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Gluttony

“I love you.” “My heart beats for you, Saeran.” “Don’t leave me.” “Oh, baby. Never.”

Wood splinters spray everywhere with a well-placed shot of lightning. Not nearly enough damage, considering the foul mood I’m in. The stench of Fae makes me want to kill something. Several somethings, in fact. The weapon at my hip—a white, translucent handgun—will ensure that any Fae stays down. I have one Fae in mind and a future date to shoot him directly between the eyes. The longer Conor keeps us on this wild-goose chase, the more I’ll make it hurt when I get my hands on him.

“It smells rancid in here,” Lazarus says, moving past me and further into the random suburban house. His nose is wrinkled, and he pulls his suit jacket closer to him, like he can keep it clean in this mess.

Not that there’s much of a mess. The front door leads into a living room with mismatched furniture and a half-decent TV. A coffee table with used mugs. Lived in. Normal. Boring.

We could have gone into any house on this block and found the same scenario. What a goddamn waste of time. And a car ride with Envy I can never get back.

“Two guesses what happened to the occupants who lived here,” Envy says, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe. The bright-orange T-shirt he’s wearing says “I’m a good bad influence” on it. I might have been inclined to ignore it since he has worse outfits, but the sneakers he’s matched it with—one orange and one black—and the jeans that have more holes than fabric are too much. Not caring about fashion isn’t an excuse for looking like a two-year-old’s painting gone wrong. His entire wardrobe needs to be burned to the ground.

“I only need one guess,” I grunt, my boots crunching on the broken pieces of the door. Conor’s stench is all over this place; no one would have been left alive. I don’t care about human life, or preserving it, but it’s easier to torture someone into talking if they’re still breathing. And Envy can’t get access to their souls if they’ve been dead too long.

Something doesn’t feel right in this house. It has nothing to do with the smell of the dead that follows us everywhere these days, haunting our steps. The stench of it is in my pores. Killing brings me joy when I’m the one in charge. Having it behind me, with my family in its sight? I’ll destroy the entire world before I let it take any of us.

“I can smell them.”

“We can all smell them,” Lazarus drawls, shooting Envy a disdainful look. If I have to listen to these two bitching at each other like an old married couple for even five more minutes, I’ll kill them both. I could have come here on my own.

“The dead were ripped from this place. Whatever happened here, it was violent. And messy.” Envy grins and pats my black vest. “They took their time, making it linger. They did it on purpose.”

To draw us here. “Think they’d give us hints?”

“You don’t need hints,” Lazarus says. “Are they still here?”

Envy tips his head back, eyes closing. Lazarus glances at the expanse of his throat, not subtle at all. His eyes meet mine, and then he looks away. That’s even worse than listening to them bicker. I should have brought Wrath.

“Well?” I say impatiently. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can go home. Or to a new location where there might be someone I can hurt and take my frustration out on.

“There’s nothing here. I can smell the dead, like they’re lingering. I can’t see them, though. They might have been killed here, but the bodies were moved.” Envy pauses, tilting his head. “Did you hear that?”

Lazarus is already moving. “Upstairs?”

“Think it’s a trap?” Envy throws over his shoulder, in hot pursuit of the demon.

I hope so. That means I can kill someone.

My gaze settles on a jumper slung over the banister. It smells fresh, like it’s just been laundered. There’s a kid’s scooter lying in the narrow corridor leading to the back door. A brand-new scooter, without telltale scuff marks from use. A glance through the open archway into the kitchen shows a similar setting. Dishes are stacked on the sink, like they’re waiting to be washed. Sparkling, clean dishes.

Deliberate. Staged.

I take the stairs three at a time, bellowing Envy’s name. He and Lazarus are in a children’s bedroom, their focus on a man tied to a chair in the middle of it. What the fuck? The man’s eyes widen at the sight of me, and he screams through the fabric covering his mouth, muffling him.

