Sins of the Soul

NAPHRé PEERED AROUND THE edge of the wall, hugging the shadows, taking in the scene with a quick sweep. A steel door was propped open with a milk crate, spilling light onto the metal grate that served as a landing and the half dozen metal stairs that led down to the alley. A black sedan idled next to the stairs, no headlights, no interior lights. The back passenger door was open, as was the driver’s door. There was no one inside.

Withdrawing before she could be seen, Naphré pressed up against the wall and listened. She heard the sound of footsteps on tile, then a heavier thud as feet hit the metal landing and, finally, the stairs. There was a muted moan, followed by a woman’s voice. “Hey, I don’t—” Another moan, and then, “Oh, please, don’t hurt me. Oh…I think I’m going to throw—” —up. Naphré mentally matched word to sound as the unseen woman did exactly as she promised.

A man’s voice rattled off a litany of less-than-polite words. Then there was a thud, and an angry, “Do not move, you stupid cunt,” then the sound of footsteps rushing off.

The voice was vaguely familiar.

Kuso. She did not need this. She was here to do surveillance. If she’d been lucky, she’d have found a way to crash the Setnakhts’ party.

But whatever party this guy meant to have with a girl who was half-conscious and puking was not one she wanted in on. Of course, she couldn’t leave well enough alone. The tattered remnants of her damned conscience wouldn’t let her just turn around and leave.

The girl groaned again, the sound loud in the quiet alley.

Naphré took a deep breath and moved.

She rounded the corner and evaluated as she ran. The woman was slumped on the pavement against the bottom stair, legs sprawled, head bowed so her long, light-brown hair obscured her face. Beside her was a pool of vomit. She moaned as she tried to raise her head and push to her feet.

Drunk. Drugged. Sick. Naphré figured it could be any or all of the above. Didn’t matter which, though. All that mattered was getting her out of here because there was absolutely no doubt in her mind that the guy who’d been carting her around was no Good Samaritan.

Black car. No lights. Back door. No prying eyes.

Her money was on nefarious plot rather than concerned date. Which meant she couldn’t just leave the girl sitting in her own puke.

The car was running. Naphré dipped, shoved her forearms under the girl’s armpits, hauled her up and dragged her toward the car. She winced as the girl’s weight put pressure on the bandaged cuts on her forearm.

She was almost to the car when she raised her head and met the startled gaze of Pyotr Kusnetzov as he stalked through a door at the far end of the hallway.

For a frozen second, he just stared at her. Then he started to run, his hand reaching for something inside his jacket.

Naphré dropped the girl.

Heart pounding, she lunged up the stairs, two at a time, her gaze locked on Pyotr Kusnetzov, who was sprinting down the long, narrow hallway toward her. She hit the landing, kicked the milk carton out of the way and shoved the metal door. It slammed shut with a clang.

Spinning, she bolstered it with her back and anchored her feet against the metal rail. She needed a way to keep the damned thing shut. A quick look around revealed absolutely nothing useful.

Kuso.

Inspiration struck. She grabbed her spare knife from the sheath in her boot, rammed the blade under the door and trapped the handle in the metal grate of the landing. Then she straightened and turned just as a solid weight thudded against the door from the inside.

Pyotr Kusnetzov shook the handle and bellowed like an enraged bull. Damn. With the pretty manners he’d shown her, she really wouldn’t have guessed he had that in him.

Her makeshift brace held. For the moment.

Heart pounding, she grabbed the railing, vaulted overtop and landed hard. The force of her landing echoed through her ankles and shins, despite her bent knees and neat gymnastic form. Guess that’s what she got for a high dismount to concrete.

“Let’s go,” she muttered, grabbing the girl under the arms again and hauling her up. “Come on.”

Naphré literally threw her through the open passenger door. She got no resistance, just a pathetic little moan.

She kicked the car door shut and skidded round the rear fender to get to the driver’s side, one hand shooting out to rest on the trunk for balance.

Pyotr was still rattling the door and cursing.

There was a sharp snap and crackle.

Naphré turned, her gut sinking as she realized the knife might not hold.

She made a half turn back toward the open driver’s door.

And got no further.

Rough fingers clamped on her upper arm, and she cried out, jerking away, only to find herself dragged against something solid and immovable.

Acting on reflex she spun as far as his hold let her, and punched, landing an uppercut to the underside of the immovable object’s chin.