Sins of the Soul

“How many flats?” he asked, wanting to form an estimate of how many people might be in the building.

“Flats? Oh, apartments. Three.” Naphré unlocked the front door and pushed it open. There was a small entry hallway. Directly ahead was a narrow staircase, and to the right of that, a heavy door with a peephole: the entry to the ground-floor flat.

“This way,” she said, and headed up. “There’s a student who rents the basement. And a business guy who rents the first—” she laughed softly and amended “—ground floor. He travels a lot.”

“Rents from whom?” he asked.

“Me.”

Fascinating. “Nice house. Nice neighborhood. The assassin business pays well.”

“You ought to know. I’m guessing you have a lovely little place in Hilo.”

Little was not a term that applied. And he didn’t get paid for his kills—at least, not in dollars. He earned his money through wise investment. “Touché, pet.” He couldn’t help but smile. “Each flat is separate?”

“Yes.”

They reached the top of the stairs. There was a small landing, large enough for only one person, so Alastor remained a couple of steps behind.

“You live alone?” he asked as she slid the key in the lock.

“I have a roommate.” There was an interesting undercurrent to her reply. Amusement, perhaps.

He had the fleeting, rather intense, thought that he didn’t want her roommate to be a man. Unless he was gay. That would be acceptable.

Naphré pushed open the door and stepped inside, then half turned toward him.

“May I come in?” he asked.

A tight smile tugged at her lips. “What…you can’t come in unless I invite you? Like a—” she lowered her voice and whispered “—vampire?”

“No such thing as vampires, pet.” His gaze dipped to her left shoulder where they both knew the dark mark was cut into her skin. “But that’s an interesting word choice, don’t you think, what with you being Otherkin. Daughters of Aset are pranic feeders, right? You drink the life force of others. Drink their blood.”

She gasped, and her eyes widened a fraction before she locked down her expression once more. She didn’t blurt out questions or denials. She was one cool player, his Naphré.

His Naphré. Bloody hell. He was losing his sodding mind.

“Interesting what one can learn when one’s brother is shagging a Daughter of Aset.” He stepped forward, using his size to try and crowd her back. When she refused to yield an inch, they stood toe to toe, glaring at each other. “As to your question about not coming in unless you invite me…I can do anything I please,” he murmured. “I was just being polite.”

“Daughters of Aset don’t shag soul reapers.”

“No?” He let his gaze take a leisurely meander down her body. “We shall see.”

She jerked back, rallied and said, “I suppose we shall.”

Stepping back, she flicked on the light, held the door wide and let him in.

Her flat was larger than he’d expected. The house might not be wide, but it was deep. Directly ahead was a long, narrow hallway. To the left was a staircase that ascended to the next floor and to the right was a large, arched opening that led to a living room.

Stepping to the right, he took a quick look about. The rooms flowed one into the next, spaces demarcated by furniture placement rather than walls and doors. Living room at the front, then dining room. His gaze drifted to the rectangular wooden table. Big enough to seat eight or ten. That table told him a great deal about her. She had a social life. She entertained family or friends. She’d said she had a roommate, but one didn’t have a table that size to serve one. Or even two…

There was a half wall at the far end of the dining room, then the kitchen. It was a good size—cherry cabinets, granite counters, stainless appliances—and beyond that a small sitting room with an enormous television.

Returning his attention to the living room, he looked for a place to dump the unconscious woman he held. The space was neat, clean, everything in its place. He liked that. His home was the same. No clutter. Few knickknacks. He liked the minimalist look, and from what he could see of Naphré’s flat, so did she.

He blinked as he realized he was mapping out common ground, common habits. Looking for a connection with her. Which was, quite simply, mad.

Thrusting those thoughts away, he refocused on assessing his surroundings. The furniture was almost uniformly white. The accents were black and, here and there, a splash of blue. The pieces were clean and strong, almost masculine. He cut a glance at Naphré, wondering again if her roommate was male. The oversize television and strong decor suggested he might be, and that possibility rankled.

The woman he held stirred once more, and Alastor headed for the couch under the large front window, intending to divest himself of his burden. “Do not,” Naphré said in a furious whisper.