Sins of the Flesh

Sins of the Flesh by Eve Silver





For Henning

My hero





SINS OF THE FLESH





Spawned. Spurned. I might have lamented my fate if I hadn’t found a way to love it instead. Chaos. Anarchy. Ah, the tenets of my youth: Filch. Swindle. Lie. I was a lawless brat who danced one step ahead of a beating or starvation or the long arm of the law. Back then, boys like me got hung by the neck till dead. If they got caught.

Back then, boys like me thought the devil would welcome them home. In my case, he did.



—Malthus Krayl





CONTENTS





CHAPTER ONE



CHAPTER TWO



CHAPTER THREE



CHAPTER FOUR



CHAPTER FIVE



CHAPTER SIX



CHAPTER SEVEN



CHAPTER EIGHT



CHAPTER NINE



CHAPTER TEN



CHAPTER ELEVEN



CHAPTER TWELVE



CHAPTER THIRTEEN



CHAPTER FOURTEEN



CHAPTER FIFTEEN



CHAPTER SIXTEEN



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN



CHAPTER NINETEEN



CHAPTER TWENTY



CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE



CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO



CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE



CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR





CHAPTER ONE



To me belongs yesterday, I know tomorrow.

—The Egyptian Book of the Dead, Chapter 17

MALTHUS KRAYL CROUCHED on the balcony railing, powerful thighs flexed, forearms resting on his knees. The street was sixteen stories below him, shiny and black from the recent rain, reflecting the stars that freckled the night sky and the lights of the buildings that rose on either side like sheer canyon faces of steel and concrete. He shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet and leaned out, almost far enough to tip and fall.

He relished the thought, pictured the possibilities. Freefall.

The cold wind in his hair, making his skin sting, billowing his shirt out behind him. Exhilaration tearing through his veins.

Tempting.

He was the first to admit that he was an adrenaline junkie. He had a liking for the razor’s edge, for the thrill surging in a wave of tidal proportion.

But he didn’t let himself do it. Not because he could die from the fall, but because he couldn’t.

Oh, he might break a bone or two, but he would heal—his kind always healed. And he could just imagine the expression on his prey’s face if he fell from the sky like a dark angel.

The thought made him laugh.

He was more devil than angel, but in strict truth he was neither. He was a soul reaper.

He killed. He harvested the hearts of his victims. And the darksouls. Those, he fed to Sutekh, luscious entrées of pure power, spiced with lust and greed and unadulterated evil.

Nice work if you could get it. A tad messy. But nice.

Sutekh. He went by many names. Seth. Seteh. Lord of the desert. Lord of evil. He was the Underworld überlord of chaos. Which Mal figured made him what mortals would call the devil’s spawn, because he wasn’t just any soul reaper; he was Sutekh’s son. One of four.

No, he reminded himself, not four. Not anymore. Only three now. Lokan was dead. Skinned. Butchered.

Mal stared out at the night sky and fought the pain that twisted him in knots, focusing instead on the moment. The hunt.

Tonight’s prey was special. Not only was his soul so dark it might have been dipped in toxic waste, but he was a potential source of information that Mal wanted so badly he could taste it.

Like any good predator, he waited, hunkered on the balcony rail.

If patience was a virtue, it was one of the few he possessed.

A taxi edged around the corner, water spraying up from the tires. Senses humming, he leaned out as far as balance and gravity allowed.

The cab slowed to a stop and after a few seconds the back door opened and a man climbed out. Pyotr Kuznetsov, High Reverend of the cult of Setnakht. Mal’s attention sharpened and narrowed. The hunt had started to get interesting.

Kuznetsov turned back to the cab and offered his hand to the passenger still inside.

A woman stepped out. Blond hair. All curves. Human. Kuznetsov steered her away from the cab toward the lobby doors.

Mal cursed softly.

Looked like the hunt had just been postponed.





COLORED CONTACTS CHANGED Calliope Kane’s eyes from their usual all-too-memorable green to dark, liquid brown. Her dark hair was slicked down and pinned and tucked up under a long auburn wig of full curls. Subtle use of highlight and shadow altered the appearance of her nose, her cheeks. She didn’t look like herself. Even the clothes she was wearing—short, low-cut Lycra dress, impossibly high heels—were a far cry from her usual utilitarian choices.

But that was the whole point. Tonight wasn’t about being utilitarian. It was about freeing the part of herself that craved human contact.

No. Not true, and if she would be nothing else in the endeavor, she would be honest. Tonight was about sex. Clean, simple, necessary sex.