Sins of the Soul

NAPHRé LOOKED UP TO FIND Alastor staring at her, frowning. She didn’t like the look on his face. A worried Alastor made for a worried Naphré, though why a discussion of bugs should cause him concern him was beyond her.

“You see centipedes here often?” he asked. “Do not tell me you’re afraid of bugs, too.”

He said nothing. She gave in. “Often enough. The place isn’t infested or anything. Every old house has them, right?”

His eyes narrowed. His lips tightened. “Right.” He turned to the girl. “Let’s start with introductions, shall we? I am Alastor. This is Naphré, and you are…?”

She looked back and forth between the two of them, then said, “Marie.” She swallowed and grimaced. “Marie Matheson.”

Alastor was utterly still, his expression impassive, his body relaxed. But something—a sharpening of his attention or a subtle shift in the pattern of his breathing—made Naphré think the name meant something to him.

Pressing one hand to her forehead, Marie eased down from the defensive pose she’d taken and deflated against the couch as though she’d been poked with a pin. She rubbed her temples. “My head hurts.”

“You were drugged, Marie. That’s why your head hurts,” Naphré said. “And why you puked. You want some water?”

Marie took a second before answering, as she either processed the question in her drug-hazed thoughts or processed the information that she’d been drugged. Finally, she whispered, “Please.”

Naphré went and filled a glass, and when she returned, Alastor said, “Give it to me.” Then he slid his forearm behind Marie’s upper back and supported her as she sat forward. She was rigid, and she darted nervous glances at him from the corner of her eye.

“Sip it.” If he noticed her unease, he ignored it. He brought the glass to her lips, and Marie did as he ordered, then he eased her back again and handed the glass back to Naphré.

“Aren’t you an interesting case?” Naphré murmured, studying him speculatively. She didn’t know what to make of him. He was a soul reaper. He killed people. Those who had once been her people—the Daughters of Aset—in particular. At least, so she’d been indoctrinated to believe.

And yet, here he was playing nurse to Marie.

That, along with the fact that he hadn’t killed her, made the doctrine suspect.

As she watched him now, Naphré wanted to ask whom he’d taken care of in the past, because there was no doubt in her mind that he’d offered comfort to someone at some point. Which made no sense. He was a soul reaper. He took lives; he didn’t make life easier. But someone had mattered to him enough that he’d nursed them and learned the ropes. Who? A woman?

The second the question—and, with it, the tinge of jealousy—surfaced, she thrust them aside.

“Marie,” Alastor said, his voice soft but commanding. “Who drugged you?”

“Drugged—” She wrapped her arms around herself and held tight, as though that was the only way she could hold herself together.

“Do you remember?” Naphré asked.

Marie made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a sob. “I remember the party. I remember feeling sick and…scared.” She turned her head and stared at Naphré. “I remember your voice. But not from the party. From after.” She frowned. “That’s right, isn’t it?”

Her tongue darted out to wet her lips. Naphré felt a pang of sympathy. She handed her the glass. Marie’s hand shook so badly that water sloshed over the rim to splash the front of her dress. Alastor reached forward as though to help her again, but she shot him a nervous glance and said, “No. I’m fine.” Raising the glass to her lips, she sipped the water. “Just give me a minute.”

Stepping back, Naphré gave her a bit of space. Alastor moved to stand at the foot of the couch.

“Who drugged you, Marie?” Alastor’s tone, while still soft, had changed to one of command, demanding a reply.

“I don’t know.” She looked around for somewhere to set the glass, and when Naphré took it from her she brought her hands together and laced her fingers so tightly that the knuckles showed white. “It could have been anyone.”

“It could have,” Alastor agreed. “But you know who it was. Tell me.”

Marie made a sound of distress.

“Tell me,” Alastor said again, his voice still low, still commanding.

“The High Reverend,” Marie blurted.

“Djeserit Bast?” Naphré asked.

“No. High Reverend Kusnetzov.” Bastard.

“Why did he drug you?” Alastor asked.

“I—” Marie shook her head and her eyes darted to the left. “I don’t know.”

“Guess.” His tone was hard.

Marie pressed her lips together.