Sins of the Soul

A quick rummage through the pockets of the shabby, old-school overcoat Butcher favored and she had his wallet, his cell, and…perfect: his car keys. Inside pocket. Right where he always kept them.

His car, a nondescript gray sedan, was parked at the opposite end of the lot. She jogged over, got down on all fours, and peered beneath. Her Glock and her knife were exactly where he’d tossed them, inches apart. Her second knife was about a foot away, near the rear tire. After settling her weapons back where they belonged, she tucked Butcher’s gun in her belt, then popped the trunk.

It was neatly organized, and it didn’t look much different than the trunk of her own car, a black Mini Cooper S with a white roof and stripes. There was his emergency suitcase, packed and ready to roll. A sleeping bag. A plastic bin containing water bottles and non-perishables. Butcher’s idea of non-perishables was a massive bag of cheese puffs, some chocolate bars and a container of peanuts. Naphré went more for energy bars.

Off to one side was a shovel. That was Butcher. Always prepared.

So why was he dead while she was still alive?

A creepy sense of foreboding skittered across her skin, and her head jerked up. She took a slow look around, feeling like something was about to crawl out of the woodwork.

Squelching her unease she grabbed the shovel, slammed the trunk and walked briskly back to the body. For a second, she just stood there, looking down at him.

Butcher wasn’t a small man. He’d had a fondness for meat-lover’s pizzas and greasy onion rings. And an even greater fondness for the free weights he found at the gym. Which made him a daunting combination of muscle and fat. More than a couple of hundred pounds of it on his 5’8” frame.

From the way he’d behaved earlier, nudging her toward the gates, she figured his plan had been to make her walk to the side of an open grave, shoot her there, roll her in. That’s exactly what she’d have done, given the choice. But she hadn’t had that luxury. She hadn’t been willing to risk walking Butcher all the way to the grave. There were too many things that could have gone wrong. Too many ways for him to turn the tables once more.

Besides, he’d pulled a knife and gone for her. That hadn’t left her with much choice.

Which meant she was going to be working up a sweat.

Lifting her head, Naphré studied the stretch of empty road, the iron grillwork fence, the graves beyond, making certain there were no prying eyes. It was full dark, and there wasn’t a whole hell of a lot of light here, just the moon when it peeked from behind the clouds, and a couple of working streetlamps far up the road. There weren’t many places for someone to hide. She was as certain as she could be that no one was out there, despite the creepy sensation she’d experienced a few moments ago.

Supernaturals were less of a problem to detect than humans; they gave off some kind of energy vibe that felt like static electricity lacing the air. At least, that’s what her sixth sense perceived it as. Humans were another thing entirely. She had to rely on good old sight and sound to pin them down.

She glanced at the shovel, then at Butcher. She needed both hands for this task. After a second’s contemplation, she hauled on his belt to make space and thrust the shovel down his pants so the handle lay against his leg. Then she shoved her forearms under his armpits and started duck-walking backward, dragging him until her butt hit the cemetery gates. They were chained shut and locked.

Blowing out a breath, she dropped Butcher and turned to grab hold of the chain. She brought the butt of the gun down hard, then yanked on the lock. No luck. With a shrug, she shot it. No need to worry that anyone might hear. If the place was any more isolated, it’d be orbiting Mars.

She hauled open one side of the gate. The squeak was like something out of a low-budget horror flick. Of course. This night demanded nothing less.

As she turned back toward Butcher, her senses sharpened and she froze. The wind carried a sheet of newspaper across the deserted road. It danced and swooped, but that wasn’t what had caught her attention. There was something else. Something…

A shiver crawled up her spine on a million hairy little legs. She couldn’t shake the feeling that someone watched her, and she couldn’t forget what Butcher had told her about the Setnakht priest wanting to be there when he delivered the kill shot.

Her imagination was running wild. She didn’t need this now.

The wind died and the paper fell flat.

Nothing else moved. Not even her.

Finally, she hauled Butcher’s shoulders up once more and dragged him into the graveyard, pausing only long enough to nudge the gate shut with her foot. Just in case.

The narrow, paved road wended into the cemetery, past a willow tree, up a softly rolling hill. She paused. Cursed. Fucking hill. There had to be something closer. Butcher wouldn’t have planned to walk her that far, and Mick had said there would be at least two open graves to choose from.