Sins of the Soul

“There’s no party,” she said, a bit too hastily. “There’s no one back there.” She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “I was just…”

“Checking the premises for…vermin?” He rubbed his fingers together, making the bill between them crackle.

She gnawed harder on her lip.

Letting her mull things over, he glanced at Mal, then jerked his head toward the stage. “You think Lillith will interfere?”

Mal shook his head. “Doubt it. She’s interested in other things at the moment. So long as we don’t mess the place up…” He shrugged and turned the full wattage of his smile on the barmaid. “Your boss offering them protection, darlin’, or just renting out space?”

The girl pressed her lips together. Alastor could almost see the wheels turning in her mind.

“Space,” she answered after a moment, her eyes locked on the money in Alastor’s hand.

“Mind offering introductions? Or we could always announce ourselves.” Alastor slowly curled his fingers so the C-note disappeared inside his fist.

“They—” Raising her hand, the girl looked at the disappearing money, then shot a glance at the closed door, clearly trying to figure a way she could get the money and avoid stepping into the middle of a potentially sticky situation. “They don’t like company,” she said in a rush. “I think they have guns.”

“Guns aren’t a problem, and we’re not company.” Alastor pinned her with a hard look. “A smart girl would choose to make a few dollars off the interaction and then disappear.” He offered a tight, close-lipped smile and let the edge of the bill peek out once more. “Are you a smart girl?”

Expression shuttered, she edged away from him, closer to Mal, who grinned down at her and said, “My brother’s right, darlin’. We’re not company.”

Mal took the bill from Alastor and tucked it into the waistband of the scrap of cloth that passed for the girl’s skirt, letting his hand linger on the flare of her hip.

“I’d say we’re more like—” Alastor’s lips peeled back in a parody of a smile “—blood.”

The barmaid stared at him, wide-eyed, then she turned and muttered, “This way.”

They followed. The sound of the music was less overpowering back here, away from the speakers. Stopping before the closed door, she hesitated, rapped twice, and called out, “Visitors,” before scampering away.

“Private affair,” a gruff voice replied. “Tell whoever—”

The words died as Alastor pushed open the door. A square wooden table was positioned in the center of the small room, illuminated by a naked overhead bulb. Around it sat three human men and one not-so-human female.

“Hey!” One of the three men at the table shoved to his feet, hand going inside his jacket. His chair clattered to the floor.

The female murmured a soft, “No,” and rested her curled ebony talons lightly on his forearm.

The mortals saw her as a petite and pretty woman.

Alastor blinked, cleared the facade, and saw her exactly as she truly was.

She was both beautiful and monstrous, with small, fine-boned features and tiny white teeth, jagged as a shark’s. Her skin had the smooth, supple texture of expensive leather, the color a deep burgundy red. A fall of straight, black hair cascaded in a smooth curtain down her back.

While the succubus out front explained a small measure of the supernatural vibe that had been crawling along his skin since he’d stood outside in the parking lot, the creature before him explained the rest.

The men were definitely human, Topworld grunts, inhabitants of the shady area that straddled Underworld and the mortal realm. They were hangers-on with delusions of catching a supernatural’s favor and being welcomed to the club.

Alastor bit back a dark smile. He wondered if anyone had ever told them the price.

It was one the female had already paid. The essence of her being. She was one of Xaphan’s concubines. A fire genie of some significant power, which meant she’d made her deal with the demon centuries past.

As a rule, mortals didn’t get a free trip to go to the Underworld and, with rare exceptions, high-power supernaturals didn’t get to come to the Topworld. The Underworld was divided in a manner similar to the way human crime families carved up cities, with everyone jealously guarding their own borders. The higher up the hierarchy an Underworld lord or god—Sutekh; Osiris; Hades; Izanami—the more confined. They couldn’t travel to the mortal realm or to each other’s territories, and they were forced to choose ambassadors, creatures of lesser supernatural power to move about and represent them. It was a way to balance things, a failsafe that had been set up six thousand years ago in a peace accord that had held until now.

The thing was, Lokan’s murder threatened that accord. Kill Sutekh’s son and he’d retaliate. Perhaps not right away. Perhaps he’d take his time, plan and plot. But in the end, Sutekh would find—and annihilate—the brains behind the deed, along with any who’d supported his efforts. And that would start a war.