Sins of the Flesh

Zalika raised a brow. “Or we can hope he does not.”


The words were softly spoken, but their message was clear. If Kuznetsov’s allies that night had been Daughters of Aset, members of the Asetian Guard, then to remember them would put them all at risk. The only members of the Guard with enough power to even contemplate such a deed were the Matriarchs. If they had killed Lokan Krayl, if Kuznetsov somehow remembered that and the information got out, Sutekh would come for them with a vengeance.

All of which would explain the Matriarchs’ directive that the dead reaper must stay dead. They said it was because Lokan Krayl’s reanimation would lead to a war of apocalyptic proportions when he named his killers and Sutekh drew the entire Underworld into his vengeance.

If it was the Matriarchs who had done the deed, all the more reason to ensure that their victim could not name them and that any witnesses were removed. If Kuznetsov could attribute the deed to a blooded Daughter, then he had sealed his fate.

“Zalika, the cartouche of Aset. Who wears such a one?”

“The Goddess herself. The Matriarchs. No other.” Zalika stared at her. “You know that.”

The urge to tell all, to seek her friend’s guidance, was nearly overwhelming. But decades of training and habit were not easily overcome. In the end, she said only, “Yes. I’m sorry. I’m just very tired.”

Zalika laid her hand on Calliope’s arm and gave a gentle squeeze.

At that moment, the front doors swung open, held by two members of the Guard.

“Come,” Zalika said. “The Matriarchs are ready for you now.”

But was she ready for them?





“HOW IS IT THAT HER SOUL told him nothing? How is that even possible?” Mal paced across Sutekh’s greeting chamber and snagged a piece of baklava from the table laden with sweets. His father always kept a ready supply of food brought in from Topworld because if Mal and his brothers consumed the food of the dead, they would be permanently consigned to the Underworld, never again able to move between realms.

“I’ll tell you the same thing I told you the last ten times you asked,” Alastor said. “Dad says he sent Kai Warin to harvest Djeserit Bast. She offered nothing when Kai questioned her. He did his thing. Sutekh claimed her and worked his charm on her intact soul. She didn’t seem to know a bloody thing about Lokan’s death, other than the names of the humans we already knew were involved. So he swallowed her darksoul—” “And it was blank as a wiped hard drive,” Dagan finished.

“Now there’s a question,” Alastor said. “Can you really wipe a hard drive? I mean, doesn’t something always stay on it?”

“There are programs—”

“She offered no names?” Mal interrupted.

Dagan shrugged. “Yeah. She offered names. Ones we already knew. All human.”

Mal stared at them, his thoughts churning. What they were describing was impossible. Sutekh should have been able to read every dark deed Djeserit Bast had ever done. That was what happened when he took a darksoul and fed on it. He got a megashot of pure power and all the knowledge of his victim’s soul.

Except, in the case of Djeserit Bast, he hadn’t. And in the case of Joe Marin. And in the case of pretty much anyone linked in any way, shape or form to Lokan’s murder.

Each one had come up a blank slate.

Like someone had wiped them clean.

All soul reapers could wipe the conscious memory of a human who happened to see too much. It was a sort of hypnosis that left the individual certain it had all been a dream. But the human still retained the memory. It wasn’t as if they could go in and cut it out of the gray matter.

“Who has that sort of power?” Mal asked. “Who could obliterate any hint of memory?”

He munched another piece of baklava, craving the sugar hit. He was almost completely healed from his burns now, but his half-god metabolism was still screaming for glucose.

Turning, he strode toward the table that had been set up in the center of the room. It was draped in gold cloth and guarded by a phalanx of soul reapers. And smack-dab in the middle was a lead box covered in symbols. Among them was the Amenta, the symbol for the Underworld. An ankh with wings and horns, the symbol of Aset’s Daughters, the Otherkin. A shenu, or cartouche, surrounding Aset’s name. The flail and crook, the symbol of majesty and dominion.

“They seem to point to Aset, or possibly Osiris, as Lokan’s killers,” Dagan said, following Mal’s gaze.

“They do, don’t they?” Mal moved closer, shooting a quelling look at the guard who shifted to block his way. “You think you need to protect him from me?” he asked softly. The soul reaper met his gaze, held it and finally backed down. He stepped aside and Mal moved closer to the lead box.

He knew what was in it. Lokan’s partial remains.

Seven parts.

Hands. Feet. Arms. Torso.