Sins of the Flesh

THEY WERE FERRIED ACROSS the river in a massive boat. The wood was ancient, stained black with age and rubbed shiny in places. There was nowhere to sit, only stand, and this they did with a nameless, faceless peon in the stern, steering the course with a long wooden pole.

As they neared the midpoint of the river, the water surged up in great plumes and then settled back, water no more. Instead, it undulated and danced, a vast expanse of flame and heat. Mal glanced back to see the fire receding behind them. Before them was only flame.

This was a crossroads, a place where the Underworld Territories came together, the only place where all the gods and demigods and demons could meet and talk face-to-face. They weren’t allowed in each other’s territories. They weren’t allowed Topworld. Only here, this small window, allowed them to pass.

The boat glided soundlessly up the far bank.

Beside him were Dagan and Alastor, equally grim, equally tense.

They didn’t know where their mates were. Didn’t have a clue how to find them. But they figured that keeping to the plan and showing up at the meeting was the best chance they had of finding information. None of them had any doubt that an Underworlder was responsible for Roxy’s and Naphré’s disappearances. With all the Underworld powers collected in one place, there was no better chance for them to find out what the hell was going on.

Both Alastor and Dae said that nothing had been disturbed. There were no signs of struggle. And there were no supernatural power residues left behind that they could detect.

It was as if both women had disappeared willingly. And that made no fucking sense.

If patience was one of Mal’s few virtues, punctuality was Sutekh’s. He was already there. As the host, that was both his obligation and right. Mal could see his father’s tent set off a bit apart from all the others that he’d arranged for the comfort of those who were soon to arrive.

The boat beached on the far side of the River Styx at the precise second the flames of the river died and became clear, turquoise water once more.

Mal got out. Calliope followed.

Alastor and Dae had disembarked before them. He was a little surprised to see Dae take Calli’s hand and give a brief squeeze. And then he’d thought that maybe it wasn’t so surprising. They both cared about Roxy Tam, and worry united them as nothing else could.

“Stay close enough that I can hear your heartbeat,” he said.

“Count on it.”

Mal knew her reasons for such easy acquiescence. While she might find an ally or two here, she was more likely to find enemies among the attendees. Many here would have the protection of a hostage exchange. She wouldn’t. The Guard had cut her loose. Other than him, she was on her own. And she knew it.

“The hostages won’t be brought here,” she said, and Mal figured she was thinking of Roxy and Naphré.

“No.” He offered a dark smile. “That would be too easy, wouldn’t it?”

The hostage exchange was a complicated dance. With every powerful territorial ruler of the Underworld scheduled to attend, a simple exchange of hostages between two players wasn’t a guarantee of peace.

Instead, they created an intricate promise and counterpromise scenario with each god or demigod sending a hostage to another, who in turn sent a hostage to a third. If any hostage was harmed, it automatically dragged two players into the war.

Of course, being cruel and murderous creatures, the rulers whose hostages were killed would then kill the one in his possession, even though there was no connection to the one who had done the killing in the first place.

Domino effect.

That would then drag a third leader into the melee. Hostages who were themselves too powerful to be killed—and those were few and far between—would be consigned to a hell of endless torture. In the end, everyone would have a dead or tortured hostage. Everyone would be pissed.

And the 6,000-year-old cease-fire would be over.

Better to keep all the hostages safe. At least, that’s what every participant who had sent a hostage as a show of good faith was hoping the others believed as well.

Mal glanced at Calliope, who stood as close to his side as he could get her to without absorbing her into his skin.

“Look,” she said softly, and he turned to see two soul reapers carrying out the lead casket that had been in Sutekh’s greeting chamber. They opened the lid and carefully removed each body part, aligning them in their proper place on a stone table in the center of the area where tents and seats had been erected for the comfort of the participants.

Sutekh had arranged all. He was the one who had initiated this meeting. He was the host. That in itself put him in a position of power.

A second casket was carried forth and opened, and the contents were removed with reverent care.

“Where did that come from?” Mal asked Alastor.