Sins of the Flesh

“And the other three?”


“I killed them. Took my time. Made it hurt. Two of them didn’t even remember her. I only learned the truth of her fate from the last man I found, and he remembered her only because she managed to scratch his face. The wounds got infected and healed with a scar.”

“When you were with Elena, were you a soul reaper already?”

“No. I thought I was human.”

“And when you found the men who killed her?”

“By then Sutekh had come for me. I ripped out their fucking hearts. Took their darksouls to my father.” He realized then what he’d said, and how it might affect her, but when he looked into her eyes, he saw no hint of revulsion. “It’s what I do,” he said, just to be sure. No sense dancing around what he was. What he would always be.

“I know.”

And he couldn’t tell a damned thing about what she was thinking or feeling from that.

“Do you still feel guilty?” she asked.

“Cut straight to the heart of it, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t dwell on her death. I don’t wallow in self-flagellation.” He didn’t even really blame himself anymore, but there was no doubt that the choices he’d made ever since had been colored by her loss. He never spent more than one night with a woman. He never cared about them on a personal level, other than making sure he saw to his partner’s sexual satisfaction.

That was key. He always saw to his partner before he saw to himself. What fun was it otherwise?

But Calliope was different. He didn’t have a name for what he felt for her. He didn’t want to have a name for it. Not yet.

He drew back and looked down at her, studying her face. “Speaking of feeling guilty…any residual remorse for the havoc you’ve wreaked on my life since the second I laid eyes on you in that club?”

Again, that barely there smile. “You mean from the second I laid eyes on you.”

“Mayhem. You’ve done nothing but steal from me. Stab me. Feed from me. Leave me to burn. You’re my own personal disaster zone.” He huffed a breath through his nose. “Maybe that’s what I like about you. Maybe I’m just one sick fuck.”

“Elena couldn’t protect herself. But I can.”

“Yeah, you definitely can.”

“Maybe that’s the attraction,” she said, her brows drawing down in a frown.

“No ‘maybe’ about it. If you can best me, pretty girl, I figure you can best just about anyone.”

“And you find that appealing?”

He nuzzled her temple, breathing in the scent of her skin. He slid his hand over her naked hip, down her belly, between her legs. She gasped as he eased his finger inside her. “Sexy as hell.”





HOURS LATER, MAL SAT bolt upright in Calliope’s bed, images dancing at the edges of his thoughts. Cool fingers splayed over the cap of his shoulder.

“What is it?” He rolled toward her. She was on her side, the weight of her torso raised up on her arm. The sheet draped the curve of her hip and flowed over the edge of the bed to the floor.

“I had a dream,” he said.

Her gaze was clear and direct. Of course, she didn’t understand the significance of that. How could she?

“I dreamed of a hawk being torn to bits by demons, the blood flowing across a wooden floor.” He raked his fingers back through his hair. “There were women there, cavorting with the demons, bathing in the blood. Laughing.”

He could see them still, as though the picture was captured on film, playing again and again in his mind’s eye, infinitely disturbing.

“The demons turned to soul reapers, men I know well, and others, whose faces I’ve seen. The hawk became Lokan, his body cut into fourteen parts, neatly severed at the joints.

“Then there were only two soul reapers left, standing knee-deep in blood, the level rising like a river in a storm.” He paused then finished. “Their faces. I saw them. Alastor and Dae.”

Something flickered in Calliope’s eyes. Recognition. Acknowledgment. It made him wary.

“I felt terror, only I couldn’t say if it was for them or because of them.” He shrugged. “And then I woke up.”

Calliope stroked her hand along his arm to his forearm and, finally, to his hand, where she laced her fingers with his and just let them rest there. Her hand in his.

“An unpleasant scenario,” she murmured.

He stared at her, wondering what to say, how much to tell. How much to trust her with.

“More than unpleasant. Fucking unlikely. Soul reapers don’t dream.”

Her sharp intake of breath told him she got it. She understood the ramifications of what he was telling her.

“Only time I ever dreamed was when I saw what you saw, Calli, felt what you felt. And that was more of a psychic connection with you than my own dream. This was different.” He huffed out a sharp exhalation. “This was something entirely different.”