Sins of the Soul

Dagan had expressed his preference several times. Kill the Setnakhts. Go to war with Xaphan. Annihilate anyone who might have been even remotely involved in Lokan’s death.

“But that won’t get us answers. And Lokan would still be dead.” His soul would still be missing, his body somewhere none of them could find. And while killing everyone—both human and supernatural—that they suspected might be involved would certainly be satisfying, it wouldn’t in any way help to bring their brother back. In fact, it might kill all hope of doing so because those souls would be claimed by other deities, just as Butcher’s had been. Which meant Sutekh wouldn’t have a crack at getting information out of them.

The one consolation for Alastor, and, he suspected, for Dagan and Mal as well was that Lokan’s daughter, Dana, was hidden in plain sight in the mortal realm, with no one able to find her save Roxy Tam. In a bizarre twist of fate, it was Roxy who’d figured out what Dana was to them, and Roxy was the only one who could find her if she chose to.

She didn’t choose to. Not right now. It was the best way to keep Dana safe. If no one knew where she was, then no one could find her. Or betray her location.

A Daughter of Aset, Sutekh’s enemy, standing as protector for the daughter of Sutekh’s son.

What a bloody convoluted mess.

Alastor ended the call, and glanced at the girl on the couch. She was curled on her side, her hands tucked beneath her chin. If Naphré was right and she’d been drugged, she’d be asleep for hours.

He crossed to the shelves that lined the opposite wall. There were more pictures of Naphré, one with her arms looped around the shoulders of two women—friends, from the look of it—and another with a group of women and men all wearing running gear. He scanned the faces of the men, then froze as the realization of what he was looking for sank in. The face of the mysterious Niko.

What the bloody hell was he doing?

Annoyed with himself, he turned away from the photos and wandered through the dining room and the kitchen to the den at the back of the house. There was a leather couch there and a low coffee table. But it was what the table held that gave him pause: a bag of coarse salt. A curved knife with a gold handle. Five white candles.

Looked like someone was carrying out a ritual summoning.

He inhaled sharply. Was this related to the fact that Naphré’s name was inscribed in Sutekh’s book of debts? Was she trying to summon Sutekh himself?

If so, she was in for disappointment. Summoned or not, Sutekh was locked in his own realm as part of the six-thousand-year-old ceasefire agreement. He couldn’t come Topworld, though no doubt he’d love to. That was one of the main reasons he’d sired half human sons. He couldn’t come Topworld, but they could.

Something thudded against the floor above him. There were a few seconds of silence, then a second thud, louder than the first, and Naphré’s voice, hard and low. “Get the fuck off me.”

Alastor didn’t think. He acted. With preternatural speed he was up the stairs and at her door. He didn’t knock, just threw it open, senses alert, his gaze flicking to the corners, searching for threat. Finding none.

She was standing by the dresser, a drawer open, a small pile of folded items on the top.

She spun to face him, her body tense, her posture defensive. She was lean and taut, dark hair swinging damp and loose almost to her shoulders, eyes watchful.

His gaze lingered on her left forearm. There were three gashes there, lined up side by side. Blood for the summoning, no doubt.

“What are you doing?” Her voice was low, controlled. And incredibly sexy. He wanted to shake her control. Shatter it.

Stepping into the room, he approached her slowly.

“I heard you fighting…something.”

“Fighting?” Her brows dipped.

“You warned whatever it was to get the fuck off you.”

“Get the fu—” She shook her head. “I was chasing a centipede. There were two in the bathroom. Fast little buggers that made it down the drain before I got them. Then a spider here in the bedroom. The thing was the size of my fist.”

He shot her a look.

“Okay, maybe not my fist…but it was big.”

Bugs. He’d rushed in to save her from bugs.

She looked around. “Niko show up yet?”

Niko. The roommate. Bloke was either sleeping like the dead, or not here. Lucky for him if it was the latter, because Alastor was in no mood to meet him.

She scraped her fingers back through her damp hair. Her black tank top bared a lovely amount of fresh-from-the-shower flushed, naked skin: her shoulders, her arms, an expanse of her chest and the top swell of her breasts.

The primitive part of him, the part that ripped out hearts and harvested souls, reared and snarled. Something about her roused him, and he felt the power turning dark and strong as it flowed through him. Hunger.

Naphré turned to face him once more, and she gasped as she saw the expression on his face.

“What?” she demanded. “You look positively feral.”