Sins of the Flesh

“It was my choice and I made it.”


His embrace was so tight she could hardly breathe.

“I love you, Calli. Prophecy or not. Fate or not. I love you and I’m not going to give you up.”

He said it as though it was a challenge, as if he thought she would argue.

“I love you, Malthus Krayl,” she said, uncaring of the audience, uncaring that the future loomed before them dark and confused. Sutekh had murdered his own son.

Where did that leave Mal? And Alastor and Dagan?

There would be ramifications. There would be upheaval. And as she pulled Mal’s mouth to hers and kissed him, a kiss of life, a kiss of hope, she thought that as long as they were together, they’d figure it out.





AT FIRST THERE WAS ONLY a sliver of light, but he’d been in the dark so long, he’d forgotten what light was like, and it hurt his eyes. The pain bored into his skull, sharp and bright, and then spread to his hands, his feet, his forearms, his calves.

He swayed but refused to fall. The world spun around him and through him, a vortex of pain and incredible suction, as though a giant vacuum pump was pulling on his limbs, anchored there by barbed talons. For balance he shot his arms out to the sides and felt rough stone beneath his fingers.

His heart twisted in his chest, a sharp jab of hope and fear. Because the stone was real. He could feel it. He wasn’t imagining it, and he knew that was important.

“My name is Lokan Krayl.” He whispered the words aloud, and as he did, he knew he had forgotten them a dozen, a hundred, a thousand times before.

Panic surged, but he choked it back and looked down to see a bizarre staircase twisting through a black void, the stairs gleaming, polished gray, the world all around him dotted with stars.

Down. Or up.

There were only two choices open to him. Three, if he considered standing exactly where he was. The latter seemed the poorest choice, so he went up, taking the stairs two at a time, his legs shaking as he forced them to move by sheer will alone. His lungs filled and emptied too fast, his heart beat too hard. He was weak and faded. He was not the creature he had once been.

Up he went, and then he stopped, his back bowed, head hanging, palms flat on his thighs as he gasped for air. He felt as if he had not used these muscles in a horrifically long time. How long?

He had no idea.

When he lifted his head, he saw that he was on a landing and on the polished stone was a pile of apples. Red. Shiny. His belly cramped, so empty that it felt like a hole at his core. He was starving, right down to the cells that formed his organs.

His mouth watered and he reached for an apple. So tempting. The weight of it in his hand was lovely; the scent of it filled his nostrils. He brought the fruit to his nose and inhaled then opened his mouth, ready to taste.

The food of the dead.

Was he dead?

He couldn’t be. He was Lokan Krayl. He was a soul reaper. Soul reapers didn’t die. But he had.

Horror sank its claws into him. With a cry, he let the apple roll off his fingers, watched it tumble toward the ground.

But he never saw it hit.

The world around him spun at a dizzying pace, and he saw things, so many things, that he was sure he had seen before.

He stood on concrete slabs, a crimson river stretched before him, the color of blood, the color of wine. There was a boat. There was a ferryman. There were thousands of souls—

He reached out and it all disappeared.

In its place was a scale with plates of hammered gold and a stone staircase. A knife. A white feather. The Hall of Two Truths.

He was Lokan Krayl, son of Sutekh. He was his father’s ambassador. His right hand.

Anubis stood beside the scale. He turned his jackal’s head and handed him a knife. It was the only way in. The only way to see Osiris.

Stretching out his hand to accept the blade, he gasped as all fell away and he was falling, falling.

A river.

A blood-red moon.

A feeling that he was being pulled limb from limb, the pain more than he could ever have imagined.

The sun was so hot it burned his skin. And then the breeze came and cooled him and he turned his face toward it and opened his eyes. Before him was a swing set and a little girl. Her face turned to his, her eyes denim blue, her mouth opening as she laughed.

He knew her. She was his daughter.

Memories came at him in a dizzying rush. His death.

His father had murdered him, carved his skin from his body using the knife that the goddess Izanami had sent 6,000 years ago as a gift to each and every Underworld deity to mark the start of the cease-fire.

His father had murdered him to take his body. And to put an end to his growing power.

He looked down at his hand and clenched his fist and felt the sting of his nails digging into his palm.

He was alive. His name was Lokan Krayl, and he was alive.