Sins of the Soul

“You will do as you are bidden,” he’d ordered in an ugly tone.

“Yep. No problem,” she’d replied. “Just as soon as I’m satisfied that your target is a sleazeball. This guy isn’t. He volunteers at a food bank. Gives loads to charity. Is respectful to his mother. Helped his sister out when she needed it, and let his ex keep the house and the car, no contest. He cheats on his taxes. Owes nearly three grand in parking tickets. And he uses his mother’s handicap sticker to get choice parking spots. He’s barely a semi-creep. I’m not killing him.”

“He is inscribed in the book of debts. His soul is promised to—” Whatever he’d been about to say, he’d changed his mind and amended it to, “I will have his soul.”

“Then you’ll get it yourself because I’m not doing this job. Find me a killer to kill.” She’d folded her arms across her chest and stared the demon down. “Give me the name of a shitbag and I’ll do the deed. Otherwise, you’re on your own.”

The demon had stared at her, his lips taut and almost white with rage.

Demon. That was another thing. She didn’t know what she’d expected when she’d sold her soul, but it wasn’t some short, stocky guy who, while butt-ugly, looked perfectly human. No forked tongue or tail. No lizard eyes. Just a scary-looking guy with a big head and a sneer.

After that, the demon had started bringing her only jobs where the target was acceptable to her sensibilities.

She didn’t know whom he hired to do his dirty work for the jobs she declined. Maybe no one. When she checked a few months later, the guy she’d refused to off was still alive.

Now, edgy and tense, she rubbed her palms along her upper arms. Static electricity hung in the air. It reminded her of the way she’d felt at the graveyard, and that did not make her a happy girl.

She rose, crossed to the window and twitched the curtain to the side.

Her breath stopped. Her heart slammed against her ribs.

What the hell?

The electric vibe she’d been feeling wasn’t her imagination conjuring memories of the reaper being with her. He was still with her.

Alastor Krayl was on the street below her third-floor window. He leaned one shoulder against the lamppost, his perfectly styled honey-gold hair catching the spill of light from the overhead bulb. His shoulders looked impossibly wide, his waist trim and narrow, accentuated by the cut of his dark, single-breasted jacket. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he scowled up at her, as though his presence was her fault and he was somehow here against his will.

Above his left shoulder, Butcher’s darksoul dipped and bobbed.

Unease, confusion, anger. Emotions buffeted her.

She unlatched the window and lifted the sash. Resting her palms on the sill, she leaned out.

“What the hell are you doing?” she snarled, hoping like hell her neighbors weren’t awake and listening.

“You chose an odd career path, pet.”

“What?” She shook her head at his bizarre observation. He was a soul reaper, and he was commenting on her job? “Did you follow me?” How? Why? She’d thought he’d left the cemetery long before she did.

He shrugged and pushed off the post. “You were being watched.”

“Watched,” she echoed, and stared at him uncomprehending. He came here to tell her that? He’d already pointed it out back at the cemetery.

Suddenly she had the most bizarre thought. “You followed me home to make sure I was okay? Like we were at our high school prom? You’re kidding, right?”

He opened his mouth, closed it, and in his silence, she had her answer.

It appeared that she’d acquired a supernatural stalker.

“Just wanted to make certain I knew where to find you if I decided we needed to have another chat,” he said, voice soft and silky, eyes narrowed, jaw set.

“Right,” she muttered.

“Right,” he echoed, and something—his tone, his expression, the look in his eyes—made her think he was as baffled by his actions as she was.

Without another word, he turned his back on her and walked away, the darksoul trailing behind him.

“Wait!”

He stopped, but didn’t turn.

“Don’t take him. Whatever you think he has or knows, maybe I can help you find it another way. Maybe—”

He spun, his expression fierce. “I can’t take a chance on maybes, pet. There’s the small matter of a ticking clock.”

“But the clock wasn’t ticking so fast that you couldn’t make a detour to stand outside my window?”

“That was—” He ran his fingers through his hair, stopped halfway through the action, then lowered his hand to stare at it like it belonged to someone else. Then he turned and kept walking up the road.