Sins of the Flesh

But he didn’t want her injured. If anyone was going to lay a finger on her, it’d be him. And not in anger.

He spun, just to make certain the fireball hadn’t sent stray sparks to burn her.

Only she wasn’t there.

She was in the car—his car—and she slammed it into gear and tore away to the end of the parking lot.

As he fended off another fireball, he watched the car from the corner of his eye. Then he turned his head for a split second. She cast him a single glance, met his gaze and looked away. He wanted to think it was because she felt a little guilty for taking off on him, but more likely she was laughing at how easily she’d made her getaway.

The fire genies were slinking toward him now, and he turned a half circle, waiting for them to make their move.

Silly. Little. Boy.

Yeah, he was.

Calliope hadn’t been going for her knife at all but rather his keys. And she’d succeeded. Not because he hadn’t clued in.

Well, no, actually, he hadn’t. Not at first. But then he had, and he’d let her take them, preferring to know she’d gotten away safe. With Kuznetsov. He’d find her again. And with her, his prize. If they’d all three hung around here, more than one of them would have been singed. And Calliope or Kuznetsov wouldn’t heal the way he could. He wanted them both alive and healthy for the moment, for completely different reasons.

Two of Xaphan’s concubines went after her as the Porsche tore out of the lot. White-hot fireballs flew from their fingers to bounce across the roof and hood, leaving scorched, black trails on his brand-new paint. Damn.

On instinct, Mal dove and rolled toward the two that were after Calliope, knocking their feet out from under them like bowling pins. Protecting her seemed immeasurably important. Which made absolutely no sense. But then, nothing had made sense since the second he’d seen her step out of the cab in front of Kuznetsov’s building.

He told himself it was because he wasn’t about to let the fire genies burn her to a crisp and rob him of his payback.

She was his.

All he needed to do was find her again.

The fire genies rounded on him, a feral pack working in synchrony, faces etched with rage and malice.

“We can talk this through,” Mal said, spreading his hands and aiming for nice.

Nerita rounded on him, her lips peeled back in an ugly snarl, baring very white, small, pointed teeth.

“I called you,” she said, her voice low. “I waited at the places I know you like. But you never even thought of me, did you? Did you?” The look in her eyes wasn’t quite right.

In that second, Mal realized this wasn’t just about Kuznetsov. This was personal. “Shit.”

His clothing sparked and multiple tiny flames flared. The temperature edged from hot to blistering. He slapped at the flames as he advanced on her.

“Nerita,” he began but never got to finish. Extending her right arm, she opened her fist with a sharp movement and fire came at him in a stream.

Gritting his teeth against the pain that screamed through every nerve in his body, he fought a losing battle, slapping at the fires as they grew and merged until everything he wore went up like a torch, the cloth melting into his skin.

He dropped. Rolled.

The pain cranked higher, his clothing gone, the fire cooking him like a spitted roast.

Then it stopped altogether as his nerve endings burned away.

Healing from this was going to be hell.

With a snarl, he lost all his charm. He surged to his feet, clawed his fingers and drove them straight through the chest of the nearest fire genie, tearing through flesh and shattering her ribs. She screamed as he tore her heart out, blood spurting from the severed vessels to spatter over him and the concrete at his feet.

Then he spun and did the same to a second fire genie who leaped at his back.

Nice only took you so far.





CALLIOPE HIT THE GAS and tore out of the parking lot. In the rearview mirror she watched Malthus Krayl go up like a torch. Her gut clenched, and she had the fleeting thought that she ought to go back and save him, that she owed him that. Which was so out of character that she actually felt her stomach churn.

Or maybe she felt sick because he was burning like a log in a fireplace. She wouldn’t have wished that on him. The second the thought formed, she squelched it. He was a soul reaper. The enemy of her kind. Her enemy. She wanted all Sutekh’s reapers dead. Shouldn’t matter to her how that was accomplished.

Besides, a reaper who’d been charred like an over-cooked burger wouldn’t be coming after her. Which meant she’d have to contend only with the fire genies.