Sins of the Soul

She heard a grunt, and felt the give as his head snapped back.

Shaking her hand to ease the sting in her knuckles, she glanced up and froze. Lapis lazuli eyes stared back at her.

“Oops.”

“You think?” Clipped, perfect consonants and vowels.

Looked like the soul reaper was back, making a mess of her efforts just like he had when she’d buried—then unburied, then reburied—Butcher. So why, why, did a part of her feel a little electric thrill at the sight of him?

He grabbed her other arm, dragged her against him and kissed her. Lips, no tongue.

And damn if she didn’t kiss him back.

His mouth was hard, demanding, maybe a little angry, like he was kissing her and didn’t want to be kissing her and at the same time did. The feel of his mouth on hers tore through her, and then the kiss was over, his hard body a step away, his grasp on her arms gone.

The only thing that told her she hadn’t imagined the whole thing was the taste of him on her lips and the way her whole body felt like it was singing.

His gaze locked with hers, his pupils dilated and dark, rimmed by a thin line of bright-blue iris. The effect was startling. Sexy.

“Get in the bloody car.”

His tone, not so sexy.

A shot rang out and Alastor moved, so fast she didn’t see a damned thing, only felt the air on her cheek. Cries came from far down the alley, and she realized that Pyotr had doubled back and found another way out of the building. And he’d brought company.

She was already moving when she heard a second shot, and almost simultaneously a grunt then a hiss. It took a millisecond to realize that Alastor was no longer in front of her, but behind. He’d moved with preternatural speed. And she was guessing he’d just taken a bullet in her stead.

He yanked open the rear driver’s-side door, lifted her bodily with a solid forearm around her waist and threw her into the backseat. She skidded across the leather.

The door slammed. The car dipped as the reaper threw himself behind the wheel. A second slam and they were off, tires squealing.

Naphré’s heart pounded against her ribs. She liked nice, clean, organized work. Clusterfucks like this one weren’t really her scene.

Noise followed them. Shouts. The distinctive crack of gunshot.

“We need to get out of here,” she said to the back of Alastor’s head. “With the racket they’re making, the cops’ll be here any minute.”

“We need to get out of here for reasons other than the local constabulary,” he muttered, sounding incredibly proper, and incredibly put out.

“‘Local constabulary,’” she echoed. “You from a different world?”

“Something like that,” he clipped. “One with calling cards and copious amounts of tea.”

She didn’t think she wanted to know.

The girl on the seat beside her tried to straighten, and Naphré grabbed the back of her head, holding her down just in case the morons firing at them improved their aim.

“Bloody fucking hell,” Alastor snarled, and slammed on the brakes. Naphré and the girl both went tumbling off the seat.

“…shooting at us…” the girl mumbled and tried to rise.

“No shit. Stay down.” Naphré pushed the flat of her hand against the girl’s back to emphasize her point. She had no idea why Alastor had stopped, but she knew she wasn’t pleased that he had. What could be worse than trigger-happy Setnakhts?

She reared up just enough to see over the seat and out the front window. There was a group of women standing at the mouth of the alley.

“Beep at them,” she ordered, slamming her fist against the back of Alastor’s shoulder, practically feeling the breath of the Setnakhts on the back of her neck.

“What do you see?” he asked softly.

Like they had time for this. “A bunch of women out for the night,” she snapped. “Beep. Make them move. Go.” She shot a look over her shoulder and, sure enough, several dark shapes were racing along the alley toward them.

“Go!” She hit him again.

Lightning fast, his hand shot back and trapped hers. Her head jerked up. Their gazes locked in the rearview mirror.

All she could see were his eyes, incredibly blue, bright despite the darkness.

All she could feel was his touch. Electricity ramped through her, making the fine hairs on her forearm prickle and rise. The connection was startling, unsettling. It made her nerve endings feel like they’d been coasting until that moment, like they’d never experienced sensation until he’d touched her.

She had the crazy thought that she was like an electric circuit with a break in the flow, and he was the switch that completed her.

She tried to pull away, but he was having none of that.