Sins of the Soul

“Some would disagree on that point. Osiris, for instance. But Sutekh would be pleased to hear you say it.” He paused. “Are you a Setnakht? Is that how you know his name?”


She swallowed, debating what would serve her better, truth or lie. Truth won. It would explain how she knew of Sutekh and soul reapers and Underworld lore. “I’m a Topworld enforcer.”

“I know.” His reply sent a chill crawling up her spine. She didn’t want him to know a damned thing about her. The fact that he did was horrifying.

Was he here to kill her?

Fast as she was, she could never outrun a supernatural of his power. So she held very still as he prowled toward her.

Not strong enough to kill him. Not fast enough to flee.

But maybe smart enough to swing a deal. All she needed to do was figure out why he was here. What he wanted.

Not her death.

At least, she didn’t think so. If he’d wanted her dead, why not kill her when he first showed up? Right after she’d plugged Butcher. Or even last night when she’d brushed past him.

Clarity dawned. He hadn’t known last night that he was after her, not until he’d gone inside the club and learned whatever it was he’d learned that had set him on her tail.

She tensed as he continued walking, thinking he meant to come for her, but he veered off course, away from the tree and her, toward the open grave. He bent and lifted the shovel, then turn to look at her once more.

His eyes were…blue? Gray? She couldn’t tell from this distance in this light.

“Do you mind?” he asked, extending the shovel toward her.

Mind what?

“Surely you don’t expect me to climb in there—” he waved the shovel toward the grave “—dressed like this?” There was an odd note to his question, almost a challenge.

What? He expected her to dig another hole? One where he could bury her after he ripped her heart out?

He made an impatient sound and answered the question she hadn’t asked. “I hardly need to bury you, pet.”

“Don’t fucking call me pet.”

He smiled tightly, his features accented by moonlight and shadow, his eyes cold enough to cry ice cubes.

“Foulmouthed little girl, aren’t you? Pet.”

He wanted to get a rise out of her, and she meant to disappoint him. Pets had claws and teeth and tempers. She just needed to bide her time until she hit the right moment to show him all three.

He moved incredibly fast, beside the grave one second, right in front of her, a hand span away, the next. She didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink. If he meant to intimidate her, he’d have to do better than that.

Keeping her expression neutral, she met his gaze. Blue, she realized. His eyes were blue, framed by thick, curled lashes. The color was indescribable, like the turquoise and lapis lazuli in the ornate necklaces her mother had given her years ago. Her mother had called the color wedjet. Naphré still had those necklaces, but she never wore them. She didn’t favor jewelry. Probably because her mother did.

“If I wanted you dead,” he murmured, “you would be.” No doubt about it. “And I’d simply leave you where you dropped. Unlike you, I have no reason to clean up after myself. Mortal laws are of little concern.”

Wasn’t he chatty? He’d just revealed a whole lot more than he’d probably meant to, lovely tidbits for her to store away for future reference, most important of which was the fact that if he didn’t want her dead, then he wanted her alive.

Looked like they shared the same goal there.

“So what do you want?”

He smiled, baring white teeth and carving a long dimple in his left cheek.

“I want you to dig up the bloke you just buried.”

It was her turn to laugh. “Why the hell would I do that?”

“Because he has something I need.”

So he wasn’t here for her. He was here for Butcher. Too late.

She shoved her hand in her own pocket and drew out Butcher’s keys, cell and wallet. “I already emptied his pockets. Other than some change, this was it. Here. You can have them.”

He didn’t so much as glance down. “Those are not the things I need.”

“Then what?”

Two vertical lines formed between his brows as he stared at her. She thought he looked more perplexed than annoyed, as though he wasn’t used to questions.

Glancing down, he thrust the tip of the shovel into the ground and settled one foot on it, hands resting on the metal handle. Elegant hands, with long, strong fingers.

“He saw some things of interest to me—”

“Not like he can tell you about them.” She flashed a too-sweet smile. “He’s dead.”

“His darksoul can speak volumes,” he said softly. Then he looked up at her, all expression wiped away, his features a mask. “I’ll need that, along with his heart.”

Something about the way he said that made Naphré shiver. She shot a look at the open grave.

“Butcher’s dead. I shot him—” she made a show of looking at her watch “—a little more than half an hour ago. Through the heart.” He knew that, though. He’d been watching her for quite some time. “Which means his heart’s probably not in particularly good shape.”