Save me from that god who steals souls,
Who laps up corruption, who lives on what is
putrid,
Who is in charge of darkness, who lives in gloom,
Of whom those who are among the languid ones
are afraid.
Who is he? He is Seth.
He is Sutekh.
—The Egyptian Book of the Dead, Chapter 17
Chicago, Illinois, eleven years ago
In the far corner of a room in the basement of an abandoned
factory, a woman huddled on a filthy mattress. Her wrists
and ankles were bound by yellow nylon rope. Her head was
bowed, dark, glossy ringlets falling forward to obscure her
face. The harsh glare of the naked overhead bulb accented
the curved line of her back.
Terror had a way of making mortals scream.
Dagan Krayl wondered why this one wasn't.
He shifted to get a better view through the half-inch crack
in the door. Small, bare room. Concrete floor. Particleboard
walls. No windows.
There were stains on the mattress. Old stains,
reddish-brown, dark and stiff. Someone's blood.
Not hers.
Not yet.
But whoever had left her here would be back. So she had
reason enough to be terrified. Reason enough to scream.
Human females cried. And, at times, human males. But not
this female.
Both her silence and her odd movements piqued Dagan's curiosity.
Her head bobbed like a buoy in choppy water. Up. Down. He
could hear the distinct rasp of each breath, more scrape
than sob, accompanied by a muted grinding.
What the hell was she doing? From this position, he couldn't
tell.
She paused, shifted a bit to one side and rolled her
shoulder up against her cheek to push back the long,
corkscrew strands of her hair. Then she dipped her head and
went back to her task. The grinding resumed, and he realized
that she was gnawing at the rope with her teeth, making a
play for freedom.
A flicker of interest ignited. It appeared that despite the
desperation of her circumstances her spirit was tattered but
not crushed.
A fighting spirit.
Something to be admired.
He blinked, startled by the thought. She was none of his
concern. He was here to harvest and kill.
But not her.
The prey he sought had a tarnished soul, one smeared with
the worst sort of slime, the accumulated malfeasance and
malady of a lifetime. Nothing less would satisfy dear old
Dad. Sutekh, the Lord of Chaos. He dined only on malevolence
and vice. Evil was the delicacy he craved.
As a soul reaper, Dagan was tasked with providing it. He was
not just any soul reaper, but Sutekh's eldest son. The old
man had a small army of soul reapers to harvest for him, but
he had only four sons, and he had exacting expectations of
his progeny.
He glanced over his shoulder down the narrow, dark corridor.
He'd already checked the massive empty space upstairs. Only
the underground bowels of the abandoned factory remained
unexplored. His prey was here somewhere, and he ought to
continue the hunt, not stand here watching the woman.
But something kept him from leaving her and prowling off in
search of a darksoul. He knew what it felt like to struggle
and strive, to ache for freedom. Be careful what you wish
for—wasn't that a common mortal adage? Freedom wasn't
always delicious.
Reaching into the back pocket of his faded, torn jeans, he
took out a lollipop. The clear plastic wrapper crinkled as
he pulled it off. He popped the sucker in his mouth and
waited—flavor exploded. Coconut… pineapple.
Piña colada. Not his favorite. He'd remember that next time.
He folded the cellophane in half, then quarters and shoved
it in his pocket, because littering went against his grain,
even in this condemned shithole of an abandoned factory in
Chicago's far South Side. The clear paper crinkled and
crunched in the quiet.
The woman's head jerked up. She must have heard the sound.
She turned her face toward him, blinked a couple of times
and then froze. He didn't know if she cold see him, but she
definitely heard him. That was a surprise.
A long scratch marked her neck and a fresh bruise darkened
her right cheek, swollen and red against the smooth toffee
cream of her skin. She'd been roughed up a bit, but she
still had her clothes on. Didn't look like she'd been raped.
Yet.
Dagan figured she had to count that as a good thing.
She wasn't gagged. Her captor hadn't bothered, either
because there was no one around to hear her or because the
guy liked to listen to her scream. Only she wasn't. Screaming.
He found that interesting.
Stepping deeper into the room, Dagan lifted his finger to
his lips—stay quiet—and reached back to
pull the door closed behind him. He wasn't sure why he
wanted her quiet. Letting her scream would only bring her
captor running, which would save Dagan the trouble of
hunting him down. But he wanted a moment with her. One moment.
Why? One moment to do what? He came up with
fuck-all for an answer.
