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
14
SINS OF THE HEART
