Sins of the Soul

“Your name?” Sutekh asked as he seated himself.

She shook her head. “Unimportant. I am one of eight Shikome. I can be only what I am.”

Alastor looked beyond the crawling things, beyond the smell, and he saw a fierce and proud creature, one of power. His father must have seen that as well, for he treated her with respect due a foe of value.

“How did you pass my guards?” he asked.

“With this.” She drew from inside the writhing, undulating layers a wafer-thin oval of gold. Alastor recognized it. A cartouche. Sutekh’s name encircled in a hieroglyphic representation of a doubled rope with its ends tied in a tangent line. It was a free pass. A card that could be traded for a favor. Sutekh was miserly about handing them out.

“Where did you get that?” Alastor asked, straightening off the doorjamb and crossing the space until he stood over her, looking down at the gold wafer she held in her bug-encrusted hand.

“Izanami and I have had dealings in the past,” Sutekh said, never looking away from their guest, who perched at the edge of her chair, practically vibrating with leashed energy and tension. “I gave her a token of my appreciation for her assistance in a matter of delicacy some time ago. She has chosen this occasion to make use of it.” Then he addressed himself to the Shikome. “Does Izanami stand with me at the meeting?”

“That is for you to ask Izanami, and of no relevance to our immediate discussion.”

“I have asked her through an ambassador. She was coy in her reply.”

“I am authorized to speak only about the darksoul your minion stole from Izanami-no-mikoto. Nothing more.”

Sutekh inclined his head in acceptance. “What are your terms?”

“The return of the heart and darksoul.” She turned her head toward Alastor and continued. “If you wish to negotiate some other satisfactory outcome, I can name only tentative terms. Should Izanami disagree when I advise her of our dialogue, then our discourse and agreement will be nullified.”

“Of course.”

“You wish to keep this particular darksoul?” She waved a hand toward the soul still tethered by a band of fire. Centipedes dropped off and scuttled along the floor.

“I do.” With the smallest gesture of his pinky finger, Sutekh incinerated them, tiny flames flaring then disappearing, leaving minute piles of ash. Not merely a show of power, but a precaution. The Shikome could not be allowed to leave anything behind when she left. Not even a bug. One never knew what her connection was to the creatures that swarmed over her in waves.

“Why is this darksoul of such import?”

Alastor squelched the urge to interfere, to ensure that his father say nothing of the information they might learn of Lokan’s death. It could well be Izanami who was the puppet-master behind Gahiji’s actions. She was neither friend nor ally to Sutekh, after all.

But he needn’t have entertained even a moment’s worry. His father was an expert at declining the requests, demands, pleas of others.

“The darksoul is of interest to me. You know that already and that is all you need to know, and all I am prepared to reveal. I offer in exchange another soul, one inscribed in my book of debts. Not a soul promised to me by another, but one that made the offer directly.”

“What soul?” the Shikome asked.

“Come,” Sutekh said, and rose. “This way.”

He led her to the book on the pedestal and with a languid swish of his hand flipped the pages open. Turning his hand palm up, he extended his index finger and let the very tip touch the inscribed name. The Shikome leaned close, stiffened and jerked away.

There was no expression for Alastor to read, yet read it he did.

She was incensed. The bugs that covered her seemed to swell like a tide, making her larger, darker. They grew in size, in volume, their movements frenzied, the effect disturbing, even to one such as him.

Why? What name had Sutekh shown her? What soul had he offered?

“You offer a soul with divided loyalties and tangled connections. I will need to speak with Izanami. This decision is beyond my reach.” The insects that covered her made faint clicking sounds as she spoke, as though in chorus to her words.

Sutekh stared at her, saying nothing. His hand was yet extended, his finger resting on the name.

Though his father had not invited him to do so, Alastor strode forward and looked into the book. The page was filled by a lengthy list, the letters neat and tight. Yet, one name leaped at him, clear and defined. He not only read it, but felt it reach for him and catch hold of him, like a fist plunged in his chest.

Naphré Misao Kurata.

His Naphré.

He felt like he’d been kicked in the gut. The emotions he worked so hard to hold at bay shook the bars of their cage and howled.