Sins of the Soul

But it seemed no one liked an assassin with scruples.

“It wasn’t who you think. Not anyone you’ve done a job for.” Butcher paused, then tipped his head and met her gaze, his expression blank. “You make it quick, Naph. I don’t wanna hurt. That’s what it’s all about, you know?” He stared hard at her, and she had the strange thought that he was telling her something important. “I’d have made it quick for you,” he finished softly.

He would have. She knew that.

“Yeah.” Her voice was steady, her hand steadier.

He licked his lips, a quick, nervous dart of his tongue. “It’s not an Underworlder.”

Interesting.

“A Setnakht.”

Even more interesting. The Setnakhts were a cult, offshoot worshippers of Sutekh—the überlord of chaos and evil. She’d never had any direct dealings with Sutekh. Not even indirect ones that she knew of. He had his own army of enforcers. Soul reapers who could pass between the mortal world and the realms of the dead. They harvested darksouls to feed Sutekh’s insatiable appetite. And they harvested the Ib—the heart—of each victim to pacify Osiris and Anubis and the scales of truth.

“Why would Sutekh want me dead?” And if he did, why hire Butcher? Why not send one of his soul reapers to claim her? Surely he could have spared one for such a small task.

But the soul reapers had been occupied lately. Someone had butchered one of their own. Rumor had it they’d skinned the reaper and sent the tattooed skin, stretched in a shiny black plastic frame, to Sutekh as a gift. If the rumor was true, the reapers’ energy was probably focused on figuring out the who, why and where. Was that the reason they’d gone looking for outside help with a kill? Hired Butcher?

“Didn’t say nothing about Sutekh. He’s got his own legion. He don’t need the likes of me.” Butcher coughed, turned his head and hawked a wad of phlegm on the ground. “I said it was a Setnakht.”

“Okay. Let’s say Sutekh isn’t involved. What makes the Setnakhts want me dead?”

Was it personal? Had she killed someone connected to a Setnakht?

Suddenly it hit her. Bruised ego? No. Couldn’t be. But it was the only connection she could come up with. She’d had lunch with some guy she’d met at the gym, Pyotr Kusnetzov. He was lean, handsome, attentive. He said all the right things. Smiled at the right times. She vaguely recalled a mention of the Temple of Setnakht. He’d wanted her to come to meetings, and he’d wanted to see her again. She’d declined. Not her type.

Was that what this was about? He wanted her dead because she wasn’t interested?

That would be…insane.

Butcher shrugged. “Don’t know. Didn’t ask.”

In all likelihood, Butcher honestly didn’t know. His personal motto was: directions, no questions. He was only interested in the pertinent points, the ones with direct relation to the kill. Everything else was background noise. Clutter. He liked clients to tell him only what he needed to know and nothing more. And the reason behind the kill wasn’t relevant in Butcher’s mind.

It was one point they disagreed on. Naphré preferred to know that she wasn’t offing the good guys.

Butcher didn’t care, so long as he got paid.

“You taking this job… It doesn’t make sense, Butcher.” That was another thing he’d taught her. Things had to make sense. Naphré believed people always had reasons for the things they did. Motivations. Usually simple ones. Greed. Hunger. Lust. So what was his? Why take a contract on her? “Why’d you take this job?”

“If not me, someone woulda.” Butcher coughed. Spat. “They offered a nice, tidy sum. Man’s gotta think of his retirement.”

“Greed?” She shook her head. “I’m not buying it. Try again.”

He snorted. “Ain’t lust.”

Yeah, she figured. Her coloring wasn’t to his taste: dark brown eyes, straight brown-black hair. And she was too young—26—too tall—five-seven—too flat—her physique more athlete than porn star. Butcher liked them blonder, shorter, rounder and older. Which suited her just fine because apart from being almost twice her age, he was about as attractive to her as a slug.

“Does my motivation really matter?”

Not so much.

“That Setnakht that hired you…he got a name?” She huffed out a short breath. “Even better…a phone number?” She raised her brows. “Address?”

“Maybe a Web site?” Butcher offered a wheezing laugh at his own joke. The laugh turned into a bout of coughing that had him doubled over. When he got it under control, he continued, “Nah, not that I know. But she was high in the organization.”

“She—?”

“Yeah. She. Had the signet ring of a priest. Onyx and gold. A scarab beetle with hieroglyphics underneath.”