Sins of the Soul

He backhanded her with his free hand. The force of the blow made her head snap back and her lip split.

But it wasn’t enough to make her lose her hold. This was war. The prize was the Glock. And life.

With a snarl, she raised her knee toward his already abused privates, but he twisted to block her and she hit the side of his thigh instead. He made a sound of pain, but didn’t back off.

He punched her, aiming for the underside of her chin.

Moving on instinct, she deflected his fist, slammed his wrist a second time and a third, even as his fist skidded along the angle of her jaw.

Pretty stars and sharp pain.

Pulse racing, she kept her grip on the gun, rammed the heel of her palm into the underside of his nose, driving upward. Something crunched and his blood gushed over her fingers.

Another slam to his wrist and the gun tore free.

It jumped from her grasp like a freshly caught fish and she fumbled before she managed to get a solid grip.

Panting, adrenaline surging, she danced back several steps, beyond his reach.

That had been his mistake. He’d stood too close. He’d given her a chance. She had no intention of offering him the same.

But her instincts were screaming. Had he stood just a little too close? Had disarming him been just a little too easy?

Butcher was on his knees on the cracked concrete of the parking lot, swaying slightly, palm pressed to his ear, blood flowing from his nose over his lips and down his chin. His pants soaked up water from the shallow puddles, remnants of the storm that had howled through hours past. And he watched her, eyes narrow and cold. He would kill her if she let him.

There was blood on her tongue. Hers. Not his. She would never be that stupid. Swallowing human blood that wasn’t her own was the last thing she ever intended to do. Six years ago, she’d chosen to leave the Asetian Guard, the secretive, elite organization that protected the interests of the Daughters of Aset and, when absolutely necessary, stepped up to protect mankind. She’d walked away from her heritage.

One mouthful of Butcher’s blood—anyone’s blood—and everything she’d done since that moment would all be for nothing.

And it was too late, anyway. Even a bucketful of blood wouldn’t save her from the debt she owed.

She spat, then swiped her sleeve across her lower lip. The taste lingered.

If she lived through this, she knew what she’d be having for dinner tonight.

Steak. Closer to raw than rare.

The thought made the mark she’d carved into the front of her left shoulder tingle and burn, and the hunger in her belly twist and writhe.

Silently, she cursed the Asetian Guard for what they’d done to her. Choices made based on lies and obfuscation didn’t count as choices.

It is your duty, Naphré Kurata.

Oh, yeah. They’d played the duty card, the perfect incentive for a kid who was half Japanese, raised by a traditional father who’d come to the States as a baby, and a doubly traditional grandfather. Duty, honor, humility. She was infused right down to a cellular level.

It had nearly killed her to walk away from her duty to the Asetian Guard. But what had followed had been worse.

“Tell me who hired you, Butcher.” She was breathing hard, her heart slamming against her ribs, but her hand was rock steady as she leveled the Glock at his head. The iron grillwork of the cemetery fence threw barred shadows over his features. “Who wants me dead? Tell me, and I’ll make it quick…” Stay quiet, and I’ll make it last. He knew she would. Knew she could. After all, he’d taught her exactly what to do.

“You always was my best girl, Naph.”

She knew that later she’d remember those words and the way he said them—a poignant combination of pride and resignation. Affection and acceptance.

But right now, she didn’t dare buy into it and lower her guard. Maybe the hint of emotion was real. Maybe he faked it to lull her into complacency. When this was all done, the scene cleaned spit-shine perfect, the body buried, she’d pull the memory out, play it over and over, and let herself feel like shit. But right now, she’d do what she had to do.

“Tell me. Give me a fighting chance.” She offered a faint smile. “For old times’ sake.” When Butcher stayed silent, she prodded, “Who hired you? Was it Xaphan?”

She’d learned never to assume anything in this business. Maybe it was someone else who wanted her dead. Over the years, she’d pissed off a few of the Underworld gods and demigods. Asking questions. Refusing the jobs that were just too crappy even for someone like her. She didn’t do kids or teens. She didn’t do parents in front of kids or teens. And she researched every job before she took it, making certain that she was satisfied with her choice. Basically, she stuck to killing killers.