Sins of the Soul

She glared at him, dark eyes glittering, jaw set.

“Now if you keep looking at me like that, pet, I’m going to take umbrage. One would think you disliked me.” He jerked her wrists forward and swept one leg sharply against the backs of her knees, hard enough to make them buckle. She went down with a huffing exhalation.

He expected her to swear, maybe to struggle a bit. It made him wary when she did nothing more than stare straight ahead. She was on her knees on a corpse, her arms extended above her head because he still held her wrists trapped in his hand, and she was regal as a bloody queen.

For some reason, it made him feel about an inch tall. She was the one who’d shot the last living witness who might have helped him find Lokan’s remains. All he was doing was looking for answers. And feeling like a right bastard for doing so.

Not wanting to examine that feeling too closely, he shifted his grip so he held both her wrists in one hand. He spread his legs so he straddled the corpse’s shoulders, and bent. Their faces were inches apart. He could feel her breath on his cheek.

For an endless second, he held her gaze, staring into her night-dark eyes. Beautiful eyes, even when she was glaring daggers sharp enough to draw blood.

He’d gone bloody daft. He was hunkered here in a wet, stinking grave, straddling a corpse, thinking about shagging the girl. The attraction was about more than her lovely face and sleek build. She fascinated him for some bizarre, inexplicable reason.

What had turned her into a killer?

The question brought a wry twist to his lips. Perhaps something similar to what had turned a titled lord into one. Heritage. Duty. Blood.

He had no business wondering about her. Or wanting her.

Bloody sodding hell.

He needed to finish his business here, take the darksoul to Sutekh, then head home for a hot shower and a visit with Mary palm and her five sisters. That ought to settle the problem quite nicely.

With a sound of impatience, he looked down at the body, clawed his fingers, then rammed through muscle and bone. Butcher’s chest tore open with a squelching sound.

A sharp hiss exploded from Naphré’s lips, then she took a slow, deep breath, but she said nothing.

Alastor wiggled his fingers. Dead flesh, even freshly dead flesh, felt different than living muscle and skin. It was colder. The blood didn’t run freely. The heart didn’t pump.

As a rule, he did his reaping from the living. At least, they were alive until he got done with them. Robbing a corpse of heart and darksoul just didn’t feel…sporting. But this situation broke the usual rules. Ends justify the means, and all that.

Reaching deep into the chest cavity, he felt around for the heart.

He glared at her as he hauled it out, tearing it free from the tether of the great veins and arteries. The left ventricle was pulp. “Blimey, it’s chewed up more than a bit. Like a pound of mince.”

“Mince?”

“Ground meat.”

“I warned you.” She gave an elegant, one shouldered shrug.

“Maybe I should be looking at you for answers, then, pet.”

“Hatake kara hamaguri wa torenu,” she said softly, and smiled, curved lips, cold eyes. He wanted to lean in the last inch, press his mouth to hers, melt the ice.

He forced himself to lean back an inch. “Explain.”

“You cannot take a clam from a rice field.”

“Is that anything like you can’t get blood from a stone?” He was practically snarling, and he couldn’t fathom why he allowed her to get under his skin. He never let anyone get under his skin.

She took her time answering. “Exactly like.”

He had the odd sensation that she was laughing at him. He didn’t like it. He wanted her cowed and—

No. The second the thought formed, he recognized it for the lie it was. He didn’t want her intimidated and afraid. He preferred her strength.

Bloody illogical. A cowed foe was an asset, a strong one a detriment.

“Not afraid of me, pet? Not afraid I’ll take your immortal soul?”

Her lips parted. He thought that finally she understood her position. No such luck. She exhaled on a short huff of laughter.

“Forfeit my soul,” she murmured, and jerked her wrists from his grasp. Since there was no longer any reason to keep hold of her, he let her go. “You might have a fight on your hands, Alastor Krayl.” She said his name like she was tasting it, rolling the flavors on her tongue. “There’s a prior claim. Might makes right.” She paused. “Just how powerful is a soul reaper?”

Someone else had a claim on her soul, which meant he couldn’t steal it.

“I assume you refer to your obligations to Aset.”

“You ever hear the old adage about making assumptions?” Her tone held a tinge of bitterness. “Ass. U. Me. Get it?”

Actually, no. But he was interested in a different question at the moment. “If not Aset, then who?”

She didn’t answer. He hadn’t really expected her to. “You owe me a shirt,” he muttered.