Sins of the Soul

Some time later, he said, “They’re here.” Then he strode to the door and went down to street level to let them in.

Naphré waited by her open door, straining to hear any bits of dialogue that might float up to her, but none did. Then she heard feet on the stairs.

First came a woman with long brown-black ringlets and a knife strapped to her jeans-clad thigh. She looked up and caught Naphré staring. Her eyes were bronze and green, and the best descriptor that sprang to mind was fierce. Like a tiger.

Naphré dipped her chin toward the knife. “You’re a girl after my own heart. I’m Naphré Kurata.”

“Roxy Tam.” Roxy climbed the last step to the landing and offered her hand. Her handshake was firm and quick, and Naphré got the most bizarre energy vibe off her. Definitely Otherkin, but…something else, as well.

She was wearing a pair of faded, torn jeans, a dark-green T-shirt and a dark denim jacket with the sleeves pushed back on her forearms.

Naphré’s gaze flicked to Roxy’s bare forearm and the mark etched in her skin. An ankh with wings and horns. The location marked her lineage as the Keeper, just as the location of Naphré’s marked her as a Guide. They’d each been born to their line, to their duties.

Would Roxy judge her for walking away from hers? Would it present a problem?

“Look familiar, pet?” Alastor asked as he stepped up behind her.

She gasped, spun. “You were downstairs. How did you—” She shook her head. “Never mind.”

“I have a feeling you two are going to get on just like sisters,” Alastor said to Roxy, then offered a taut smile. “Or Daughters.”

“Witty.” The smile Roxy offered Alastor was a mirror of his own. “What’s that word you like to use? Oh, yeah—” she snapped her fingers “—lackwit.” Then she turned her attention back to Naphré. “You left the Guard?”

Despite the tone and the cutting edge of their words, or maybe because of it, Naphré got the feeling these two actually liked each other. “Wasn’t my thing,” she replied.

“Do tell.” Roxy sent her a measured look. “I suspect there’s quite a lot to that story.”

Yeah, there was. Quite a lot being a demon who happened to hold the ownership papers on her soul, but that was not a story she was interested in sharing.

“Quite a bit to your story, as well, I think.”

Roxy’s brows rose. “Touché.”

“Come on in.” Naphré pulled the door more fully open and stepped back. Roxy entered, and then, seemingly appearing out of the darkness, came a tall man dressed in faded, worn jeans and a brown leather jacket that was scarred and scuffed.

Naphré couldn’t help but stare. He was the bad boy version of Alastor’s masculine elegance. He had the same honey-gold hair, but he wore it long and loose to his shoulders. His face was a bit narrower, his features sharper, his jaw slightly more squared, but she had to look closely to note the differences. And she was pissed off at herself as she realized that she’d noticed enough about Alastor to pinpoint every subtle nuance.

The most glaring difference was the color of their eyes. Alastor’s eyes were blue, the shade changeable, depending on his mood. This man’s were gray. Flat and cold. Until his gaze slid to Roxy, and then she saw a flare of emotion. Possessive. Hot. Not mere lust. It was more than that. He looked at Roxy like she was his. Like he would fight for her. Die for her. Like he…loved her.

She glanced away. Because that look was private.

And because some crazy part of her wondered what it would feel like to have Alastor look at her that way.

“Dae.” Alastor stepped up beside her.

“Your brother,” she murmured. Not a question.

“What gave us away?” Dagan asked, unsmiling.

“You’re both such sharp dressers,” she shot back.

Dagan’s brows rose, and he shot a look at his brother. “Feisty.”

“You’re not English,” Naphré noted.

Dagan shrugged. “Same mother. Same father. Different lives.”

“There’s a story there,” she said to Alastor.

“We all have one, don’t we, pet?” Alastor glanced at his brother. “Shoes,” he said.

“What?”

“Shoes,” he repeated.

Naphré looked at him, startled. In that second she realized that his own shoes were off, lined up next to hers. He must have done that while she was in the shower. She was oddly touched that he’d noticed her preference. Doubly touched that he asked his brother to follow her custom.

Once everyone was in stocking feet, they moved into the living room and found Marie crammed into the corner of the couch, knees up, arms wrapped around them, like she was trying to turn herself into an invisible little ball.

“Marie,” Dagan echoed when Alastor said her name, and shot his brother a cool, speaking glance.