Her eyes widened, then narrowed. Beautiful eyes, green and
bronze, the shape almond tipped. The color was startling
against her dark skin and even darker lashes.
For an instant, he saw only her eyes, tiger fierce. The room
disappeared, and he saw only those eyes. They reached inside
him, found something he hadn't known he'd lost, hadn't known
he had in the first place.
The instant passed, leaving his pulse beating a little
harder, his breath coming a little faster. He recognized
that the source wasn't mere sexual attraction. It
was… something else.
His gaze dipped to her mouth—full lips, lush and
plump—and dipped lower to follow the thick silver
chain that snaked beneath the neckline of her dirt-smeared
tank top to disappear between the generous swell of her
breasts. The room was like a meat locker, and the distinct
outline of her nipples left no doubt that she was cold. He
was in no hurry to look away; he couldn't help but
appreciate the view.
I could warm her, ease her fear.
The uncharacteristic thought held distinct appeal.
Her breasts rose and fell with each rapid breath. He dragged
his gaze away, let it rake her at a more leisurely pace, and
he felt a distinct unease as he noticed things he'd missed
the first time around. Things like incredibly smooth, taut
skin. Not a wrinkle. Not a line. Not a single flaw.
Hell. He had no business staring at her breasts, her
nipples. He saw now that she wasn't a woman at all. Barely
more than a kid. Nineteen, maybe twenty.
"How old are you?"
"Nineteen." She frowned. "And a half."
And a half. That sealed the deal. Too young. She
was far too young for him. And mortal, to boot. He generally
didn't bother with mortals. They were too… human.
There were more than enough female genies and demigods in
the Underworld to choose from if he needed to scratch an itch.
But he'd pulled his gaze away too late. She'd seen exactly
where his attention had strayed.
"Old enough to put up a fight." Her voice was low
and fierce. "You won't get any without a fight, white
boy."
His gaze flicked to the yellow ropes that bound her.
"I'm not in the habit of tying my lovers up." A slow
smile curved his lips. "Unless they ask."
"I'm not asking."
She stared at him, her posture and expression putting him in
mind of a cornered cat. Ready to fight. Claws. Teeth.
Whatever it took.
Guts and grit. And beauty. He found the combination
appealing. Nineteen. And a half.
"Fuck." He was here to harvest a darksoul, not think
about getting laid, and he was rapidly coming to the
conclusion that the faster he got done and got going, the
better. He set his teeth against the lollipop, sheared off a
shard of candy and ground it between his molars.
"Fuck," she echoed. "Yeah, that about
sums it up, vanilla bean."
He didn't surprise easily, but that did the trick. She'd
been beaten, bound and left to stew in her own terror, but
she had the brass balls left to call him vanilla bean. And
white boy.
He'd been called worse. With reason.
"You in this with him?" Despite the show of bravado,
the question held a telltale tremble.
He took the lollipop from his mouth, studied her for a
second, then popped the candy back in and used his tongue to
push it off to one side. She held perfectly still, only her
eyes moving as she tracked his actions.
"By him, I assume you mean your captor." At
her sharp nod, he finished, "No, I'm not in it with
him."
Hope flickered to life in her eyes. "You here to free
me?"
"Free you?" He almost laughed. "No." If she
were looking for a savior, she was in for disappointment. No
one was coming. No one but him. Which was unfortunate for her.
At his answer, her cheeks paled, but her chin kicked up a
little higher. "You gonna kill me, then?" Her eyes
narrowed. "'Cause if y'are, get in line. I think the
asshole who tied me up will call dibs."
Not tonight, he wouldn't. Dagan had no intention of letting
the bastard touch her.
The second the thought formed, he ground it to dust beneath
his boot. He wasn't here to protect this oddly alluring
girl. He was here to kill and take what he needed—a
darksoul to feed Sutekh's power.
But not from her. Her soul was bright as a xenon arc lamp.
Sutekh would cough it up like a hairball.
"This isn't your night to die."
"Real talk?" She tipped her head and thrust one
shoulder back in a cocky pose. Almost made him believe it.
More bravado. And still no tears.
Interesting.
"Real talk?" he echoed, floundering. Then he
realized she was asking if he was telling the truth.
"I'm not here for you. I came for a darksoul."
She frowned at the term but didn't ask for an explanation.
She had other things on her mind. "Good for you. Maybe
you could help me with this little inconvenience first?"
Her voice dripped sarcasm. Jerking her bound hands up, she
separated them by the quarter inch the rope allowed and
winced as it rubbed her already chaffed skin. "You got a
knife?"
