Sins of the Flesh

“KUSO. I WILL NOT TALK about this again,” Naphré Kurata said coolly, holding on to her temper. She had one foot resting on the twisted, rusted-out bumper of the nearest car, and she leaned forward, her forearm across her thigh. Behind her was an endless sea of old clunkers. “Alastor, I was a Topworld enforcer for years before I met you, and I’m not going to take up baking cupcakes now just because you have control issues.”

Her statement was met with dead silence on the other end of the line. She sighed. “I fed from you not an hour past. With your blood and life force ramping me up, there’s very little that could hurt me.”

More silence, then a grudging, “You bloody well better be in one piece when I get back.”

“Love you, too,” Naphré said and ended the call.

She’d taken this job for three reasons. One: because she needed Alastor to get used to her doing her thing. He had the personality of a battering ram at times, and she needed to take a stand. Two: because with Butcher gone, she needed to cement her name as a lone enforcer and make certain the jobs kept coming. She was used to a certain lifestyle, and she wasn’t about to sacrifice that, or let Alastor pay the shot, though he’d hinted at that possibility more than once. Three: because there was a possibility that this job might have the added benefit of information about Lokan, at least indirectly. She hadn’t mentioned it to Alastor, knowing that if she did, he’d want to tag along.

From behind her came the clank of a chain and a piteous whimper. Naphré ignored it, turning instead to do a perimeter check. It was dark. Not a lot to see. Nothing jumped out at her—literally or figuratively—which suited her just fine.

Again came the clank of the chain behind her.

She turned toward the worthless piece of trash she’d brought here for a nice private chat. Jeffy Prince.

Funny, he bore absolutely no resemblance to royalty.

He looked like a skinny, lanky kid with his long, greasy hair and baggy jeans. But when he lifted his chin to glare at her from beneath his brows, the play of shadow and weak light cast by the security lamp on the shack in the corner showed his age. Closer to forty than twenty. No kid.

She eased her knife from its sheath and let it catch the light. A promise.

If the way he jerked and squealed was any indication, Jeffy Prince wasn’t fond of that promise. He gave a garbled moan. “I don’t know nothing. I don’t. I swear it. I don’t.”

And she hadn’t even asked a single question yet.

His breath came in ragged gasps as he lurched and tugged at the restraints Naphré had looped around his wrists then anchored to the bumper of a mangled minivan. He yanked on the chains, testing them even though he had to know they wouldn’t be any looser now than they’d been ten seconds ago. There was no give in the way she’d bound his wrists, and just enough length ran from wrists to bumper to let him shove back a lank hunk of hair.

His fingernails were dirty, crusted black.

With a tight, close-lipped smile, she stalked closer, circling, circling, knowing that each ticking second she was behind him and out of his line of vision ratcheted up his terror.

“I swear it. I don’t know nothing.”

“Swear it on what? Your mother’s grave? Your life?” Naphré asked, leaning in close from behind to speak softly near his ear.

He squirmed and twisted, trying to keep her in sight, his head swiveling to one side then the other.

Naphré rounded the van and hunkered down before him, knees splayed, hands hanging loose. He jerked back as far as the chain would go and dug his heels into the gravel, pushing and straining to get as far from her as he could.

Their eyes were level. Pressing himself against the bumper, he cringed as shudders racked his frame.

“What exactly are you swearing on?” she asked again, whisper soft.

His eyes rolled white with fear.

“Don’t kill me.” The words came out in a garbled rush. “Please, sweet Jesus, don’t kill me.” The more Jeffy yanked on the chains, the tighter they got. Naphré figured his hands had to be growing numb by now.

“You know…you really are in sore need of a manicure.” She tapped her index finger against the back of his wrist and he jerked and cried out as though she’d stabbed him.

“Don’t move,” she ordered. With careful attention, she reached over and grabbed his thumb, slid the tip of the knife under his grime-blackened nail and ran it in a smooth arc. “You move and I might inadvertently take the whole thumb.”

He bleated in terror but didn’t move. Didn’t jerk away. Because the chains were quite tight. And because he had enough intellect to realize her words were no empty threat.