Sins of the Flesh

Calliope watched him warily, not trusting his motives or his expectations. Instinct screamed for her to call out for the guards. But in this case, she seriously doubted that trusting her guards was the way to go.

The woman lying at the soul reaper’s feet was a member of the Asetian Guard, judging from the mark an ankh with wings and horns—clearly visible on her forearm. Calliope had one like it on her calf, etched in her skin, cut in with precision and care by her own hand then left to heal before she went over the same lines again, carving them deeper still. It had been a painstaking, and painful, process. Every member of the Guard went through it once they committed to taking first blood.

The soul reaper tucked the empty syringe in his pocket and crossed his arms over his chest.

“How did you get in here?” she asked, forcing an image of serenity despite the emotions slamming against the cage she created.

“A portal.”

She glanced around the room and saw no portal. But she should have realized something was off the second she woke up to a temperature that would be perfect for a meat locker.

The chair was still in place under the door handle. She shifted her gaze to her would-be assassin. “How did she get in here?”

“Am I a mind reader?” he asked, but turned his head to take in their limited surroundings and then looked up. “There,” he said.

The grill over the ceiling duct was askew. The opening was small, maybe a foot square. But there was no other way in that Calliope could see.

“Love to stand here while you ponder all the questions of the universe,” the soul reaper said, his tone laced with amusement. “But we’re in a bit of a time pinch.”

Her gaze shot to his. Yes, he was definitely laughing at her.

Offering a pirate’s grin, he stepped closer. “Happy to see me?”

Her breath caught, because the question was reminiscent of the dream she’d had at the base of the mountain and because a tiny, sick part of her was happy to see him. Or, at least, see that he’d escaped the fire genies unharmed. She didn’t want even to try to understand the why of that.

“Took a bit of effort to find you, and now that I have, please cooperate.” He cocked his head toward the unconscious assassin. “The sleepy-time aid was for you in case you gave me grief, but given the situation, I figured she needed it more.”

“Did you kill her?”

“I just told you the drug in the syringe was meant for you. Why would I go through the trouble of coming after you just to kill you?” He held up his right index finger and shot her a look through his lashes. “Scratch that. Why would I come after you just to kill you quickly? You fed from me. You left me to burn. You cost me Kuznetsov. I owe you for all of that, darlin’.”

The corners of his lips curled in a dark smile. “Or perhaps you owe me. Especially for the case of the blue balls you left me with the night we first met.”

Her pulse leaped at that revelation, and she barely managed to restrain a gasp. He’d strung the bits together. He recognized her as the woman from the club. In the end, she kept her cool facade in place, decades of habit kicking in.

“Yeah, I figured that out,” he continued as though she’d actually replied. “Brown contacts. Auburn wig…by the way, I prefer your natural color. I kept wondering why I had the nagging feeling I knew you. It came to me while I was whacking off in the shower.”

The image of water pounding on his naked skin, wet and glossy, and his hand sliding—

She stared at him in shock and horror. Had he planted that thought in her mind? Or was it an actual memory? Had she seen it in her dreams? She didn’t consciously remember…

But then, that wasn’t something she’d want to remember. Was it?

She stared at him, feeling sick. When she’d taken his blood, they’d formed a link as the Matriarchs had suspected. She knew it deep in her gut.

She’d been in his skin, and he’d been in hers.

He rattled her. And the worst thing she could do was let him know it.

Willing herself to betray none of her distress, she offered in a calm voice, “I phoned Roxy and told her about the fire genies so your brother Dagan could get to that parking lot and find you. You owe me for that.”

“Oh, I owe you, pretty girl. No doubt about that.” When she didn’t offer any reaction, he continued. “Yeah. I wondered why you called Roxy, why you’d do that for a soul reaper you hate—”

“I—” She broke off, deciding it was wiser to say nothing because she’d wondered that herself. She told herself it was because she hadn’t wanted his injuries on her conscience.

Except, he was her enemy. When she’d sliced him and drank from him and pinned him to the wall with her sword, she’d been happy to have his injuries on her conscience. What had changed in the short span between then and the attack by the fire genies?