Sins of the Soul

“Release her,” he ordered, clipped consonants and taut vowels.

“As you wish, son of Sutekh.” The place where her mouth should have been opened to form a round black hole that was quickly filled in by squirming, writhing things. She lifted then dropped one shoulder, and Naphré drew a shuddering breath.

“Hey,” he said softly, lowering his gaze to hers. For an instant, she looked at him with absolute relief, which quickly faded. He recognized the exact second that she came to herself, realized where she was and what she was doing, leaning on him, letting him hold her.

Her expression smoothed, all evidence of her thoughts and emotions wiped clean, the terror and turmoil locked down where she could control them.

He almost smiled. Maybe that was the attraction. Like to like. Both of them so determined to hold everything on a tight leash.

She pushed away to stand on her own feet, and he felt a pang of…what? Loss? Regret?

Slowly, she turned to the open door.

“What do you want?” Calm voice. Clenched fists. The Shikome turned her head so she was fully facing Naphré, and said, “Did he not tell you?”

There were no features to express her emotions, no eyes to reflect her thoughts. But Alastor thought there was a certain malicious glee in the Shikome’s question. As though she wanted to show him for a liar and betrayer.

“Did he—” Naphré glanced at Alastor, her gaze wary now. “He told me nothing about you. Quite an oversight, it seems.”

Alastor fixed his gaze on the Shikome. “Why are you here?”

“Time passes. You dawdle while Izanami waits. You show disrespect.” A particularly large spider crawled into the orifice as she spoke, hanging there for an instant before scuttling inside.

“No disrespect was intended.” Izanami waits? He’d only been following Naphré for a couple of days. That was minutes in Underworld time. “Didn’t realize there was quite such a need for haste.”

“Did you not?”

On his part, yes. He was anxious to find out Butcher’s answers. But on Izanami’s part? He didn’t trust her urgency. Something was off here.

“You seemed so anxious to know the secrets of the darksoul you were forced to forfeit. Has that changed?”

Naphré shot him a look at the mention of Butcher’s darksoul. “You don’t have it?”

“No, and no,” he answered both their questions as he tried to figure the angles. What was she doing here? He was the one who wanted Butcher’s darksoul, so why was she so anxious for him to come and get it?

Because they’d agreed that he wouldn’t be coming alone.

Which meant that the Shikome wasn’t anxious to give up Butcher’s darksoul; she was anxious for him to bring Naphré to Izanami’s realm. Why?

“Bring her to me, and I will intercede for you with Izanami,” she said, and he could swear he heard the bugs that crawled all over her clicking in anticipation. “You will speak with Izanami. You will present your case and petition for the darksoul to be returned to you. I will offer what support I can. All you need to do is come as we agreed, and bring the girl.”

Everything she was saying was true. Yet there was an undercurrent to her words that made him think she was as twisty as a pretzel. As though she chose her words to both present the facts and obscure them.

She promised everything, and nothing.

He’d spent enough years picking up Sutekh’s evasions that her technique felt stale.

Naphré’s eyes narrowed. “By ‘the girl,’ I believe you mean me?” She shot Alastor a scathing look and to his shock, he realized there was hurt and disappointment there as well. “All that crap about following me to make certain I was okay…” She shook her head and stepped away, her gaze sliding back to the Shikome. “What do you want with me?”

He reached out and caught Naphré’s wrist, drew her back, kept her from stepping out into the hall. He gave her credit for having the guts to face the figure on the landing after what she’d just been through. Naphré was no shrinking violet, though he’d already known that. This was just one more bit of proof.

But then, she had said that she only feared the bugs that were too small to see.

She glanced down at his fingers curling around her wrist and shook him free. He released her, not liking it, but respecting her right to make her own choice.

His gut was telling him to grab her by the hair, yank her to safety and beat his chest at the threat. Lovely. He’d regressed to the Pleistocene.

“I make it a habit never to go to the Underworld with strangers,” Naphré said. The Shikome offered what Alastor suspected was meant to be a laugh. “I am Yomotsu-shikome. One of eight.”

“Divine fury,” Naphré murmured.