Sins of the Soul

She cried out, then mastered her reaction and simply glared at him in silence.

“Unfortunately, we are bound by the blood of our greatest kill,” Pyotr spat. “We have no choice but to work in tandem. We are the two who know the truth of the soul reaper’s death.” A truth that was buried beyond their conscious reach, a fail-safe to protect them, they had been told. Of course, it was truly there to protect the identity of whoever had sent Gahiji to them.

He reached across the desk and rested his fingers on her throat, thin cloth separating him from the bruises he had already put there. She stared at him, her expression utterly composed, but her eyes reflected her fear. Good. She should be afraid.

He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I cannot sacrifice you without betraying my own involvement, and you cannot kill me without betraying yours. So we are stuck with each other, until our plan is complete.”

“Sutekh will come,” Djeserit murmured. “He will live again and walk in the sun. The prophesy foretells it. ‘The blood of Aset. The blood of Sutekh. And the God will pass the Twelve Gates and walk the Earth once more.’”

Pyotr inhaled sharply. She’d said she knew of the prophesy. He hadn’t expected her to quote it verbatim. But hearing the words spoken aloud brought clarity to his thoughts.

“The blood of Aset,” he murmured.

“Mixed with the blood of Sutekh’s son. The blood of Sutekh to summon Sutekh.” Djeserit paused. “We need Marie back. You are the one who lost her, so you must find her.”

Pyotr drew back and stared at her. Marie’s blood was weak, but they access to another…he shook his head. “Perhaps I was too hasty in discounting Naphré Kurata.”

Djeserit stared at him, then offered one of her irritating, slow blinks. “That is a quick about-face.”

“An about-face, yes. But not one made without due consideration. We have yet to find a true enough Asetian bloodline. We keep collecting from weak progeny and waiting until we have enough. Yet it seems that there is never enough. Naphré’s line is pure and powerful, the most pure and powerful we have yet discovered—”

“Stumbled upon,” Djeserit interjected.

Pyotr ignored her, his good humor somewhat restored as possibilities unfurled. “Her blood may well be worth the extra effort.”

And with the help of his contact, a traitor within the ranks of the Asetian Guard, perhaps there was a way to get it.





BATTLING THE INSTINCT TO TEAR up the stairs and lick the water from Naphré’s skin, Alastor scanned the walls, the shelves, searching for a distraction. He was supposed to be luring her to the Underworld, not his bed. Business was business. He’d be wise to keep that thought front and center.

On a high table were two framed photos: one of Naphré in what appeared to be her teens, standing beside an unsmiling, white-haired man. Another of a younger, dark-haired man who looked enough like the first that Alastor guessed them to be father and son. And Alastor thought the nose, the chin…Naphré’s father and grandfather? On the wall was a photograph of a young, smiling girl, long hair in pigtails, dark eyes fringed with straight lashes. She was flanked by the younger of the two men and a beautiful brown-haired, brown-eyed woman with a Mediterranean cast to her features. A family portrait.

Alastor looked away, feeling a bit like a voyeur, though he wondered at the sentiment. The portrait was out on public display for any guest to see.

But that was just it. He wasn’t exactly a guest.

He felt like he had no right to look at her family.

Probably because he’d hate for anyone to pry into his memories of his own. The mortal family he’d lost.

It had been centuries, but a part of him would always mourn them and the loss of the life he had expected to be his. He had been the pampered golden son among a flock of women: mother, sisters, nieces.

But the greater part of him relished the fact that he was Sutekh’s son. Immortal. In the beginning, he had been tortured by the knowledge of what he was. He was no longer conflicted. The soul reaper part of him had won.

Now his brothers were his family.

And one of them was gone.

Pulling out his cell, he rang Mal. As usual, the call went to voice mail. “You got Mal. Talk. If I like what you have to say, you’ll hear back from me.”

“Wanker,” he muttered and disconnected.

The phone rang almost immediately.

“If you’re there, why didn’t you just pick up?” Alastor asked, annoyed.

“I had company. Just seeing her out, in fact. Hang on a sec.” Alastor heard the murmur of goodbyes, a feminine voice, the sound of a door closing, then Mal asked, “Feeling a bit pissy, bro?”

“Pukey, if you’d really like to know.”

“What?”

“I just rescued a drugged human female.”

Mal was silent a moment. Then he said, “Mazel tov.”

“Funny.” Alastor paused. “There’s a point to my call. You’re tight with Xaphan’s concubines—”