Sins of the Flesh

And that was another thing that Calliope must divulge. Her failure to properly train and teach Roxy Tam.

Calliope turned fully to face her mentor. “What of Kuznetsov?” she asked, changing the subject because there was nothing left to be said. Her shortcomings would be picked over by the Matriarchs. No need to tell the full story before she must.

“He was offered rest, a bath and clothing, as well as refreshments.”

Of course he was. While the Matriarchs might leave Calliope to stew out here on the stone balcony in the cold, they would not treat a captive less than humanely. It was their way.

“What do you know of Djeserit Bast?” Zalika asked.

“She is a High Reverend in the Toronto branch of the Temple of Setnakht.” She knew that from Roxy, and she’d done a bit of poking around on her own, as well. But her focus had been Kuznetsov. “She was involved in an attempt on a Daughter of Aset, a former trainee for the Guard who never took first blood.”

Zalika’s brows rose. “Naphré Kurata?”

“One and the same.”

“And Kuznetsov? Did he reveal anything during your journey?” Zalika asked.

“Nothing. And…” She shook her head, uncertain how to explain what she’d felt each time she’d questioned Kuznetsov during the long drive. “I had this odd conviction that he wasn’t simply keeping the answers to himself. I felt that there was some sort of block in place, as though he couldn’t access his own memories. He knew they were there and what they pertained to, but he didn’t know the details of what he had experienced.”

Zalika looked at her sharply. “What makes you say that? You are not a soothsayer. That is not your talent.”

“No, it isn’t. I don’t know what makes me think that. Perhaps his expressions. He looked—” she paused, searching for the right word “—perplexed.”

“What you say is in keeping with what Meharet described,” Zalika said.

Meharet had the gift of freeing one’s tongue. She could lure even the most taciturn individual into conversation and steer that conversation along the path she desired. Her abilities were strong. She could touch secrets, the buried darkness that people swept into the dusty corners of their minds. Meharet could draw out the things that people wanted to hide, even from themselves. Most especially from themselves.

“She learned nothing?” Calliope asked.

“Even she could find nothing of value in Pyotr Kuznetsov’s mind.”

“I have spent some time with him,” Calliope murmured. “I believe he has a great deal in his mind. Much of it evil.”

“It is possible that someone purposefully tampered with his thoughts and left nothing to find.”

“Who? It would take power and skill comparable to that of the Matriarchs’ to perform—” her voice trailed away as she thought of the cartouche that Malthus Krayl had held in his hand then threaded on the chain about his neck “—such a delicate task,” she finished.

“A question I wish I had an answer to. It appears that someone has taken the memories of Pyotr Kuznetsov’s actions and hidden them even from himself. He knows he committed murder. He knows he was part of a ceremony, that he took blood and life from one who should not die. But he cannot remember details. Not a single detail.”

Calliope stared at her. “Took blood and life—” She could not contain her astonishment, didn’t even try. She’d suspected that Kuznetsov was involved in Lokan Krayl’s death, but Zalika was saying the involvement was more than peripheral, as she had assumed. That he had participated in the kill. How was that even possible?

She was a supernatural, a blooded Daughter of Aset, one who had sipped from Malthus Krayl’s life force. She knew what flowed through his veins and powered his cells. Even that small bit of blood and prana had ramped her own power up immeasurably. The remnant of that power was the only thing keeping her on her feet after so many hours without rest. Still, she would have been no match for him. Whatever small victories she gained in their brief skirmish had been thanks to the element of surprise and quick thinking. But a skirmish wasn’t a war. She didn’t delude herself into imagining she could have killed him. So how could Kuznetsov, who was purely mortal, have murdered Malthus Krayl’s brother?

“How could a mortal kill an unkillable soul reaper?”

Zalika offered a faint smile, accenting the high curve of her cheekbones. “A question we would all like answered.”

“He couldn’t have done it,” Calliope said. “Whatever information of value he might reveal, it will not be a confession of personal guilt. We can only hope that he manages to remember, and name, those he allied with.”