Page 55 of Sins of the Heart

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Each of them had felt Lokan’s death. In vivid, Technicolor detail.

So, in a way, Dagan was glad that his brother was

here—not because his back needed watching, but because it meant he could keep an eye on Alastor, be

certain he was safe.

He stepped deeper into the room, glancing about. A

used condom was draped over the back of the recliner,

and what looked like a pool of vomit had dried to a

crusty splotch on the floor.

“Lovely decor,” Alastor muttered, his fine sense of

aesthetic obviously insulted.

“Yeah.” Dagan shoved the paper lollipop stick into

his pocket. “Mortals leave such a disgusting mess.”

Alastor made an odd choked sound. “Bit of the pot

calling the kettle black?”

Unfamiliar with the reference to pots and kettles,

Dagan shrugged. Unlike Alastor, he hadn’t spent his

formative years in the world of mortals. He didn’t

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SINS OF THE HEART

understand all their idioms, and he wasn’t interested

enough to ask. He settled on a generic reply. “We’re not

here to admire the furniture.”

“Whyarewe here?”

Dagan glanced over his shoulder at his brother. In

the dim light, Alastor’s thick blond hair—a match to

his own—gleamed pale and bright. Alastor’s was

trimmed and styled to perfection, while Dagan’s hair

was long, past his shoulders, tied back at his nape with

a thin scrap of leather. Their features were almost identical, unless someone took care to look closely. Then

the differences became apparent. Dagan’s face was

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