Sins of the Soul

“See a doctor,” she called. “There are medicines that might help. Or a padded room,” she finished in an undertone.

He made a circular gesture with one hand and a dark, undulating oval of smoke and fog appeared before him. She felt cold just looking at it. There were no stars. No light. Just utter and complete darkness in that hole. He walked right through it, leaving her dumbfounded, staring at the spot where he’d disappeared long after he was gone.

She was left rattled and confused.

He’d followed her home.

He knew where she lived.

He could return any time he chose. And for some truly fucked-up reason, that didn’t scare the crap out of her the way it should.

Pulling her head back in, she slammed the window shut, flipped the latch and stomped back to the couch. Not enough that she had to be hounded by a soul reaper. No, she had to be hounded by a soul reaper who’d lost his ever-loving mind.

She grabbed her laptop, settled in and opened a browser. Three hours later, she had a whole whack of information about the Setnakhts, including a marginal grasp of their philosophy, a list of their places of worship worldwide, and the names of the High Priests in Toronto. Pyotr Kusnetzov—funny, he hadn’t mentioned his exalted position when he’d been hitting on her at the gym. And Djeserit Bast, complete with a pretty picture that confirmed her identity as the woman Naphré had spotted at the graveyard, and ostensibly the High Priest who’d hired Butcher to kill her.

She closed the browser and lifted her head. Light crept through the crack in the curtains, casting pale-gray streaks on the floor. Every bone in her body ached, she was that tired. Tired in heart and soul and body.

One last task. She opened a new browser and checked her e-mail.

Her breath hitched and an icy chill touched her skin. There was one message in her inbox. From Butcher.

Of course. How could this night be complete without a message from the dead?

Torn, she almost closed the browser. Almost didn’t look.

Then she did, because she couldn’t help it.

There was nothing personal there. Not a word. Not even a signature. Just a link.

She copied the link, pasted it into a new browser, and waited while it opened.

It was a medical site. Frowning, she leaned forward, eyes locked on the screen.

Extensive small cell lung cancer.

She shivered, suddenly chilled clear to the bone.

Metastasis. Treatment. Symptoms. The information was all there. She scanned it. Twice. The words were like little black bugs crawling on the screen, the form and meaning refusing to register.

And then she fixated on one section. Prognosis: poor.

I woulda taken the shot, Naph.

He would have. She didn’t doubt that for a second.

But he’d counted on her to get the gun, counted on her to make it clean and neat and fast. Rather than slow and horrifically painful, lying in a hospital bed, his dignity tattered.

He’d taken the hit on her so she’d have a reason to kill him.

Damn it.

Damn him.

She closed the laptop with meticulous care and set it aside, then she sank back against the cushions, gut churning.

Letting her head drop into her hands, she did something she hadn’t done in six long years.

She cried.





CHAPTER SEVEN



The Underworld, the Territory of Izanami

“I WILL TAKE ONE HUNDRED SOULS for the one he stole from me,” Izanami said, her voice soft and controlled, her rage like ice. She could hear the footsteps of the thunder deities echoing on the stone floor behind her, but she neither glanced back nor paused. They would match her pace; they would not fall behind.

Once, Izanami had been the Goddess of Creation. Now, she was the Goddess of Death, and Yomi-no-kuni was her realm. It was a place of shadows and darkness, an underground labyrinth fed by a raging river, blocked from the human world by a massive boulder that even the most powerful men or machinery could not move. She had come to love Yomi’s darkness, to cherish it.

For it was light—and a man’s inability to keep his word—that had stolen her sole opportunity to return to the world of the living. That man had been her husband, Izanagi. He had come for her after death and he had promised not to look upon her, to allow the darkness to veil her from his sight until she could seek audience and free herself from the realm of the dead.

He had lied. He had conjured light in a place meant to know only shadow, and upon seeing what she had become, he had fled. He had left her here.

She had trusted no man, whether mortal or supernatural, since.

“One of Sutekh’s spawn took the soul.”

She did not slow her pace as she asked, “Spawn? Not merely a soul reaper, but one of his sons?”

“Yes. I saw him myself. I warned him off. A single clap of thunder, and when he did not heed me, a second. Either he chose to ignore the warning, or he did not recognize it for what it was.”