Sins of the Soul

When she reached Butcher’s car, she popped the trunk and set the shovel off to one side. Then she hauled out a rag and a water bottle. She drenched the rag and made a big show of swiping it over her hands again and again, smearing the dirt. Casually, she slammed the trunk shut, and strolled around to the side of the car, still wiping. The car window reflected the road and the trees.

Shifting her angle, she checked behind her as she poured more water, did a little more wiping. Sure enough, there was the telltale flash of metal. Whoever was watching her wasn’t trained, at least not in the art of camouflage.

A moment later, there he was. Maybe five-ten. Dressed in black. He slid from behind a tree just outside the cemetery fence.

Naphré’s pulse kicked up a notch. She kept her limbs loose, her posture relaxed, not wanting the watcher to know he was watched.

She unfolded and refolded the rag so a clean square was revealed and poured out a bit more water. All the while, she kept her gaze on the window and the reflection it revealed, careful not to alert her tail to the fact that he’d been made.

Her knife was at the small of her back. Going for that would be a sure giveaway. Instead, she slowly shifted her hand and closed her fingers on the butt of Butcher’s Glock where she had it thrust in the front of her belt.

She could kill him. Pull the gun, spin, aim, fire. No question she’d hit him on the first try, probably kill him with the first bullet. Then she’d take a second shot just to be sure.

But killing him wouldn’t get her answers. And she wanted those, so she just held still and waited for him to make his next move.

Finally, the guy shifted forward, just enough that his bald scalp reflected the moonlight. He stood very still, staring at her so intently she actually felt like something was crawling on her skin. Her muscles twitched.

She watched his hands, waiting for even a whisper of threat. But slowly, carefully, he backed away.

As he turned, he was silhouetted by the moonlight and Naphré caught a full-body profile view.

Surprise. Not he. She.

Her watcher had breasts.

Looked like Butcher had made that call to that Setnakht priest who’d ordered the hit, after all. Either that, or she’d shown up here all on her own.

That meant the priest knew Butcher was dead, since she’d watched Naphré shoot him. And she knew Naphré was alive. Which was inconvenient.

But inconvenience could be turned to advantage. There was opportunity here.

Options played out in Naphré’s thoughts. Kill the woman. Not a good way to get answers. Confront her. A decent option, but she was mentally and physically exhausted. She wasn’t on point, and that meant she might make mistakes. Better to wait. Tomorrow was another day.

As she settled behind the wheel and started the car, she mentally prepared for a late night. Shower, then computer. She had some research to do about the Setnakhts and their High Priests.





AN HOUR LATER, NAPHRé was bundled up in her pink flannel pajamas, her hair wet, her heart heavy. She’d shampooed twice, conditioned once, washed away the dirt, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she wasn’t quite clean.

Add to that the bizarre charge that kept lifting the fine hairs on her forearms. She couldn’t seem to shake the electrical vibe that she’d picked up from the soul reaper at the graveyard. Like a part of him was still with her. She sank down on the couch and stared straight ahead.

Butcher was dead.

They’d been nearly inseparable for six years. They’d fought and laughed and worked together.

Now he was dead.

And she’d been the one to kill him. Not only that, but she’d let his soul go with the reaper, to Sutekh, the Lord of Chaos, the Lord of Evil. Didn’t sound like a restful eternity to her. Crap.

Like she’d had a choice. Alastor Krayl, soul reaper extraordinaire, hadn’t appeared to be in the mood to bargain. And she hadn’t had any leverage.

For a second, back in the graveyard, she’d considered trying to summon the creature that owned her soul, to ask him to claim Butcher from the reaper. But there had been a few problems with that plan. To summon a demon, she needed a ring of salt and candles and a splash of her blood, not to mention the thin gold engraved wafer he’d given her the night she’d made her pact with him.

There in the graveyard, she’d found herself fresh out of all required elements, except her own blood.

Besides, she wasn’t certain she could summon him. She’d never tried. Throughout the years, she’d left their meetings to his whim, not particularly anxious to see him any more often than she had to. He’d show up at her door, he’d give her a name, she’d do her research, and he’d come back a couple of nights later to find out if she’d done the job.

Sometimes she did, sometimes she didn’t. It depended on whether the potential victim met the requirements on her mental checklist.

A killer with scruples. Yep, that was her.

He’d made it clear that that wasn’t actually the way he’d have liked to play it. In fact, he’d been enraged the first time she’d turned him down. He’d stared at her, his small, dark eyes glittering in the candlelight, mouth turned down in a hard line.