Sins of the Soul

“It was preferable to being shot, spitted and roasted, was it not?” Not to mention preferable to being taken by the Shikome. But he chose not to mention that. He took out another candy. “Here. Eat this.”


Her glare ramped up to daggers of death. But she took the toffee. Then, to his utter stupefaction, she fished through her jacket pocket for a small bottle of clear liquid, squirted a bit in her hand and rubbed for several seconds. Only when she appeared satisfied did she unwrap and eat the candy.

“Hand sanitizer. It’s the bugs you can’t see that will get you,” she murmured when she caught him staring at her.

“Right.”

She shot him a suspicious glance, and echoed, “Right.” Then she gathered herself, looked around, and froze. “We’re on my street.”

“Blimey. You don’t say.”

“What are we doing on my street?”

“We had to go somewhere.”

“Not here. Somewhere else.” Her tone was hard, brooking no argument.

So he didn’t offer one. Why bother to argue when agreement would do just as well? “Fine. Suggest an alternative.”

“How about your place?”

“Fine. I’ll reopen a portal.”

She turned pale at that. “A portal? Why? You live in the Underworld?”

That made him smile. “No. I live in Hilo, Hawaii.”

“Really?” Her brows shot up. “I guess I expected you to live in England. I didn’t picture you in a tropical climate, but that explains the tan. Why Hilo?”

“Weather is outside my control.”

“Excuse me?”

“I dislike change. The weather in Hilo is consistent. It varies a mere five degrees throughout the year. I can arrive home on any day and find everything exactly as I left it.”

Naphré opened her mouth, closed it and frowned. Finally, she said, “You have issues.”

She had no idea.

“So do you,” he murmured, and she laughed.

“You have no idea.”

For a second, something shimmering and delicate stretched between them, an instant of connection. It lured him. It repelled him. Connecting with anyone was dangerous. Losing them ripped open too many wounds. And he was bound to lose Naphré because she was hip-deep in a load of shite. She was a Daughter of Aset who’d apparently turned her back on her kind and prostituted her murderous skills to the highest bidder. She was indebted to Sutekh, hunted by Izanami. She was trouble in a dark-haired, dark-eyed, incredibly alluring package, and if he had half a brain, he’d get as far from her as he could.

Unfortunately, he was beginning to doubt that he had even half a brain.

“Let’s get her inside.” Alastor hefted the unconscious woman and draped her over his shoulder like a coiled garden hose, her long hair hanging toward the ground. She chose that moment to moan and roll. On instinct, he slapped his hand against a handy body part to steady her. The handiest part just happened to be her arse.

Raising his head, he caught Naphré staring at him. Her expression was utterly blank, her dark eyes giving nothing away. Bloody hell.

“You probably clean up at poker,” he muttered, shifting his grip and settling his palm on the small of the girl’s back instead.

“You know it.”

“Is your flat the main floor or the first?” he asked, his sole interest at the moment in divesting himself of the unconscious girl.

“Main floor. First floor. Aren’t they the same thing?” He gathered she’d like to add a duh to the end of that question, but somehow refrained.

“No, they are not the same thing.”

He started walking toward the front door of the tall, narrow house set between two other tall, narrow houses. It was an upscale downtown street, one where the homes looked to be about a century old, but were all well-tended and maintained. He’d guess mostly single-family residences, with the occasional conversion to a multi-unit dwelling. “The ground floor is exactly what it sounds like. The floor that is level with the ground. The first floor is the one above it.”

“No, that’s the second floor.”

“No—” He cut himself off and turned his head to look at her over his shoulder. What was it about Naphré Kurata that drew him into an argument one might hear between children in short pants?

Worse still, what made him…enjoy it?

“Keys,” he said very softly. An order.

She studied him for a long moment, her expression neutral, revealing nothing of her thoughts. But then, he didn’t need to read her expression to know what she was thinking at the moment. He could practically hear the word asshole echoing down the deserted street. Finally, she shoved her hand in her pocket and came up with a set of keys. Pushing past him, she led the way up three wide stairs to the front door—frosted, etched glass set in an oak frame.

“Pretty,” he said, not bothering to mask his sarcasm. “But not particularly safety-conscious.”

She didn’t bother with a reply.