Sins of the Flesh

“Now, I have a simple question for you before we discuss the two girls you sold to Big Ralph.” Turned out the two girls were from Izanami’s line, and she didn’t want them working as psy-whores for Asmodeus. So the Shikome had hired Naphré to look into things.

“Anything. Anything,” Jeffy said.

“You were involved in an altercation a couple of months ago. In an alley. It involved a man, a woman and a box.”

The only reason she knew about the box at all was because she’d noticed it when she picked up a chai latte in the little coffee shop around the corner from Tesso’s Bar and Grill. The box was old, small, made of what appeared to be lead, with a cartouche and Aset’s name on the top, along with a number of hieroglyphs that were far beyond her ability to read. The owner of the coffee shop kept it on the shelf above the cash register.

And then Jeffy had gone and stolen it, and that’s when things got strange.

“I don’t know nothing.”

“We’re back to that, are we?” She let the knife catch the light.

The chains clanked as the guy shivered and moaned. “Don’t kill me. Don’t kill me. Don’t kill me.”

“I’m not going to kill you.” She made an all-encompassing gesture toward the rows of wrecked cars and trucks. “See, this junkyard is old as fuck. And the guy who owns it? He does things just the way he did thirty years ago.” She laughed. “Not a fan of newfangled ideas. He’s one mean bastard. Doesn’t bother with a security service—” she glanced at the chain-link fence “—or barbed wire.”

Lowering her lashes, she brought the knife up and slid it under the nail of Jeffy’s index finger, tracing another smooth arc. Then she lifted her lids and pinned him with a hard look. “But he has dogs. Loves those dogs. Feeds them the occasional treat.”

She held his gaze for a long moment before she said, “Live treats. They like to play with their food. And they like their meat raw and fresh—”

She caught his wrist and made a shallow cut on his forearm. He yelped and jerked, but the chains held.

“And bloody,” she continued. “Only reason they’re not here now is because the old man doesn’t let them out till eleven.” She made a show of looking at her watch. “Almost eleven now.”

“I don’t have the fucking box. I don’t.”

“Who does?”

“How the fuck should I know?”

“Wrong answer. Tell me enough to make me happy, and we leave here together. All nice and friendly. Tell me anything less and you spend the night with Old Man Kerouik’s pets.”

“The guy. I saw the guy pick it up. He took it. The guy.”

Naphré stared at him, judging the truth of his words. True or not, he definitely believed what he was saying. Which made no sense. It had been a soul reaper in that alley. And if a soul reaper had that box, shouldn’t Alastor know that?

When he’d told her about the casket in Sutekh’s territory, the one that held Lokan’s partial remains, his description of it had triggered her memory of that box. She couldn’t help but note the similarities between the carvings he described and the ones she’d seen. But he hadn’t mentioned a smaller casket.

If Jeffy was right and a soul reaper had the box, Alastor should know about it. The fact that he didn’t meant…what?

“It was the guy,” he said, dragging out every word in a desperate whine.

Satisfied with the answer, she turned and walked away with Jeffy screaming frantically behind her. She paused, turned.

“I think you did a nasty thing selling those girls to Big Ralph. So I’ll do a nasty thing in return. Hope you like dogs,” she said and walked away.

She was almost at the gates when the air crackled and sparked. Feeding from Alastor had given her a definite edge as far as detecting supernatural energy signatures went. This one was off the charts.

Whatever was out there was immensely powerful.

She turned, saw nothing and turned again, her knife still in her hand, her every sense on alert.

And as she completed the circle she stopped dead. A woman stood before her. Or maybe stood wasn’t quite the right word. Naphré had the distinct impression that the woman’s feet didn’t touch the ground.

She was garbed in red velvet shot with black, her face hidden by a deep hood that was drawn up over her head. A gold chain hung about her neck, and on it hung a cartouche of Aset.

A chill chased up Naphré’s spine. She stared at the woman in shock, fairly certain that she was in the presence of a Matriarch. Except, the Matriarchs never left the compound. Yet, here one was.

That couldn’t be good.

“Naphré Kurata,” the woman said, her voice resonating in Naphré’s mind.

“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage,” Naphré said.

“I am Hathor. I have come for you.”

“So I see.”

Hathor made a sweeping gesture, indicating that Naphré should precede her, and though Naphré didn’t will herself to take a step, she did just that. Glancing down, she found that her feet were a good three inches off the ground and she was gliding forward as though she was standing on a conveyor belt.

The gates swung open before them, the chains curling away like serpents, though no hand touched them.

And Naphré thought, Kuso. Alastor is going to be pissed.