Sins of the Soul

“I wouldn’t bother.” His accent was English. Maybe. Or South African. Australian? Any or none of the above. But it definitely wasn’t local. “With the weapon, I mean. You’ll find it of little use.”


So her gut had been right. She had sensed someone watching her earlier, but she hadn’t felt electricity dancing along her skin then. She felt it now—a shimmer in the air, like a breeze towing in a storm, electric, wild—and realized he was right. She might as well put away the Glock. That voice didn’t belong to anything human.

Which meant that a bullet might hit him, tear through skin and muscle and bone, but it wouldn’t kill him. Probably wouldn’t even slow him down.

She wasn’t liking this situation. At all.

The night shifted, dark on dark. But he stayed hidden, blending with the shadows of one of the carved granite monuments. Which one?

“Come out where I can see you,” Naphré crooned.

“Not quite yet.” He gave a low laugh that echoed off the stones. “Why don’t you step into the light where I can see you?”

“Not quite yet,” she countered, and shifted deeper into the gloom.

He laughed again. Not a nice sound, more menace than mirth. It touched a nerve, making her feel predatory and aggressive and just plain pissed off. She tightened the noose on her baser instincts and focused on staying cool and logical. She had a feeling she’d fare better if she used brains over brawn.

“No matter,” he said. “I can see quite well in the dark.”

Of course he could. It was just that kind of night.

Who was he? Not one of Xaphan’s lackeys. They were invariably female…unless Xaphan had hired outside help.

“You a demigod?” she asked. Any tidbit of information just might save her life.

“Not exactly.” Neat, tidy consonants and vowels. Enough to allow her to pinpoint his location. There, beside the tall, narrow stone with winged angels carved on the sides. For all the good that did her.

“An enforcer?”

“In a manner of speaking.” She could hear the hint of amusement.

The sensation of static electricity was crawling all over her now, and she decided she couldn’t have missed it earlier. He must have dampened it somehow while he’d watched her bury Butcher. The possibility made her wary.

“I’m not playing your game,” she whispered. She slid her gun into its holster, crossed her arms over her chest and said nothing more, only stared into the shadows that cloaked him. Then she saw the glitter of his eyes as he stared back.

“Bored already?” He stepped forward, away from the looming granite monument. “You have the attention span of a flea.”

She’d have snarked back at him, except she was too busy mentally smacking herself in the head. It was the guy from outside the Playhouse Lounge.

Moonlight spilled over him, highlighting honey-blond hair. It was thick and expertly cut, neat and short except for straight, longish strands in front that fell to his cheekbones, framing an angular face. His arms were loose by his sides, his legs shoulder-width apart. Tall. Maybe six-one or six-two. There was a masculine grace to his posture. Deceptive. Dangerous.

A killer in a sleek designer suit and pristine white shirt. Open collar. No tie.

How had she read him as human last night? The electric charge he was generating now marked him as anything but.

“Not a demigod or an enforcer…” Which didn’t leave a whole hell of a lot of choices because not many supernaturals could pass Topworld at will. He definitely wasn’t a fire genie.

Which left only one being that could travel unhampered by rules, mute his supernatural vibe and pass undetected at will. Crap. “You’re a soul reaper.”

He inclined his head. “Excellent deductive reasoning.”

There was definitely amusement in his tone.

“I’m not thrilled about being the butt of whatever asinine little joke you’re enjoying,” she said.

“Ah, but it is exactly your butt that I find so enjoyable.”

She was actually speechless.

“Noticed it last night,” he clarified. “Wasn’t expecting to have the fine fortune to see it again, though.”

She regained her voice. “Dick.”

“Actually, no. Name’s Alastor Krayl.” He tipped his head to the side, studying the shadows that masked her.

Krayl. Her breath stopped. Person, place, or thing?

Guess now she knew. Krayl was a soul reaper.

There she’d been, not an hour past, wondering about Sutekh and the dead reaper, having no clue what the night would bring.

“You’re not just any reaper. You’re one of Sutekh’s sons.”

He didn’t answer. Instead he asked a question, velvet soft. “What do you know of Sutekh, pet?”

Kuso, she knew better than to blurt her thoughts aloud. The fact that she’d done so only spoke to the shape she was in. This was definitely not a good night.

“I know he’s the most powerful Underworld lord.”