Sins of the Soul

Sutekh was speaking to him. “—the darksoul.”


Raising his head, Alastor stared at the Shikome, wondering a million different things. How she had come at exactly this moment, robbing him of the opportunity to find out what Butcher had known about Lokan. Why she had refused the alternate soul, Naphré’s soul. What she meant by divided loyalties and tangled connections.

What the bloody hell Naphré’s name was doing in that book.

“Where do you take this darksoul?” he asked, forcing the words past bloodless lips, focusing on the one question that demanded an immediate answer.

Izanami’s ambassador turned to him and extended her hand, waiting for him to pass Butcher’s darksoul—and its precious knowledge—to her. He had no choice. Even if he refused, Sutekh was the only one who could ingest the raw energy and glean the memories. If there were even any memories left to glean.

“To Yomi,” she said.

Alastor nodded. “I wish to beg passage,” he said. “I wish to speak with Izanami-no-mikoto.” He could feel Sutekh’s disapproval, but he didn’t acknowledge it, didn’t even glance at his father. He kept emotion and action under tightest restraint. “I would beg that you keep this soul safe until I have opportunity to present my case.”

“You would trust me to keep my word?” Her tone was flat, cool, yet he sensed a modicum of amusement.

Alastor stared at her, wishing she had eyes he could look at, features he could read. But since she had neither, he relied on instinct, which was telling him she was a woman of honor. That her word had value. “Yes.”

As a wave, the minute creatures that veiled her drew back then surged forward. He was left with the impression that his answer had surprised her.

“You have passage, then, soul reaper. Best find your way there before the meeting of allies. Your invitation does not extend longer than that. Should you be caught in Izanami’s territory once your welcome expires, your soul will be forfeit.”

He could feel his father’s displeasure buffeting him like breakers at the shore. He ignored it, keeping his gaze on the Shikome.

“Understood.” Alastor inclined his head as he handed off the darksoul, controlling his expression as the foul chill of her touch permeated his body.

A centipede disengaged from the mass and crawled along the back of his hand. Another followed. And another. He did not shake them free or in any way indicate that he even knew they were there, though one of the centipedes crawled beneath the cuff of his shirt and up his arm with amazing speed.

And though she made no comment, he thought his reserve earned some small measure of the Shikome’s favor.

Sutekh waved his hand and the centipedes on Alastor’s skin burst into flame. Unfortunately, the one beneath his shirt extended the flame to the cloth, and Alastor’s entire sleeve erupted, scorching the skin of his arm from wrist to shoulder.

It was in Sutekh’s power to make the burn disappear. But it was not in his nature.

He would let Alastor suffer for having over-stepped.

Despite her lack of eyes, he sensed the Shikome’s gaze upon him. She rose, stepped forward, as though to offer either words or assistance. Although perhaps he misread.

Either way, he stalled her with a gesture. “I heal fast.” But the burn would hurt like the devil until he did, which was, of course, Sutekh’s exact intent.

She inclined her head, towing Butcher’s darksoul—and the secrets Alastor so desperately wanted—behind her as she walked toward the double doors of the greeting chamber. There, she paused and spoke without looking back.

“Bring the girl,” she said. An order, not a suggestion.

The girl. She meant Naphré. Denial sprang to his lips, but he swallowed it, waiting to hear the rest of what she had to say.

“She will be offered safe passage along with you. And I will personally guarantee that she will be offered the chance to leave when we are done. But know that she is your free pass, soul reaper. Your key. Without her, you will be denied entry, this soul forever beyond your reach.”





CHAPTER NINE



Kawara wa migaitemo tama ni naranu. A tile even though it be polished does not become a jewel.



—Japanese proverb

The Temple of Setnakht, Toronto

STANDING ACROSS THE street from the Temple of Setnakht, Naphré leaned one shoulder against the wall beside her, took out the little Ziploc baggie and shook it to mix the ingredients. It was her own special trail mix blend: edamame, chocolate-covered raisins and the occasional cheesy fish cracker. She liked the salty with the sweet. But she’d never met anyone else who liked this particular blend. Her running buddies just gave her a disgusted look if she offered them any during their after-run chat. She gave a mental shrug. Their loss.