Sins of the Flesh

And because Calliope had bent the truth about Roxy’s reasons for going. Not outright lied, but not been wholly forthcoming.

It would be Calliope who would pay the price for that when her superiors called her to the carpet.

Roxy laughed. “No need to thank me. I’ll send you a bill.”

“A steep one, I’m sure,” Calliope replied. “Did you show the video to—” she pressed her lips together “—him?”

Dagan Krayl. Roxy’s mate. A soul reaper, son of Sutekh, ancient enemy of Aset and her Daughters. Calliope’s enemy.

But not Roxy’s.

Which made for a convoluted, tangled mess.

“I didn’t have to show it to him,” Roxy said. “I got it from him.”

Calliope kept her tone even, masking her surprise. “Did he know you meant to forward it to me?”

“He did.” Roxy paused. “He said that another set of eyes looking at this puzzle could only be a good thing. He wants his brother’s killers. If it means sharing information to enhance his chances of finding them, he’ll do it.”

“Even though he knows we have diametrically opposed goals?” Calliope’s directive was to make certain the dead reaper stayed dead. Dagan’s intent was to bring him back to life.

As long as she’d been in the Asetian Guard, Roxy’s orders had been to work against him. But now….

“Are you helping him?” Calliope asked, her tone merely curious, weighed by neither judgment nor scorn.

Roxy’s laugh was hard-edged. “You know, we agree on a lot of things. That isn’t one of them. If Lokan Krayl is returned to life, he’ll name his killers. Sutekh’s forces will go after them. Allies will get dragged into battle on both sides. Blah, blah, blah… End result will be an apocalyptic war spilling over into the mortal realm. Dagan says that once we find the killers, that’ll happen regardless, and if there’s going to be a war anyway, he might as well get his brother back.”

“It isn’t that simple,” Calliope said, shooting a glance at the back of the cabdriver’s head and choosing her next words with care. “To accomplish his goal, there are certain things—”

“Spells,” Roxy supplied.

“—that require specific ingredients—”

“Souls of the innocent.”

“—and alliances—”

“Deals with demons.”

Despite the weighty topic, Calliope couldn’t help but be amused by Roxy’s long-suffering yet faintly acerbic tone. “Yes. And that will stir up certain groups who will not be pleased.”

“I get that,” Roxy said. “It’s about more than just finding the killer. If it was just about that then, sure, bring Lokan back to life. But it’s about the sacrifices and the blood of innocents, and I can’t get my head around that. And once you start with dark spells, it’s going to stir up the Underworld gods and demigods… We’ve talked about it ad nauseum. And Dae sees my point of view…”

“…he just doesn’t agree with it,” Calliope finished for her.

“No.” Roxy paused. “I’m helping him to a degree. I get that he needs to mourn his brother. Maybe find his remains so he can have some sort of ritual closure. I just don’t know how far I can go.” She sighed. “Loving Dagan doesn’t change the fact that I’m a Daughter of Aset, that I was a soldier for the Asetian Guard for ten years. And I can’t see my way clear to sacrificing nameless, faceless innocent people so he can have his brother back. I understand how bad he wants it. But I can’t agree with the process.” She gave a short laugh. “Who ever said relationships were easy?”

Calliope had no answer. Having never allowed herself that sort of relationship, she didn’t feel qualified to comment. She rarely even allowed herself close friendships. Roxy was an exception. And Zalika, her own mentor.

But she did know that despite her friendship with Roxy, she’d step in her friend’s way if it meant following the directive set by her superiors in the Asetian Guard. Lokan Krayl would stay dead if Calliope had any say in the matter.

She ended the call just as the cab pulled up in front of the restaurant. She paid, got out and moved to blend with the line that snaked out the front doors. Once the cab was gone, she hurried away, cutting through back alleys to minimize the chance of anyone noticing her unnatural speed. She stopped only once to drop her too-memorable white mohair coat in a large box that was clearly serving as someone’s home. Then she peeled off the tailored hip-length jacket she’d worn to dinner, leaving her in a matte black catsuit with a healthy percentage of spandex. Ease of movement was key.

In minutes she was in the alley behind Kuznetsov’s building, her pulse barely escalated, her breathing steady. It would take more than a short run to make her sweat.