It was midnight. Ivan had tracked the mark from his legal office in downtown Berlin to this ritzy underground parking garage boasting rubber flooring and a heated car wash.

"You've been stealing souls, psychopomp," Ivan hissed.

He clamped both hands to the man's bony shoulders and pressed his fingertips until he felt the silk business suit tear— and then flesh popped. Blood perfumed the air, meaty and more than a little inviting.

"Let go of me! Who the hell are you?"

Ivan dug in deeper. "I'm your worst nightmare."

"Ha! You don't know nightmares until you've vomited up the sins of murderers. You don't scare me."

How the idiot managed such lack of reason—so many of his marks acted equally as belligerent—never ceased to amaze Ivan. This psychopomp had been moonlighting as a sin eater. Simon Grimm had been stealing souls for years, and Himself wanted it stopped.

Grimm kicked, his leather loafer landing on Ivan's thigh. Though the man was as tall as Ivan, he was slender and wasn't designed for defense. Or self-preservation.

Slapping the guy hard across the cheek sent him reeling to the ground. He landed ten feet from where Ivan stood, but inches from the license plate of a black BMW claiming SHESMINE.

Giving his head a discombobulating shake, Grimm then spat out blood. "Let me guess, Himself sent you. Are you the devil's fixer? Shouldn't you be less GQ and more Demon's Quarterly?"

"You're stealing his souls," Ivan reiterated.

Stretching his left arm out pumped a bicep beneath the fitted Italian leather jacket. So he liked s