The Soul Stealer. Alex Archer

would be my impression, yes,” he replied.

      “What—did she get bored with heaven or Olympus or wherever else she was hanging out?”

      “She was kicked out of heaven, actually,” Bob said. “By her husband, of all things.”

      Annja grinned. “One step forward for women’s rights.”

      “Her husband, Ec—”

      “His name was Ec?” Annja chuckled. “I would have left, too.”

      Bob shook his head. “Don’t trivialize it. Ec banished her for being unfaithful to him. She liked to cavort with a lot of the lesser deities and sometimes even mortals.”

      “Okay,” Annja said.

      “She has another name, as well,” Bob said, leading them into the nearby café.

      A wall of heat slammed into Annja as she walked through the door. She could smell burned coffee and some other scents she didn’t recognize. Despite her unease with the entire situation, her mouth watered and she realized she was ravenous.

      “What’s her other name?” Annja asked, distracted.

      “Eater of souls,” Bob said quietly.

      “Sounds like a fun gal,” Annja said. “What did she do to get a name like that?”

      Gregor set down three cups of coffee in front of them. He spoke to the woman behind the counter, who nodded and began preparing something for them to eat.

      Bob sipped his coffee. “Before she was kicked out of heaven, Ec had her fitted with something called a brank.”

      “I’ve heard of that,” Annja said. “Some kind of torture device, right?”

      “It’s a metal insert, actually,” Bob said. “It gets placed in the mouth of the victim, and a special hood goes over the head to keep the brank in place. It was used on women who spoke too much, but Ec apparently used it to keep his ex-wife from eating anything, figuring she would eventually wither away.”

      “Ec sounds like a real charmer.” Annja sipped her coffee as fresh sounds streamed from the kitchen behind the counter. Whatever Gregor had requested, it seemed to be something special.

      “When Khosadam couldn’t eat in the normal mortal way, she had to resort to other methods to retain her vitality,” Bob continued.

      Annja looked at him. “Is this where the soul-eater part comes in?”

      “Yes. Khosadam took to perching herself over fresh graves. When the soul of the departed rose toward heaven, she would ingest it.”

      “How?”

      “The method is supposed to have been something like sniffing it up through her nose. Doing anything with her mouth would have been too painful for her to endure.”

      “Nice picture.” Annja glanced at Gregor, who seemed to be paying rapt attention to Bob. “This is the thing the village thinks is stalking them?”

      “Yes,” Gregor said.

      “A six-toed deity who has been kicked out of heaven.”

      The Russian shrugged. “I did not make this up, Annja. This is what they think. To them, it is painfully real.”

      Annja turned to Bob. “Does the legend say anything about six toes?”

      Bob nodded. “Khosadam grew the extra toe to help her grip the tombstones of those she would eventually dine off of.”

      “Interesting.” Annja watched the door to the kitchen burst open, and an old woman came out with a tray of bowls. She placed the tray in front of them and nodded toward Gregor, who thanked her.

      Annja sniffed. “Smells…interesting.”

      Gregor pointed at the bowls. “Borscht. Most people in the West are familiar with it.”

      “Beets, right?” Annja asked.

      “Yes.”

      Annja helped herself to a spoonful and found it surprisingly good, despite the deep red color that she didn’t much like. It warmed her as she ate more of it. Gregor finished his bowl quickly, but Bob’s sat untouched.

      “I hate beets,” he said. “A leftover from my childhood when my mother made me eat the things at a small orange table in the corner of my kitchen.”

      Annja cocked an eyebrow. “You may want to have an extended talk with your therapist about that one, Bob.”

      “I already have. It’s taking me a while longer to work through it.”

      The old woman cleared the soup bowls and cast a disapproving glance at Bob. She brought out another tray and Annja took a whiff.

      “Wow,” she said, her mouth watering.

      Gregor nodded at the plates. “Mashed potatoes and goulash.”

      “What’s in the goulash?” Bob asked.

      “Green peppers and roasted lamb, it would appear.”

      Annja helped herself to a heaping spoonful. “This is delicious.”

      Gregor translated and the old woman beamed at her. Then she cast another glance at Bob, who seemed to be picking his way through the green peppers. He saw the old woman’s gaze and immediately took a big spoonful, chewing and smiling at the same time.

      Her gaze softened, but only just. She left and Gregor leaned close to Bob. “I don’t think she likes you.”

      “How is it,” Annja said, “that a globe-trotting guy like you doesn’t seem to like vegetables that much?”

      “I like vegetables fine,” Bob said. “Just not cooked ones.”

      “You must be putting your therapist’s kids through school,” Annja said. She dug back into her dish and washed down the spoonfuls with more thick coffee.

      Gregor tore through his plate and leaned back. “This place is still run by the same woman who ran it when I was with the military. We came through here on exercise and she served my entire platoon. Her food, it is still as good as it ever was.”

      “She remembers you?” Annja asked.

      Gregor nodded. “Yes.”

      The old woman returned and rested a hand on Gregor’s shoulder. She spoke, her Russian thick around the false teeth she wore. Gregor smiled and seemed to almost blush. Annja smiled at the thought of such a big, tough guy blushing.

      “What is she saying?” Annja asked.

      Bob was smiling, too. “She says he is like her son. That when he came through many years ago, he helped her rescue her kitten from the roof when it got stuck. She says a man like Gregor is tough and gentle at the same time.”

      Gregor said something else to the old woman, who kissed him on the forehead and then gathered up the dishes.

      “What did you say to her?” Annja asked.

      “I told her that if this ever reached my friends, they would never let me live it down. I would be embarrassed.”

      “You’re a big softie after all,” Annja said.

      Gregor shrugged. “Only when I have to be.”

      The old woman returned and this time served them a dark tea and plates of what looked like fruit slices.

       “Kissel,” Gregor said. “It is stewed fruit.”

      Annja popped a slice into her mouth and chewed, relishing the sweetness of the apricot slice she’d eaten. The tea reminded her of a dark black leaf tea she’d had once in China. “This was some lunch,” she said.

      Gregor smiled. “She loves to cook.”

      “But back