came toward her and hunkered down before her. Now, he wore the face and form of a young Pharaoh with eyes dark as coal, flat and soulless.

“You are dead, Djeserit Bast. Your mortal remains already bloat and rot.”

She made a desperate sound.

“And you claim to remember nothing of the night my son was killed, save for the names and faces of worthless mortals.”

Not merely a claim, she wanted to scream. The truth. Only the truth. I remember nothing more. But she could not speak; she could only sob.

“I will keep you here, with me,” Sutekh said, gentle, firm, and despite all she had seen and knew, she took comfort from his voice. “Right here. Not in a distant place, but close to me, as close as can be. Do you want that, Djeserit?”

So kind. After what she had done, he offered her this.

“Yes. I beg of you. Yes.”

And only when his jaws unhinged and she felt a terrible unraveling did she understand. She looked down and saw a part of herself separating from the rest. It was dark and slick and looked like an overfed slug. Her darksoul.

Her head jerked up. The gaping maw before her was dank and deep, and it smelled of death and rot and putrefaction.

She felt herself coming undone, tearing apart at the seams. The pain was indescribable, agony that went on and on.

With a cry, she tried to tear herself away. But it was too late.





CALLIOPE APPEARED TO TAKE some mental measurements of the Porsche’s trunk, then she made a sharp motion that negated that option.

“Unlock the door,” she prompted. Mal hit the automatic lock, watching her to see what she’d do next. Not surprisingly, she opened the passenger door, hefted Kuznetsov, dragged him over and shoved him in.

“You might have helped.” She glanced around, then, with a moue of distaste, dusted her palms against her thighs as though wiping away something unpleasant.

“Looked like you had everything under control.”

Turning back toward him, she rested one hand on the open passenger door.

He took in the pretty picture she made with the Porsche stretched out behind her, and he noted the details. Two seats, one of them occupied by the naked Kuznetsov, the other the driver’s seat. She meant to escape him, leave him behind. How did she imagine she’d accomplish that? He wasn’t about to smilingly turn over his keys. “Where’re you planning to sit, darlin’? On his lap?”

She cocked a brow. “The very thought is repulsive.”

“On my lap, then?” He liked that idea. Her sitting on him while he drove. Now that would be interesting. More interesting if neither of them were clothed and he kicked the engine into overdrive. Sex at 200 mph. Nice.

“That option is no less revolting. Possibly more so.” She meant every word.

Why? Yeah, she was a Daughter of Aset—okay, actually a member of the Asetian Guard, probably fairly high in the ranks if he had to guess—and he was Sutekh’s son, which meant they had oceans of hate between their kinds. But that hadn’t stopped him or his chosen bedmates from having a little fun in the past, a sort of temporary cease-fire that all parties enjoyed.

Not that he’d ever romped with a member of the Asetian Guard—if he thought about it now, he realized that he hadn’t. But he’d had more than his share of Xaphan’s concubines, several of Asmodeus’s girls, members of Osiris’s household, and…yeah…pretty much an endless list of those who would stand against him in a fight.

But the way he saw it, when they weren’t making war, why not make love? Or, at least, fuck. His bed—or any one of theirs—worked well as a neutral zone.

So what was it with Calliope Kane and the ramrod welded to her spine?

He prowled closer, stalking her, taking his time with each step, waiting to see if she would step back as he moved toward her. Not Calliope. She held her ground, her eyes on his, her features composed.

“You must spend hours practicing that look,” he murmured.