Sins of the Soul

“Look again, pet.”


“What the f—” Her arguments died, because when she tore her gaze from the mirror and looked toward the group of women blocking their path, they appeared far different than they had a moment past. There wasn’t much light—Alastor hadn’t bothered to turn on the headlights—but between the moon and whatever ambient light leaked from the street, she got an eyeful. Those women didn’t look like any humans she’d ever seen. Their skin was like dark-red leather, their hair black and sleek and their hands bore black, curved talons in place of nails.

“Kuso,” she hissed.

“Kuso, indeed,” Alastor echoed. “Xaphan’s concubines.”

She’d met them in human form, negotiated more than one deal, but she’d never seen their true faces. This was enlightening, to say the least.

Had she given Xaphan a different answer when he so prettily invited her to his bed, she might be standing there shoulder to shoulder with them. A sobering thought.

From behind them came pounding feet and shouts. But no more shots. Guess the Setnakhts chasing them had finally realized that continued gunfire would draw a boatload of unwanted attention. Or maybe they, too, were seeing Xaphan’s concubines as they truly were.

One of Xaphan’s concubines brought her hand up like she was going to pitch a baseball and—incredibly—pitched a fireball. It sailed through the night, straight for them. Only it skidded along the roof of the car, buckling the metal as it went, and flew off the far side toward their pursuers.

Error, or intent? Hard to tell.

“They’re fire genies,” Alastor clarified, the poster boy for helpfulness. He slammed the car in gear, and reversed so fast the tires squealed.

“Thanks. Wasn’t clear on that.”

He hit the brakes, sending Naphré careening against the back of the seat. Beside her, the girl she was trying to rescue gagged and started to puke again.

“Leave her,” Alastor clipped as he threw open his door. He got out, and hauled open Naphré’s door. Then he reached in and grabbed her arm, bent on dragging her out.

Struggling against him, Naphré caught hold of the girl’s long hair—the only thing she could reach as she fought against Alastor’s superior strength—and as he dragged her from the car, she dragged the girl, who moaned and cried out.

“I said leave her,” Alastor barked.

“No. It’s her they want.”

He blinked. “It’s you they want.”

“No. It’s her.”

“Leav—” He made a sound of incredible irritation, reached out and hauled Naphré up against him with one arm. Then, fisting his free hand in the back of the girl’s shirt, he hefted her like a rag doll.

Guess he figured it was easier to do than to argue.

Another fireball sailed toward them, showering sparks on the hood of the car. From behind them came more gunfire, aimed not at them, but at the fire genies. Alastor turned so his big body shielded both Naphré and the girl as much as possible.

Naphré smelled burning wool, and reached up to slap at a few sparks that were smoldering on his suit jacket.

His lips thinned.

From behind them came the bang of hands and feet hitting the fender and trunk of the sedan. Their retreat was blocked by their pursuers. Their way forward was obstructed by fireball-slinging, leather-skinned genies in micro-minis and stiletto heels.

If she didn’t know for certain that she was awake, Naphré would have been thinking she was having one hell of a dream after eating too much spicy koshary.

“Right, then,” Alastor said, all matter-of-fact and genial. “Off we go.”

He strode forward, dragging her along, carrying the semiconscious girl by her shirt.

“Go where?” Straight to hell if they kept moving into the genies’ line of fire.

Abruptly, Alastor loosed his hold on her and made a gesture with his right hand. It was vaguely familiar. She realized that she’d seen him do that the other night, right before—

Naphré tensed as a great gaping black hole appeared before them, the edges writhing and twisting like smoke. He didn’t even slow, just grabbed her again and kept on walking. Incredible cold radiated from the hole, like standing in a lake, naked, on the coldest day of winter.

“No fucking way.” She dug in her heels, tried to backpedal. He meant to take her in there. Where? There was nothing but darkness.

All around them was pandemonium. The night lit up as the fire genies unleashed their power, the orange glow of their fire accenting the menacing darkness—the nothingness—of the hole Alastor had summoned.

From behind them came the retort of gunfire, too close. Alastor tensed and jerked against her.