Lazarus has already dragged Envy behind him, protecting him. I can smell the metallic scent of blood. Not from where it coats the bed, the curtains, or the dried splash of it across the windows. It’s fresh. Coming from the man. Like fishermen baiting a shark.

“Don’t touch him. Get out here.” A shove at the back of Envy’s neck gets him moving back out the door, Lazarus a step behind him. Sticking close.

“Bait for us or a trap?” Envy asks, once we’re out in the hallway. The same thought I had.

“A trap and bait are the same thing,” Lazarus says, crossing his arms over his chest, unimpressed.

“Actually, they use bait to set the trap. Not the same thing.”

“Shut up.” Semantics mean nothing to me, and their voices are grating. “Whether they left him here for us or not, it doesn’t fucking matter. Whatever information he has, I want to know it.”

Lazarus’s lips flatten. “And how do you propose we accomplish that?”

“Can’t use your imagination, Zara?” I goad. His quick trigger is even quicker with his husband out there dealing with who-the-fuck-knows what. The right motivation and he’ll kill everything in his path. I relish the day he finally snaps.

“What do you think?” Lazarus asks Envy. He leans back against the wall and curls a hand around the doorframe. Ready to be the first to attack, to defend. Always ready.

Envy shrugs and shoves his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. It brings my attention back to his eyesore shoes. “I think he’s not dead. What am I supposed to do with him?”

“Are you incapable of torturing someone if they’re alive?”

“I’m not really into screaming. Unless it’s me, and I’m on my knees.”

A hint of emotion flashes in Lazarus’s eyes that I’m not remotely interested in exploring further. “You’re—”

A lightning streak crashes between them, cutting off their conversation. They can eye-fuck in their own time.

“No one is getting tortured.” Torture is slow, messy, and too unpredictable. Those that should break don’t, and those that shouldn’t do. Anything they say under duress can’t be trusted at face value. I don’t have time for that bullshit.

And I refuse to play whatever games Conor has planned for us. Wrath might dance to his tune, but I won’t. I don’t care about his magic fucking dick or replaying history.

Striding back into the room, lightning flickers around my hands. The captive’s eyes widen further, horror prominent in them. He jerks against his bonds, like somehow he can get away. He can see his death coming, and he’s afraid. I’ll make it a lot quicker for him than Greed or Wrath would. My cruelty stems from the result, not the journey.

The chair tips as he struggles, a futile attempt to put distance between us. I kick it the rest of the way over, splintering wood. A well-placed lightning strike destroys the rest of the chair, and the man collapses amongst the wreckage. His jaw breaks when I slam my boot down on it, the cloth over his mouth drooping uselessly. Blood sprays over my dark slacks, specks of it reaching my black vest. Another crack of lightning, directly into his mouth this time, causes him to spasm violently. His eyes roll into the back of his head as he burns from the inside.

He’s gone almost instantly, but I do it again just to be sure. The light above breaks with a pop . The window implodes from the sheer strength of the electricity in the room with us.

Envy nudges me with his shoulder, his head barely reaching my upper arm. “Crude.”

“Effective.” Dead’s dead, regardless of the finesse used to get there. I don’t need fancy flourishes to get the job done.

“They aren’t mutually exclusive.”

I’m not in the mood to banter with him or waste any more time in this filth. “Just get him out; we don’t have time to take him back to the mansion.” The soul won’t stay long, and once it’s gone, Envy can’t retrieve it. It’s the first lead we’ve had in over a week as to the whereabouts of our missing brothers. I won’t risk losing it.

“We could have tried asking him first,” Lazarus points out. “Envy doesn’t need more—”

“Aww, are you worried about me?” Envy coos.

Lazarus immediately sneers in response, shoulders stiffening defensively. “Perhaps the man doesn’t deserve to be shackled to you for eternity.”

If they don’t shut the fuck up, I’m going to put their bodies next to this idiot’s. One corpse. Three corpses. It’s all the same to me. Numbers don’t matter.

