Sins of the Soul

“I have no knowledge of any prior claim to this darksoul.”


Sutekh’s mouth curved in a hard smile. “No knowledge of a prior claim doesn’t mean there isn’t one. As always, you choose your words wisely, Alastor.”

“Taught by the master,” Alastor replied, his tone cold, his words clipped. His father knew exactly what he thought of him. Love. Hate. Admiration. Spite. Too many emotions to tally with mere words. They couldn’t begin to describe the roiling cauldron of emotions Sutekh elicited not just in Alastor, but in all his sons. The only sentiment that Alastor could swear wasn’t there was fear. Oh, it had been there in the beginning, cold and wet and dripping slime. But time had taught him that he could master his fear, and in doing so, break Sutekh’s iron hold over him.

They’d helped each other, he and his brothers, and they’d made some progress toward freeing themselves from the scars of their father’s yoke. But it had been Lokan, the youngest of the four, and oddly, the most wise, who had really helped them all find their way clear of the weight Sutekh had gleefully placed on their shoulders.

Lokan had taught them all to laugh again. For Alastor, it was relearning a skill he’d taken for granted as a child. For Mal, it was one he’d never lost. For Dagan, it was one he’d never before had the opportunity to learn.

Dragging his thoughts away from his dead brother, Alastor focused fully on Sutekh.

“What you have brought me here—” Sutekh gestured at the heart on the gold plate “—is not whole. And the darksoul is sluggish. You can see how it moves. This effort may be wasted.”

Alastor had no idea why his father was wasting time. “Take the thing—” His demand choked off as a familiar smell came upon him, and he knew she was there even before she spoke.

“Stop!” The voice was both feminine and terrible. And the smell—bloody, fucking hell. Like dust. Like a crypt opened after a thousand years, stale and old and musty. And at the same time, like fresh blood and maggoty meat. He almost gagged.

He didn’t need to turn to know who had joined them. The woman he had seen from the gallery. Incredibly, impossibly, she had passed the six guards at Sutekh’s doors and made it through the corridors until she found them. No wonder Sutekh no longer trusted his borders.

Alastor turned and studied the creature before him. She stood no more than ten feet away, shrouded in layers of slithering, crawling things. There were tiny legs everywhere, and the round, white bodies of writhing maggots.

The figure glided forward, directing her attention and her words to Sutekh. “Your son has taken that which rightfully belongs to Izanami, She Who Invites, Goddess of Creation, Goddess of Death. Words were spoken. Customs followed. This soul is not yours. This heart belongs to another. Forfeit the soul—” her head turned toward Alastor “—or forfeit the thief.”





CHAPTER EIGHT



The Temple of Setnakht, Toronto

FROM HIS PLACE IN the corner, Pyotr Kusnetzov watched Djeserit Bast as she stood by the narrow, black granite bar in her private office, staring at the cut-crystal decanter.

She didn’t know he was here, didn’t think to look for an intruder in her private domain. She would not expect him to dare enter her territory. They were equals in the Cult of Setnakht, High Reverends both. For the moment. But Pyotr had plans to change that. He meant to be a great leader, a supreme leader. An immortal leader. And he meant for Djeserit to be dead.

Djeserit splashed two fingers of whiskey into a tumbler, then bowed her head, gaze fixed on the glass. She’d turned on the recessed light above the gleaming black minibar, the bright circle of its limited reach the only light in the room. Likely, she was in the mood for shadows after this night’s debacle. Though he lacked the nuances of Djeserit’s plan, he knew she had plotted behind his back, and that she had failed.

Now, he had only to ascertain exactly what damage she had done.

Anger surged, and he fisted his hands at his sides, throttling the urge to grab her by the throat and snap her neck. Not yet. It was the wrong time. The right circumstances had yet to be manipulated into place. But soon. Very soon.

Djeserit continued to stare at the tumbler, making no move to pick it up. Then she lifted the decanter once more and filled the glass nearly to the top. Her hand was shaking and a few drops splashed over the rim to lie sparkling on the gleaming black counter.