Sins of the Soul

That information perked Naphré’s interest. Pyotr had worn a ring like that on his pinky finger. She’d noticed its unusual design, but hadn’t been interested enough in him to ask about it.

“And she had the bald head,” Butcher continued. “Completely plucked eyebrows. No eyelashes. Not a single hair on her that I could see. Not even a nose hair. Dark eyes. Olive skin. I’m guessing not more than forty—” Butcher gave a lopsided leer “—’cause her tits still looked perky. She wasn’t wearing no bra.”

Trust Butcher to offer that pertinent observation.

“I was supposed to incapacitate you, then call her. I think she wanted to kill you herself. Told her I don’t work that way.”

Why would a Setnakht priest want her dead? And why would she want to handle the details? They were questions Naphré intended follow up on after tonight.

Butcher was giving her more than she’d asked for. More than he had to, given the situation. But he knew the score. One of them was going to die here in the cemetery parking lot with the moonlight casting long shadows and the smell of the earth, wet and rich, rising from beyond the iron fence.

She stared at him and blinked, wondering if maybe he’d meant it to be him all along. The thought came at her out of nowhere.

Nah. Butcher wasn’t that selfless.

As though he knew what she was thinking, he said softly, “I woulda taken the shot, Naph. If you didn’t manage to get the gun, I woulda made it clean, then buried you—” he jutted his chin toward the fence and the rows of stones that caught the moonlight, gleaming like teeth “—in an open grave they gonna put a box in tomorrow morning. Best place to bury a corpse you don’t want no one to find—”

“—is under a corpse they expect to find,” she finished.

His gaze flashed to hers. “Only one of us going home to watch CSI reruns tonight.”

“I know,” Naphré whispered.

Surging to his feet faster than his bulk ought to allow, Butcher lunged for her, limiting her choices. The gleam of a knife caught the moonlight.

Surprise bubbled and hissed. Not for the attack, but for the weapon of choice.

Everything seemed to move far slower than it should. The force of his leap propelled him forward. His hand brought the blade level with her heart.

And she thought, Damn. Butcher never carries a knife.





HE KNEW ONLY DARKNESS and pain.

Nothing else. Not name or place. Not memories or dreams.

Rolling onto his side, he gritted his teeth against the agony that ground like glass shards into his muscles, his joints, even the marrow of his bones. Such pain was outside his experience. He felt as though he were starving, not just in his belly, but in the cells and tissues that formed him.

How long had he been like this?

Minutes. Centuries.

He had no way to know.

Lokan. A word without meaning sparked, then faded.

He reached inside himself, trying to form coherent thoughts. It was there. The wisp of awareness danced just beyond his reach. He tried to grasp it, to contain it.

Yes.

Lokan. The word did have meaning. His name. Lokan Krayl.

He had memories, a past that he felt he ought to know, if only he could scrape aside the layers of dust to find it.

He pushed up until he sat. At least, he thought he did. The place that held him had no such limitations as direction or space, and he was left disoriented, unable to differentiate up from down.

The place that held him.

Reaching out, he groped for the walls that were not walls, the bars that had no substance. Or perhaps he was the thing that had no substance.

He was a prisoner. He thought that he had tried to escape many times, and he had failed.

Panting, he fought against the crushing fog that obscured any spark of certainty. And then he saw it: a boat to cross the river Styx. A boat and a ferryman. There but not there.

So what was there?

He scrubbed the heels of his palms against his eyes. At least, he thought he did. He felt nothing save pain, endless pain.

“Push me, Daddy. Push me higher.” The voice was sweet and high and happy. So happy. A little girl on a swing, squealing with joy as she flew higher and higher. His little girl. He missed her. His daughter.

But she was safe. Somehow, he knew she was safe. He’d done that one thing right. He had sent her to his enemies to keep her safe.

He frowned, certain that was wrong. But it wasn’t. His enemies were the only ones who could keep his daughter safe. He’d sent his daughter to the Otherkin, to the Daughters of Aset.

Dana. Her name came to him with stunning clarity, so bright and wonderful it sliced through him, making him gasp. In his mind he saw every detail of her sweet face and denim-blue eyes, wide and trusting and full of love.

They were together in the sunshine. They were laughing. Then she was gone.

With a cry, he reached for her and found only darkness, and a spark in his core. A spark of memory.

There were others he cared about. Others he must warn. Dagan. Alastor. Malthus. His brothers. Cold dread unfurled in his belly as he thought of them. Dread for them, or of them?