Envy crouches beside the body, experimentally moving the broken jaw. “Sounds like it’s not his lucky day, then.”

“Get on with it.” We don’t have all day, for fuck’s sake.

Envy’s hand hovers over the body, his eyes closing on a shudder. He slips down to one knee, bracing himself. Wrinkles cross his forehead, and then a husky shadow rises from the body, hovering and twisting grotesquely.

The screams begin, and I grimace against the sudden pain. I despise this aspect. They don’t need to announce their presence so fucking loudly.

Words eventually come through as Envy pushes through the endless noise with practiced ease. More dead than I care to count haunt him because of him touching their souls. Not a skill I want to have. Conversing with the dead doesn’t gain me anything except information. While useful, it isn’t tangible. I can’t hoard it, it’s not quantifiable in that way. Therefore, it’s useless to me.

The shadow reaches for the corpse, screeches louder when it can’t get back inside. It goes for Envy next, somehow knowing he’s the one responsible for separating them. A barrier keeps it away, but it’s slowly getting through it. Lazarus pushes off the wall and moves closer, his hip shielding Envy from it. As if he can do anything if the shadow gets free. Only Envy can bury the dead once they walk.

“Envy,” I warn.

“Yeah, I know,” he says, strain in his voice. “Just one more—there.”

Evil.

Deserves it.

Feed him to the Sins like scraps given to a dog.

Raven.

Lazarus twists to look down at Envy. “Raven? As in my husband?”

Envy falters on the last word, and his thin shield wobbles. A shadowed hand pushes through, using his distraction to its advantage. My lightning crackles, even when I know I can’t do anything. It doesn’t mean I won’t try, the same as Lazarus. Nothing is going to drag my brother under with them. Until then he needs his concentration intact, and Lazarus has never been good for that.

Placing a hand on Lazarus’s shoulder, I drag him away from Envy. I don’t give a single fuck about his feelings for the demon that he’s married to; he’s not fucking up this summoning. This is bigger than just one of us. They have my fucking brothers, and we’re getting them all back. None of this “sacrificing one for the many” bullshit. All of them, or I’ll destroy everything and leave none of this world standing.

Lead them here and give them a message.

Greed.

Evil.

Deserves it.

You get an end worthy of the scum that you are.

Who the fuck is he talking about? Himself? Someone else? This is the problem with Envy’s magic. The vagueness is fucking irritating. I like answers, not more questions or riddles to solve.

“Feels like… someone is talking to me,” Envy gets out through gritted teeth. He collapses, his other knee sinking to the floor. The shadow shrieks louder, breaking the windows. Lazarus shoves past me to get to him, and I let him. Dropping down beside him, Lazarus presses a hand to his collarbone, straightening him.

As soon as Lazarus touches Envy, the screams somehow lessen enough for me to think. “Does he know something useful?” I ask impatiently.

Hidden. Secrets.

Dead men tell no tales, but Envy can give them a bedtime story.

Lead them to the promised land and wash away their sins.

“Something coherent, Envy,” I press. I’m not like Lust; I don’t have a soft heart, and the information we’re looking for is too important to mess around. So long as the shield holds, and he’s not in danger, I’ll keep Envy connected to this soul until we find what we need.

The ones you seek are scattered in the city. A maze for mice. Will you find the cheese before it rots?

The shadow suddenly sucks back into the corpse, and Envy drops, eyes closing as he falls, unconscious. Lazarus catches him before he hits the ground.

My heart skips a beat. What the fuck ? Our victim has one of the weakest souls I’ve ever seen Envy lift. It shouldn’t zap him like this. Not enough to make him collapse.

Lazarus presses two fingers against Envy’s neck. “Alive,” he says, releasing a breath of relief.

Disgusted, I kick the wrist of the fried body. “Is he stronger than he looks or…?”

“Or, I think. I couldn’t sense anything hidden. He’s completely ordinary.”

