Sins of the Soul

He used a damp tissue to wipe his shoes clean. Not vomit. Water stains from the puddles. Still, they were ruined.

As he tossed the tissue in the trash and washed his hands and then his bullet wounds, he recalled the look on Naphré’s face as she’d stared at his shoes. She’d lined her own boots up beside the door.

Perhaps the shoes-on, shoes-off issue was important to her. No, not perhaps. Definitely. He put his shirt back on, then his jacket. Heading back to the front door, he left his shoes neatly lined up beside hers.

That done, he wandered through the living spaces in his stocking feet. He could hear the water running in the bathroom overhead. Naphré was in there. Showering. Naked.

His lips curled as he wondered what she’d do if he went up and joined her, backed her against the wall, kissed her—

A loud bang carried from the upper floor, followed quickly by a second and a third. He heard her curse, then, “Damn, you’re fast.”

Tipping his head back, he stared at the ceiling, wondering whom she was talking to. The mysterious Niko? An unpleasant kernel of jealousy unfurled in his gut.

He focused, but picked up no sense of anyone in the building save Naphré and the unconscious girl.

There was no more banging. Just the pounding of the shower. He imagined the water sluicing over her smooth skin: shoulders, breasts, belly. She’d be soaping her hands now, trailing them up her arms—

No, she wouldn’t be trailing anything. She’d be scrubbing swiftly and efficiently and finishing the shower in record time.

There. The water turned off. She’d been in there less than five minutes.

He pictured her stepping from the shower stall, her hair wet and slicked back from her face, the water beading on her lips. He wanted to lick those droplets from her skin. He wanted to turn her against the wall with her palms flat and her breasts pressed against the cool tile. He wanted to slide his fingers between her thighs. Tease her. Push one finger, then two, inside her. Seal his teeth against the nape of her neck and bite. Make her come for him. Make her scream.

For that single shining moment, he didn’t want them to be equal. He wanted to master her, mate her. Mark her as his.





PYOTR FOLLOWED DJESERIT into her office, unwilling to invite her into his own. He wanted nothing of her to taint his private domain, not even a molecule of her scent, or a single shed cell of her skin.

“The police?” she demanded as she whirled to face him, her voice hoarse and jagged. “They’re out there, taking names and contact information of every congregant who was at the party.” “It’s been taken care of,” he replied.

She made a dismissive sound. “Your assurance is worthless.”

He stared at her, his gut churning with hate and anger. He wanted to kill her. And that was an impossibility. They were like conjoined twins, each unable to separate from the other without risking his own demise. They were constrained by circumstance, by the secret knowledge they each held.

Secret even from themselves. The identity of the puppet-master behind the soul reaper’s murder was locked in their psyches, to be released only upon their deaths.

“The police have investigated to their satisfaction,” he replied at last. “They merely follow protocol, taking names. There will be no further investigation.” It had taken only three phone calls to make the issue disappear. Phone calls to highly-placed individuals to head off any but the most cursory investigation of the gunfire and flaming wreckage that Naphré Kurata and her unexpected savior had left in the alley.

Nostrils flaring, Djeserit took a long, slow breath, as though girding herself against the urge to attack. “And Xaphan’s concubines?” she asked. “What role did they play?”

In all truthfulness, he replied, “I have no idea. They arrived. They flung fire and burned the sedan until it was a charred, twisted hulk. But whether they meant their actions as allies or enemies…how am I to know?” In the melee it had been impossible to tell whose side they were fighting on. Had they aimed their fire at the reaper or the Setnakhts? Both had been singed. Perhaps that had been their intent.

Djeserit was breathing hard, her nostrils flaring, her hands fisted tight by her sides. She wanted to kill him.

Just as he wanted to kill her.

“Go ahead,” he whispered. “Try.”

He so wanted her to try. That would give him leave to retaliate.

Of course, neither of them could break their unholy pact and complete the act. But he would enjoy the process of bringing her close to the brink of death once more.