Sins of the Soul

Anger surged, white-hot. If he moved even one step closer, he would beat her. He would beat her until her hated face was a bloody, bruised pulp. Until the skin on his knuckles was ripped open and raw. Until her bones broke and her breath eased out in a final sigh.

The thought brought a smile to his lips.

But he dared not indulge such fantasy. He was in control. He had long ago left behind the thug who used his fists rather than his brains. It had been decades since he’d used his fists like that. His weapons were more refined now. His intellect. His words. The beautifully honed edge of a knife when circumstances called for it.

Besides, he could not kill her. That was the fail-safe. They each knew too much. If he killed her, she would carry her tales to the Underworld. If she killed him, he would do the same.

Her lips curved and she smiled. Djeserit Bast was a woman who ought never smile.

“Who was at the cemetery?” he asked, his patience forced.

“He was there,” she said. “The one we need. He was there. I saw him.”

“What are you talking about?” But he knew. Deep inside, he knew.

She held up her hand, thumb and forefinger held an inch apart. “I was this close to the soul reaper. I believe he was another of Sutekh’s sons.” She pinched her fingertips together. “This close.”

And with that revelation, Pyotr’s control fragmented. She had jeopardized everything.

He lunged across the space and closed his hands around Djeserit’s throat.



The Underworld, the Territory of Sutekh

COLD RAGE CURDLED IN Alastor’s gut. At the situation. At himself.

The rules were clear. This darksoul had never been his to take. But if he gave up this harvest, then whatever Butcher had witnessed would be lost to them, his memories gone to another territory, beyond their reach. Just as Frank Marin’s were. And if he didn’t give it up, by all laws and customs of the Underworld, the injured party could demand Alastor’s soul as forfeit. Of course, demand and obtain were two completely different concepts.

“Does she speak the truth?” Sutekh glanced at him.

“I witnessed no ceremony that promised the soul to Izanami—” the creature made a sound of denial, and Alastor continued, not waiting for her to interject “—but there is a strong possibility she speaks truth. There was ample time for it to happen before I arrived.”

“You ignored the warning of the thunder deity,” she said flatly.

Sutekh stared at him impassively, as though waiting for a denial.

“I didn’t realize it was a warning.” Alastor paused for only a second, then barreled on, not waiting to consult his father, or even to think on what he proposed. Stepping into a political negotiation went totally against his character, but the situation was dire, and this was one time that might did not make right.

They needed Butcher’s sodding darksoul and the information it might hold. He legally had no claim to it. There was no illegal recourse now that he’d been caught with his fingers in the pot. Negotiation was all that was left to him.

“I propose a trade,” he said. “This darksoul for another. Would that be acceptable?”

He could feel his father’s eyes upon him. And his censure. Or perhaps that was only what he expected to feel.

“A trade,” the creature murmured, clearly startled by the proposition. “I received no instruction for that.”

Alastor shot a glance at Sutekh. His father was impassive as always, his expression betraying nothing. It had been precipitous to make this offer, to jump in and preempt anything Sutekh might have done. But time was slipping away and, with it, hope of reuniting Lokan’s body with his soul. If they had any hope of success, they needed to do that before he partook of the food of the dead and in so doing, sealed his eternity.

Sutekh stepped forward then and gestured toward the open doors. “Come, let us discuss this in comfort. May I offer refreshment? Honeyed cakes? Tea?”

Looking at the creature before him, Alastor could discern no mouth. There was only a gaping hole that opened when she spoke, quickly filled in by writhing centipedes and spiders the size of cherries, the legs as long as stems.

“No refreshment, thank you. But I have journeyed far. I will sit.”

“Come.” Sutekh led the way inside, and held the seat back as the creature arranged herself in one of the chairs of Lebanese wood. In seconds, the chair disappeared under an undulating wave of glistening bodies and innumerable thrashing legs.

Sutekh drifted to the pedestal that stood in the center of the great room, and the open book that rested there. Casually, he leafed through several pages then drew his finger down the list of names. At length, he paused, tapped the tip of his index finger against the page and nodded. He shot a glance at Alastor, and though his expression was utterly blank, Alastor’s blood chilled in his veins.

He knew that look. His father was about to enact some nefarious scheme, one that would feed his need for rage and hate and pain.

Finally, Sutekh turned back to his guest.

Alastor watched all this from the place he had taken by the open garden doors, his shoulder propped against the jamb.