“We thought Deacon was ordinary too.” Snuck right under Lust’s radar like a traitorous sneak. I’ll watch him closely; if he turns on us again, I’ll be ready.

“This is different.”

Is it? They might like to think that, but they all dropped the ball in not figuring out that Deacon isn’t what he seems. They let him walk right into the heart of our home and almost kill Lust in the process. Right now my trust in their instincts is tenuous at best.

“It sounds like they’ve separated them, making it harder for us to track,” Lazarus says. He stands, lifting Envy with him and shifting him into a more comfortable position in his arms. “It gives us something to concentrate on, at least. We know to sift out their signatures and look for them one by one.”

“Maybe.” I can agree it’s useful information. If it’s the truth. The messenger is my problem. The one giving the message through this idiot wanted us to find it. Had known that Envy would be the one who came looking for it. Why else would they deliver it like that? It means there’s a purpose to it, and I highly doubt it’s to be helpful.

“You think it’s a lie?”

“I think that believing something at face value is what got us in this mess in the first place.” I grunt. “Let’s go, I’m fucking sick of the stench in this house.” The death cloaking us is more than just the corpse in the middle of the room. And unless an entire battalion of men lived here, it’s coming from more than the occupants. Whoever recently walked these halls is drowning in the dead. Enough that I can see it, and I’ve never had an affinity with the dead. I can’t imagine the agony it causes Envy. He maintains that easygoing facade too effortlessly these days.

Lazarus leads the way downstairs, taking the stairs carefully. “He’s struggling to speak to the dead. Waning power?” He readjusts Envy in his arms. By human standards, Envy is bigger than average. For us, he’s too small—more fragile than any of us—to contain the magic he holds. He looks smaller than usual with Lazarus carrying him bridal style.

“He’s been stuck at home too long. Hasn’t fed his sin nearly enough.” It’s not easy to feed, and there’s only place he’s ever found that can give him what he needs.

“We can’t send him away, not with everything going on.”

“Speak to Lust about it.” While Lazarus is right, we can’t help him. The burden of the dead falls on Envy alone. Unfortunately, the only way to feed Envy’s sin is to deprive it and give it no oxygen. The Odesa catacombs, near Ukraine, are the only place deep enough to give him his solace, where the dead don’t haunt him.

The hair on the back of my neck stands on end, and I stop halfway down the pathway to our car. A quick survey of the area doesn’t confirm the prickling suspicion. No one on the roofs, the entryways, other houses, or down either side of the street. No gawkers or bystanders. Not even a bird. We’re standing in a dead zone; Envy’s influence. So what am I feeling?

“What is it?” Lazarus asks, turning back. Envy murmurs something and twists his head, curling further into Lazarus’s chest, one fist clenching in his pale-green button-down shirt. Lazarus tightens his hold, keeping him secure, not one comment about his shirt getting wrinkled.

The sensation gets worse. An undercurrent of awareness. Someone is watching us. I may not be able to see anything, but I can feel it. Sparks light up my vision as lightning flickers in them. If they want a fight, I’ll gladly give it to them. All they have to do is show their face, and I’ll make their dreams come true.

“Gluttony?”

My fists clench. Come out and play, coward. It’s not the first time I’ve felt this recently, and I’m getting fucking sick and tired of having an observer that won’t reveal themselves.

“It’s nothing,” I say shortly. It’s not nothing. If they can’t feel it, it’s also not their problem. That means it’s directed at me. I’ll find out who’s watching us, and I’ll deal with it myself.

Are they waiting for us to leave, so they can poke around inside themselves? I don’t fucking think so.

Lightning erupts over the house, three perfect strikes that light a spark. The entire house goes up in flames in seconds. Not as effective, or as damaging, as Wrath’s flames, but it does the job. Either way, there’ll be nothing left but ash and rubble when it finishes burning.

There’s no one in this world now that can find a clue in that mess.