Sins of the Flesh

He had no idea what had made her bolt. Whatever it was, he figured it was a problem that ran deep and had little to do with anything he’d done or said.

Hell, she’d been the aggressor. It wasn’t as if he’d dragged her down there by the hair.

So why the fuck was he left feeling like crap about the whole thing?

Maybe because he had his own deep-running issues. The thought brought a dark smile to his lips. Yeah, he did. No question about that. And one of those issues was finding his brother’s killers.

Which was why he was here, to follow the lead that had led him to Kuznetsov, not to think about some girl.

He didn’t have long to wait. Maybe twenty minutes later, a cab pulled up. Mal leaned forward, forearms on his thighs, weight hanging a thread away from freefall.

The High Reverend got out, followed by a woman. Her white coat was pale and bright, a fall of straight, dark hair swinging forward as she dipped her head. Her hand rested on the open passenger-side back door. She made no move to close it.

“Damn.” High Reverend Kuznetsov habitually came home alone. Damned fucking inconvenient that he’d altered his habits two nights in a row.

Kuznetsov bent and said something to the cabbie then straightened and looked at the woman. She shook her head, the movement graceful and controlled, almost languorous. No…wrong word—serene. Her bearing, her movements, everything about her was serene. Something nagged at him. Mal found himself wishing he could get a clear look at her features.

Be careful what you wish for.

She tipped her head back and unerringly turned her face toward him. As if she knew he was there. Which was impossible, because Mal couldn’t be seen unless he chose to be. And at the moment, he didn’t. So anyone, mortal or supernatural, looking at this balcony would see only an empty rail.

Except the woman was looking straight at him.

Seconds ticked past. Then she looked away.

Catching her hand, Kuznetsov tried to draw her close, but she resisted, holding her place at the edge of the curb. He took a step and went to her. Her body language was reserved as the High Reverend embraced her.

The angle made it hard to be certain, but it looked to Mal as if she dipped one hand inside Kuznetsov’s coat and the other caressed the back of his neck. Embracing him? Something about the way she held herself made Mal think that wasn’t the case. Repelling him? That didn’t quite fit either.

She turned her head, avoiding the press of Kuznetsov’s lips. He grazed her cheek, and then the interaction was over. The woman stepped back, gliding off the curb onto the street, her hand resting once more on the open cab door.

Something about her held Mal’s attention. A supernatural? He opened his senses, reached for her and found nothing. Not even a hint of supernatural vibe. She read as mortal.

Still, Mal stared at her a moment longer, intrigued. His senses were telling him she was human. But pure instinct was telling him she wasn’t. And since he himself could camouflage his energy signature, he had to assume others might be capable of the same.

With a last word, the woman turned and climbed back into the cab. Kuznetsov slammed the door shut. Guess he didn’t like having his intentions thwarted. The taxi rolled away, picked up speed and, finally, disappeared around the corner.

For a long moment the High Reverend stood there, staring down the now-empty street. Mal didn’t need to be able to see his features in order to read his disappointment. It dripped off him like melting snow.

Finally, Kuznetsov turned away and entered the building directly opposite Mal’s perch. Alone.

The night was looking up. The cold air suddenly felt sharper, the lights of the city brighter. Kuznetsov and the knowledge he harbored were dancing almost within reach.

About fucking time. Lokan’s soul was missing, his body hacked to bits and scattered over the world. Mal and his remaining brothers needed to get Lokan’s remains and his soul in one place.

And they had to find the identity of his killers.

Having Lokan back was the real prize.

But Mal knew they might be forced to settle for vengeance, served cold and raw and bloody. Unlike his brothers, he wasn’t convinced they could bring Lokan back. Even if they found his remains, time was running out for his soul. If he partook of the food of the dead while he was trapped somewhere in the Underworld, he would be lost to them for eternity.

An eyewitness put Kuznetsov in the right place, right time the night Lokan was killed. Witness or participant. Either way, he had information Mal wanted.

Staring at the building across the street, Mal drummed his fingers on his thigh as he waited for the High Reverend to make it home. He imagined Kuznetsov greeting the concierge, taking the elevator, stepping off at the sub-penthouse, into the marble entryway—

A faint glow filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of apartment 2602.