Sins of the Flesh

Mal jerked his head toward the far end of the room and Kai headed in that direction. Alastor and Dagan followed.

“Thanks for cleaning up after me at Kuznetsov’s condo,” Mal said.

Kai’s expression was impassive. “I owed you.”

“Three whole words,” Dagan observed. “That a record for you?”

Kai slanted him a look, moving only his eyes, but said nothing. He wasn’t much of a talker, more of a thinker. Maybe that was why Sutekh had made him second-in-command, fast-tracking him up the ranks after Gahiji’s betrayal. They might have wondered at their father’s choice—Kai had been a soul reaper for less than fifty years—but Kai hadn’t fucked up even once in those fifty years. Not once. He was solid as a brick shithouse.

Still, Mal was wary of trusting anyone, especially in light of the fact that there was likely still a traitor in their midst. Gahiji and his two new recruits might not have been the only ones to betray Sutekh. Until they knew with one hundred percent certainty, Mal wasn’t inclined to trust anyone other than his brothers.

“You spoke with Djeserit Bast before you took her heart and soul?” he asked.

Kai gave a short nod.

“She say anything?”

“Already told Sutekh everything,” Kai said.

“She didn’t give up any names?”

“Humans. No Underworlders.”

“Making us work for it, aren’t you, Kai?” Alastor clipped, his English accent more pronounced with his impatience.

Mal had had an accent, too. But unlike Alastor’s mostly upper-crust diction, Mal’s accent had been born in the gutter. Like him.

He’d lost it over the centuries, preferring to pick up new speech patterns and slang in order to blend in. It was a handy ability for a thief to have.

“Tell us everything Djeserit Bast said before you took her heart,” Mal suggested.

Kai stared at him for a long moment then blew out a breath. “She babbled Kuznetsov’s name. Described Gahiji. Offered up the Marin brothers on a platter. And just before I took her heart, she whispered shit that made no sense.”

“What sort of shit?”

“Something about a prophecy.”

When Kai said nothing more, Mal prodded, “Wanna share?”

“The blood of Aset. The blood of Sutekh. And the God will pass the Twelve Gates and walk the Earth once more.”

They all stared at him for a heartbeat, then Alastor said mildly, “Well, that’s a whole hell of a lot of help.”





CHAPTER THIRTEEN



Save me from all kinds of harm and injury, From the trap with painful knives,

And from all things bad and harmful

Which may be said or done against me

by men, gods, spirits or the dead.



—The Egyptian Book of the Dead, Chapter 148

WITH A GASP, HE BROKE the surface. The night sky was a dark saucer above him. The water pulled at him like a sucking bog. Barely did he fill his lungs before he was pulled under again. Something had his ankle. His wrist. He felt like he was being pulled apart, sucked into a vacuum.

Not all of him. Just parts. He fought and strained and managed to break the surface once more.

Icy rivulets cascaded down his neck, his back. Above him, the night sky held no stars, not even one.

Panting, he fought to stay afloat, and then he shook his head, fear clutching his gut.

There was no sky. There was no water.

There was only the sensation of something tugging at him like an undertow, leaving parts of his body numb. His hands. His feet. His arms. The pressure was enormous, a suctioning pull.

Part of him wanted to let the vortex take him, suck him away, until he was both here and there. Wherever there was.

A spark of recognition ignited. He felt a connection, someone out there whom he ought to recognize, ought to know—

It flickered. Vanished.

He felt bereft. Betrayed. Come back.

No—

Help me find my way back.

Yes. That was it. He needed to go back to—

The knowledge, so powerful and clear a second past, was gone. He couldn’t remember what he needed to go back to.

It struck him then. He had no idea who he was. Where he was. There was only emptiness, a vast universe of nothingness.

His thoughts were leaden, mired in fog. Desperately, he reached for his name. Just that. Let him remember only his name. And then he did. Lokan. He was Lokan Krayl. He was mortal and immortal, half human, half god.

Immeasurably pleased with his success, he rolled to the side and pushed up on all fours. The movement left him feeling dizzy and sick. And then he realized he wasn’t up on all fours. Disoriented, he tried to differentiate up from down. But this place had no such limitations as direction. And he remembered now that he was in a place of confinement, a prison of sorts, one without walls or boundaries.

He was confined by his own lack of substance.

Fear bit at him with sharp rat teeth. Because he was suddenly infinitely sure that he had regained this knowledge more than once, only to lose it again and again. This place did that to him. It robbed him of himself.

That realization brought him pain. Not physical. Something else. An ache of longing that made him gasp.

They were looking for him.