Sins of the Flesh

Calliope nodded, unsure if Amunet’s words comforted or made her all the more concerned. Shared emotion with the soul reaper didn’t exactly appeal.

“Seek him,” Beset ordered, and with a soft whirring sound, black metal shields descended to surround Calliope’s glass cage, leaving her in utter darkness. They were a form of insurance. If there was a link, he would see nothing but darkness.

She focused on finding the vestiges of the reaper’s blood and life force in her system. She couldn’t feel it now. The sense of power and strength had faded with each hour that passed.

She traced the memory of pulling his blood from his lacerated flesh, swallowing it, the taste indescribable, to its root. She isolated it from the tangle of all her other memories. Separate now, it glowed, alone and clear in the center of her thoughts. She followed the recollection to the cellular level, sifting to the genetic blueprint that marked her for what she was.

In vain.

He was not there.

She summoned him, willed him to link his thoughts to her own, pulled on the threads of connection that she imagined into existence.

But that was just it. They were only imagination. She could find no link to him no matter how hard she searched.

With a gasp, she came to herself, sucking air, her chest screaming against the lack. Her heart thudded against her ribs, the pounding of her blood so loud she felt certain the women across the chamber could hear each beat.

Then she realized she was on her knees on the ground, hands planted flat, head hanging low. Her hair was a black pool that spread past the edge of the silk carpet to the gray stone.

Blinking, she oriented herself. Time had passed. She felt it. A great deal of time. She was weak with hunger, her lips and tongue parched with thirst. They had left her here to find her way there and back, and now that she had, she was subject to their justice.

She lifted her head. The black metal plates had ascended into the ceiling once more. She was surrounded only by glass. The Matriarchs sat upon their thrones, though whether they had been there the entire time or whether they had returned as she came to herself was a question she could not answer.

“You found nothing,” Hathor said, her voice low and melodic. Was she pleased by the outcome? Impossible to tell. Perhaps the Matriarchs had hoped that she would have a connection, would find the reaper’s lair and offer a way to destroy him. Or perhaps they were glad that the taint of his blood had been only temporary.

Amunet spoke then. “We must wait. Time must pass. We must be certain.”

Calliope stared at them, feeling woozy and weak.

Without further explanation, they rose, the cloth of their dark red robes flowing around them like water. As they moved, the light caught a glint of gold. Her gaze flicked from Beset to Hathor to Amunet. Each wore a thick chain and a cartouche outside their robes. Which made her think of the soul reaper threading his necklace through Aset’s cartouche.

How had he come to possess it?

Zalika had confirmed her belief that only the Matriarchs and Aset herself wore that symbol.

She opened her mouth to call out, to ask, to reveal this tiny bit of knowledge. And in the end, she said nothing. There was something wrong in all of this, something that smelled like week-old fish.

In a clean, single-file line, the Matriarchs made their way toward the far corner and the shadowed doorway there.

“Wait,” Calliope said, pushing to her feet, her head spinning.

They didn’t pause. Didn’t even appear to hear her.

“How much time must pass?”

The others walked on, but Beset stopped and turned. She waved the guards on, and then they were alone. “Your blood cells remain viable for 120 days,” she said, her voice not unkind.

Four months. Trapped here, when she had so much to do. But there was no argument she could offer that would sway them.

“The meeting of allies. I am to be sent—”

“No longer,” Beset cut her off. “We cannot take the risk of using you for any task until we know what taint you have acquired. We will choose another.”

She thought the Matriarch would leave then, but she did not. Instead, she glided closer, so only half the chamber separated them now.

“Ask your questions, Calliope. I sense them rioting in your thoughts. I have no wish for this to be more difficult for you than it must. We are not monsters. Our choices are for the group rather than the individual, but that does not mean we are without empathy.” She folded her arms across her midsection, her hands hidden by the voluminous sleeves. “Much as you had empathy when you released Roxy Tam from service, though her choice of mate repulsed you. You have my leave to ask what you will.”

Calliope had no idea how many questions the Matriarch would grant her, so she meant to make each one count, but when she opened her mouth, the words that escaped were not the ones she intended. “Does Kuznetsov know the identity of Lokan Krayl’s killer?”

“Yes.”