Sins of the Soul

“Who knows you’re here?” he asked, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing an English toffee caramel. He unwrapped the candy, popped it in his mouth and shoved the wrapper back in his pocket.


She paused, tipped her head and turned it enough to shoot him a sidelong look through her thick, straight lashes.

“You. And some guy by the name of Mick, my liaison for this job.” She paused and tapped the tip of her finger against her cheek. “Oh, but you already knew that. Because Mick’s the one who gave me up, isn’t he?”

“Actually, he gave up your companion. He barely mentioned you at all. Called you ‘the sidekick.’ Mentioned that if I’d only been a few minutes earlier, I’d have run into you. I didn’t bother to tell him our paths had crossed.”

She nodded. “Is he dead?”

“When I left, he was alive and bleeding.”

“Good.” She hefted the shovel and slammed it into the earth. “Because I’m going to kill him myself when we’re done.”

Undoubtedly. But Alastor had a feeling someone else would beat her to it, the someone who’d sent Mick out as emissary in the first place.





A COUPLE OF MINUTES LATER, the shovel clinked against metal, likely a belt buckle. Naphré reached and stretched to stand the shovel in the corner, then got down and used her hands to swish the remains of the dirt to the sides, baring the dead man’s torso.

“This good enough? Or you want me to haul him out of here as well?” Her tone was cold, unemotional, but he sensed the rage and resentment seething beneath the surface. And something else. Grief? The possibility surprised him. Alastor leaned over the edge of the grave and saw that she’d bared most of Butcher’s upper body. Certainly enough that he had access to his chest. Interestingly, she’d left the man’s face covered.

“Good enough.”

She nodded, rose and took a step back so she straddled the mound that covered Butcher’s legs. There was a hill of dirt on one side of the grave where she’d piled it as she dug, making the confines down there uncomfortably tight for the task Alastor meant to perform.

Her expression cool and remote, her thoughts veiled, she looked up at him. He could guess that she was thinking she’d like to shoot him. Or stab him. Perhaps dismember his twitching corpse. Not that he blamed her.

“You have…” He made a vague gesture toward his own cheek.

She didn’t blink, didn’t move, but something shifted in her expression, so subtle he almost missed it. Slowly, she raised her hand to scrape her fingers along the delicate arc of her cheekbone, leaving not one, but three, neatly aligned smudges.

Her gaze dipped to her filthy hands and her eyes widened a fraction.

Tucking her chin, she rubbed her shoulder along her cheek, then looked up at him, eyes sparking with hate. Alastor figured it might be best not to mention the fact that the three neat lines were now one big, brown blotch.

Instead, he glanced into the grave, then down at his Italian loafers. The idea of climbing into the dirt didn’t appeal, but he couldn’t imagine how she’d drag the body out. “Shove over.”

“Don’t say you’re planning to come down here with me.” She glanced first at the damp earthen walls, then the partially uncovered body at her feet.

“The thought pleases me even less than it apparently pleases you, but I don’t see an alternative. The body won’t simply fly up here, will it?”

“What, your powers too paltry to levitate a corpse?”

“Telekinesis isn’t in my repertoire.” He arched a brow. “Yours?”

The tip of her tongue peeked out as she wet her lips. He watched the motion, thinking that he’d like to put his tongue where hers was.

She waved a hand to encompass the grave. “There isn’t enough room. Let me get out first.”

He kept his expression carefully blank and slowly shook his head.

To his surprise, she smiled. Close-lipped. No teeth. It struck him that the situation didn’t call for a smile. Then he noticed her dimples. One in each cheek, peeking out at him like a gift. A man could be blinded to almost anything by that smile.

He supposed that was the point.

But her eyes didn’t smile. They remained flat and cool and unreadable, like the dark surface of a placid lake with endless depths. Who could know what lurked in those depths?

Still, he stared at her for a second too long. Because she was truly lovely and there were so few lovely things in his life anymore.

The thought startled him, and he shifted back from the edge of the grave as though even a small increment of distance would rein in his wayward musings.