Sins of the Soul

“Looks like.”


“A bloody shame, that,” Alastor murmured. “His darksoul is black as pitch.” It took years of foul deeds to accumulate that kind of smut, and this man was wrapped in it like a sausage in a bun. “I wonder if the lady might be persuaded to forfeit her prior claim. I’m due for a kill.”

“All work and no play…”

“…makes Dad happy.” Sutekh had an army of soul reapers—his sons the princes among them—who harvested darksouls to satisfy Sutekh’s voracious appetite for evil. Souls, dark and light, were the currency of the Underworld, the much sought-after prizes. Underworlders ran rackets in the Topworld of man: drugs, prostitution, weapons. But ultimately, it was the souls they wanted.

Mal glanced at him over his shoulder, his pale gray eyes assessing. “And we’re all about making Sutekh happy.”

Alastor cocked a brow, and after a moment, Mal continued. “I wouldn’t try to con, wheedle or cheat Lillith out of a meal.” He scraped his fingers back through his dark, sleek hair revealing thick platinum hoops—two in each ear—that glinted in the flashing light. “She’s testy when she’s hungry. And if you steal her dinner, you’ll have to replace it.”

“House rules?” Alastor asked, faintly amused.

“Only rule she’s got. In this place—” Mal made an expansive gesture “—anything else is good to go. But she’s territorial when it comes to her food. If you take Lillith’s prey, you take its place.” He shrugged, and then spread his hands, palms up. “Hey, you know me. If I can steal it, I will, but in this case, even I’ll take a pass.”

Which said a great deal. Mal was a thief and a pirate. Always had been, always would be. He liked his music loud, his liquor hard and his women hot-tempered and wild. And he never paid for what he could get, or take, for free.

“Then I’ll make bloody certain to heed the rule.” Alastor had learned long ago that he far preferred the role of predator to that of prey. Control was his drug. “Right, then. If there’s a reason we’re here, mate, share. Else I’m done.”

Mal looked at him, his expression hard. “Information, bro. Why else would we be here? Got a lead on someone who might have seen Lokan that night.”

That night. The night Lokan was killed. The night someone made him their prey.

Rage and pain twisted in Alastor’s gut, but he locked them down, refusing to allow even a small crack in his armor.

He meant to bloody well find whoever had done the deed, and make them pay, not with a bludgeon, but with small, precise cuts that prolonged the event and allowed him to savor the experience.

“Hey,” Mal said. “Looks like a party.”

A barmaid emerged from a room that cut off the Staff Only hallway. A black bow was tied around her neck. Young, pretty and human, she wore a skirt that revealed far more than it covered, a pair of black stilettos and nothing else. Her breasts were round and high—the size and shape making Alastor suspect a little surgical help—with spangled stars covering the areolas.

From behind her, light spilled out through the open door, and Alastor caught a glimpse of a female back and long, straight hair. The barmaid yanked the door shut too quickly for him to be certain, but he had a feeling he now knew exactly what they were doing here, and who they were here to see.

“Jackpot,” Mal murmured, though if his reaction was to the occupants of the room or the girl was anyone’s guess.

Furtively, she looked around then froze when her gaze reached Alastor and Mal.

With a flash of white teeth, Mal waved her over. He flicked a glance at Alastor. “We’re more likely to get information if you don’t make her piss herself. At least lose the scowl.”

Scowl? Alastor concentrated, attempting to organize his expression into something less off-putting.

“Never mind.” Mal gave a short huff of laughter and shook his head.

The barmaid sauntered over, hips rolling, lips parting as she eyed Mal with blatant interest.

“Hello, darlin’.” Mal grinned and shifted into easy conversation, comfortably playing her like an instrument—strum and pluck—as he worked at coaxing information about the private party behind the closed door.

Giggling and fluttering her lashes, the barmaid leaned closer, rubbing against Mal and dipping her chin in a kittenish move.

Alastor’s patience frayed and quickly unraveled. There were more efficient ways to get a job done. He pulled out a C-note, flipped it into a neat fold and slid it between his middle and index fingers. The girl’s attention wavered as he held it out toward her, the tip of her tongue sliding out to trace her lower lip. Avarice sharpened her features.

“Tell the blighters in the back that there are two more to join the party.”