Sins of the Soul

He caught her wrist and jerked her arms down so they were by her side. She didn’t struggle, just held his gaze, her eyes fathomless, so dark he could drown in them. “This isn’t a game, Naphré.”


“It is. Everything in life, and probably in death, is a game. The wisest person knows that, recognizes it and plays it. Like chess. Look ten steps ahead, Alastor. What happens when your knight moves on the queen? What happens when you show up alone at Izanami’s door and she won’t let you in because you don’t have the key? Apparently that key is me.”

He didn’t want it to be.

“And see, that’s another thing. I need to go with you because I need to know why she’s so interested in me, why she wants me there at all. My soul is not hers. I belong to another.”

“Another,” Alastor echoed. “But not Aset.”

Her lips compressed in a taut line. “No.”

“Who?” He knew the answer, but he wanted her to say it. He wanted her to trust him. “Who owns your soul?”

He wanted to own it. Her soul. Her body. Her mind.

But Naphré Kurata was a woman who would never let herself be truly owned. Not by him. Not by anyone.

He suspected that was part of her allure.

“Who owns my soul? I’m starting to wonder that myself.” The laugh that escaped her was hard enough to scratch a diamond. “Maybe Aset owns a piece. Maybe Izanami thinks she does. I’d like to say that I own it. Me. Only me.”

“But you can’t?”

“No.” Her tone was flat and emotionless. “I sold my soul to a demon in order to survive. Stupid, really. Because in the end, I didn’t gain a damned thing. I ended up in exactly the place I was running from. Only instead of working for the devil I knew, I ended up working for the devil I didn’t. How’s that for irony?”

“Explain.”

“No.” She offered a tight smile. “It doesn’t matter. It’s a long and stupid story. And we have places to go. People, or rather, maggot-infested deities, to see.”

So many powerful Underworld deities appeared to have some sort of claim on her: Aset, Sutekh, Izanami. And those were only the ones he knew about.

Yet she remained independent, strong, her claim to herself the most powerful of all.

“You have no idea what Izanami wants with you?”

“None.” She met his gaze, guileless, open. No evasion. But layered deep, he read a flicker of concern. She didn’t like this any more than he did. Or maybe that concern reflected a lie. “But once we get there, I’m sure we’ll find out.”

“Well, color me a jammy git.”

She shot him a cool look. “Speak English.”

That got him. He laughed. She had a way of making him do that. “Jammy. Lucky. Git. Person. That English enough for you, pet?”

“Lucky because…?”

“I won’t just have to watch my own arse on this trip—” he raised one brow “—I’ll get to watch yours.”

She didn’t dignify that with a reply.





“PACKING A PICNIC?” He asked several minutes later as he watched her align little plastic baggies on the kitchen counter. He stood with one shoulder propped against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.

She glanced at him. “My walls stay up even if you don’t prop them. I promise.” Opening one of the little bags, she then filled it with shelled sunflower seeds. Then she yanked open the fridge, took out a diet soda, and shot a glance at him over her shoulder.

“You want one?”

“Do you have something that isn’t diet? Something with a hit of sugar?”

“What’s with you and sugar?” She looked back into the fridge. “I have orange juice.”

“That’ll do.” He paused. “My metabolism runs at an abnormal rate.”

“Yours, or all soul reapers?” She got out a glass and poured the juice, then slid it across the counter toward him. He reached for it. Their fingers brushed. She jerked away, flipped the tab on her soda and took a long, deep pull. Following her lead, he drank his juice, feeling the sugar hit him with the needed lift.

“My brothers and I. We have a unique physiology.”

“What about food? Doesn’t that give you the energy you need?”

“Not all food is converted to glucose at the same rate. Sugar does the trick.”

“You’re getting into science territory, and that’s a place I don’t want to go.” She went back to filling little plastic bags. He watched her move, watched the cloth of her tank top pull tight to her breasts as she lifted her arms, and the sway of her hair, strands falling forward to accent the smooth curve of her cheek.

“You planning on bringing a wheeled cart to tote all of that?” he asked.

“I like to be prepared.” She counted out four energy bars and slid the box back in the cupboard. Then she filled another Ziploc with raisins and almonds. Finally, she retrieved a small black backpack from the hall closet.

“Don’t expect me to offer to help you carry that about.”