Sins of the Soul

Naamah studied Mal, ignoring her human companions as they shifted and muttered. Finally, she answered, “She was with Frank Marin. She may have heard something. Seen something. I don’t know the details, and I didn’t ask. All I know is that Xaphan wants to know what she knows.” Her mouth twisted in distaste. “And he wasn’t pleased that we had a—” she shot a disgruntled look at Alastor “—disagreement with three soul reapers the other night. He’s put the kibosh on anything similar, at least until after the meeting.”


The meeting she was talking about had been called by Sutekh, ostensibly to promote peace, but every lord and god with half a brain was wary that Sutekh meant retribution for his son’s murder. The logistics of getting all the attendees to neutral ground and the hostages in place—a convoluted safeguard that had gods and demigods offering lives as guarantees that ambassadors and emissaries wouldn’t be annihilated on sight—had necessitated a postponement of the originally planned date, and the meeting was now set for two weeks hence.

It wasn’t Sutekh who’d postponed it. He’d never do that; it would signify weakness.

The meeting had been pushed off by a request from Osiris, which in itself was suspect.

Studying Naamah’s expression and posture, Alastor chose to believe her explanation. She merely thought the child was a witness to whatever had gone down the night Lokan was killed. She had no idea exactly how important Dana was. Hell, up until a couple of days ago, none of them had had a clue. Lokan had never said a word about his daughter. Not a single word.

Why? Had he not trusted them with the knowledge? Or had he himself been unaware of the fact? Questions to ponder another time.

The issue at hand was why Xaphan was so interested in information about Lokan. Soul reapers were far outside his purview.

It made Alastor wonder if Xaphan’s concern was motivated by culpability. It stood to reason that if he were the puppet master, he’d want to find—and dispose of—any witnesses before they could reveal him to Sutekh.

That explanation made perfect sense, which was exactly why Alastor wasn’t convinced. It was too pat, too easy. If you hear hooves, think horses, not zebras. Except in Alastor’s experience, sometimes the hooves did belong to zebras.

Mal asked Naamah another question, but Alastor wasn’t listening because at that moment one of the humans reached for the bottle of Dalwhinnie. His sleeve pulled back, baring his forearm—and his tattoo. A scarab beetle. Nothing particularly noteworthy about that except, beside it, spelled out in hieroglyphics, was a name: Sutekh.

“Nice tat, mate,” Alastor murmured. “Where’d you get it done?”

The guy just looked at him, dark eyes wary, a twitch setting off beneath the left one.

The scarab beetle. Sutekh’s name. Alone, either one might mean nothing. Together, they pointed at the Setnakhts, a mortal cult of offshoot worshippers of Sutekh. In a bizarre twist, Dagan and Alastor had found evidence suggesting that the Setnakhts might somehow be involved in Lokan’s murder.

Which meant this was Alastor’s lucky night. The mortal with the tattoo might just have the answers Xaphan’s concubine lacked.

“Mate?” Alastor urged.

Tension crackled in the air.

“Fuck off.”

“Right, then.” Alastor slammed his palm against the guy’s wrist, pinning it in place. “Last chance.”

Naamah leaped from her seat, hands raised, fingers curled into taloned claws.

Alastor shot her a hard look, his lips peeling back to bare his teeth. “Is he one of yours?”

She blinked, as though the question caught her off guard. She shook her head. “No.”

“Then think carefully,” Alastor warned.

She held his gaze for a second, and then sank back into her seat with a shrug, leaving the human to his fate.

One of the other men, the one who’d leaped to his feet when they first entered the room, surged forward, gun drawn, the scrape of his chair as he kicked it back loud in the quiet.

Alastor didn’t hesitate. Without shifting his attention, he shot his free hand into the guy’s chest, ripping through muscle, cracking bone. His fingers closed about the hot, beating heart. With a twist, he ripped it free. He tossed it on the table where it lay in a spreading puddle of blood, wet and pulsing.

He shoved his hand back inside the torso. The darksoul came to him like a pet to its master, slithering up his arm, cold and slimy and dank.

With a grunt, he scooped up the dripping heart and tossed it to Mal, who caught it and tucked it away in the leather pouch he wore slung across his shoulder. Then he moved closer to tether the darksoul with a band of fire.

“Best to mind your own business.” Alastor snarled the warning at the third man, who was frozen in place in an odd crouched position, halfway between sitting and standing, his expression a mask of horror. The guy sank into his chair and fisted his hands in his lap.

“Right then.” Alastor caught the guy with the Setnakht tattoo by the throat, lifting him from his chair. He struggled, closing his fingers around Alastor’s wrist, trying to claw his way free.

“Shall we repair to the parlor for a bit of privacy, mate?”

Alastor hauled him out of the room and down the short hallway to the back door. He kicked it open and dragged the struggling human into the deserted alley.