As he stared at the red, inflamed marks that brace-letted
her wrists, something odd and unfamiliar raised its head and
uncoiled deep inside him. He'd seen thousands of wounds,
caused most of them himself. But the sight of her beautiful
brown skin, abraded and bloody, was… unsettling. He
felt a second's disorientation. He had no reason to care
about her pain.
"A knife?" she prompted. And he heard asshole
implied in her tone. Or maybe dickhead.
"No knife." He didn't need one. In three strides he
closed the space between them. He took the rolled paper
lollipop stick from between his lips, tucked it away in his
pocket then hunkered down and caught the rope in his fist.
Her pupils dilated and she gasped. Every muscle in her sleek
frame tensed. But she didn't jerk away. Only watched him
with those incredible eyes.
A sound carried from the hallway. Footsteps.
"Cut me loose!" she hissed.
"After." He was already rising and backing away.
"After what?" Her breath came in short, sharp pants,
her gaze flicking to the closed door, her fear clearly
escalating. Bemused, he wondered why she was all swagger and
sass talking to him, but she was terrified of the human in
the hallway. She had her priorities ass-backwards.
Lifting a finger to his lips once more, Dagan cautioned her
to silence as he eased back into the narrow space between
the door frame and the wall. If she were smart, she'd be
quiet. If she gave him away, it would only make his
job… messier.
Jaw clenched, fingers curled into her palms, she followed
his movements and offered a short nod as, with a creak, the
door opened halfway. A blonde in tight jeans and stilettos
sashayed into the room, shouldering the door fully open.
Close behind her was a tall man, dressed all in black,
greasy brown hair hanging lank to his shoulders. He had one
hand clasped tight around the blonde's wrist, the other
holding a long hunting knife down by his thigh.
The girl on the mattress lurched up and rasped, "Marcie!
You're alive. Oh, thank God."
Marcie froze, and the guy holding her tightened his grip.
Looked like the bastard meant to rape and murder not one
girl but two.
Ambitious.
Disgust curdled in Dagan's gut. He was as far from good as
anyone could be, but he did have a code. He always settled
his debts. His word was his law. He refused to lie. And he
sure as sugar never fucked girls barely out of high school
then slit their throats.
Marcie tossed her hair back from her face and cocked one hip
to the side. She had a hard look about her, like she knew
the score and liked it that way. Turning her head, she
slanted a glance toward the mattress and the girl.
That was all.
Just a glance.
No expression at all.
Not horror. Not fear. Not empathy.
Understanding arrowed deep, a sharp, bright barb, and Dagan
narrowed his eyes, seeing things with new clarity.
Marcie wasn't bound. She didn't lean away from the grasp of
her tormentor; instead, she relaxed into his grip. The way
she held herself, shoulders back, head high, was anything
but fearful. And her lips were curved in the faintest smile.
Well, fuck me raw.
The bastard didn't have two girls captive. He had one girl
he was all set to rape and murder.
And one girl who was all set to help him.
The Underworld, the Territory of Sutekh
Gahiji stood on the sandstone gallery and looked down at the
line of souls awaiting entry, petitioning for a moment, but
a moment, of Sutekh's time. They knew him by that name, and
others: Seth, Set, Seteh, Lord of Chaos, Lord of Evil, Lord
of the Desert, Mighty One of Twofold Strength. Some even
called him by the Greek name Typhon, a god known for cruelty
and blind rage. Those who thought that knew him not at all.
Sutekh never devolved into blind rage; he was far more
dangerous than that: coldly analytical, methodical in his
actions, his fury more blade than bludgeon. He was a
businessman who could see every angle, map out all possible
future ramifications of every decision.
The line of souls stretched so far that Gahiji had no hope
of seeing the end. Each time one at the front was allowed
entry, dozens more joined the line at the far end. They came
to beg favors of the Lord of Chaos. Some were minor deities
themselves, far below Sutekh in rank and power, here to
wheedle and finagle a deal. Some were the souls of those who
had failed to find the Field of Reeds, the paradise of life
after death. Perhaps they had done dark deeds in life.
Perhaps they had failed the tests of their chosen deity.
Some could not pass the twenty-one gates of Osiris. Others
lacked the payment for Charon and so would not be ferried
across the river Styx. The Underworld was divied up into
tidy territories, each god and demigod holding sway in their
own kingdom. Souls had to play by the rules to get in.