Sins of the Soul

“Marie Matheson,” Alastor clarified.

Alastor quickly explained the situation. As he talked, Marie shot more than one wary glance at Dagan, and Naphré couldn’t say that she blamed her. At least Alastor appeared partially civilized because of the elegant way he dressed—of course, look a little closer and you couldn’t help but see the predator beneath the polished exterior.

But Dagan didn’t even try.

When Roxy offered Marie a place to stay until they figured things out, Marie just chewed on her lower lip and slanted sidelong glances through her lashes. Still, Roxy’s reassurances proved enough to convince her that she’d be safer with them than anywhere else, and within half an hour the three of them were leaving.

“Dae.” Alastor stopped his brother as he went to follow the two women out. “You caught her name, yes?”

Dagan paused on the stairs and turned. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a red lollipop, took his time taking off the wrapper and, finally, popped the sucker in his mouth. What was it with these guys and sugar? Then he folded the wrapper in half, then in half again before shoving it in his pocket.

“Mal mentioned her.” Dagan’s gaze met Naphré’s, then returned to Alastor. “He mentioned some information she shared.”

“I suspect she has more, though she doesn’t know it. She was there. She saw Lokan. She says she didn’t recognize anyone other than Kusnetzov, but I think you and Roxy might want to spend some time chatting with her. Get a description, even if she can’t name names.”

“You think we ought to call in Mal to talk with her?”

“Your call. She wasn’t one of his conquests.” Alastor offered a wry smile. “But I’m guessing she’s wishing she had been.”

Dagan nodded. “I’ll let him know she’s staying with me. No doubt he’ll make himself scarce.”

“You and Roxy find out anything from Big Ralph?” Alastor asked. When Dagan looked at Naphré again, as though suggesting they might not want to talk in front of her, Alastor said, “She worked with Butcher.”

Dagan stared at her, his eyes flat gray, like a cold lake under a winter-storm sky. Before he could say anything, Alastor stepped in front of her and said, whisper soft, “Don’t think it, mate. She’s mine. Any questions she gets asked come from me.”

Ordinarily, Naphré would have taken umbrage with the proprietary air, but the thought of being the bug under Dagan’s microscope didn’t exactly appeal, so she kept quiet.

“Tell me about your meeting with Big Ralph,” Alastor said.

“All we found was a lot of hearsay and rumor. Apparently Xaphan’s offering one hell of a reward for information about Lokan’s killer.”

“Which suggests that the killer wasn’t Xaphan or his crew,” Alastor said.

“Or it suggests that Xaphan’s wily enough to offer a reward for information that would implicate him, just so he can find out if such information exists,” Naphré offered, and when all eyes turned to her, she shrugged. “I’ve done a lot of jobs for Xaphan. I know a little bit about the way he thinks.”

“Lucky you,” Dagan murmured, then he turned and headed down the stairs.





NAPHRé HAD BARELY CLOSED and locked the door, when a knock sounded, firm and quick.

“They must have forgotten something,” she said and swung the door open just as the most horrific smell hit her and Alastor yelled, “No.” Too late.

Naphré didn’t have time to think, to react, to do anything other than jerk back, jerk away.

Only she couldn’t move. Her mind cried out against the horror of what was before her and the complete and utter paralysis of her body. Her mind screamed run and in her mind that was exactly what she did.

But in truth, she stayed planted in place as though her feet had grown roots and the floor beneath them was soil.

The creature standing just outside the door was draped in what appeared to be shimmering velvet. But was not.

Before Naphré’s appalled gaze, the velvet pulled in on itself, drawing tight to the woman’s body, then it swelled and grew, pushing outward like a great balloon filling with water. But it was no balloon. It was a swell of maggots and centipedes and spiders, skittering and moving, crawling one over the next, swelling toward her like a horrific tide. She swore she could hear them, the sound of their mandibles clicking.

Somewhere in the distance she could hear Alastor yelling her name. Far away. She had thought he was right behind her.

Again, she tried to move, a Herculean effort that failed. And then they were on her, on every exposed bit of flesh. On her hands, her face, crawling on her skin, and through her hair. She slammed her eyes shut and pressed her lips tight, but she could feel tiny legs at her nostrils and her ears.

Not afraid of bugs. Not afraid of bugs.

But they were more than bugs. They were a living, writhing, crawling cage that held her in place and tormented her with the scrape of tiny feet and the wriggle of tiny bodies. All over her. They were everywhere.