Darkness Devours by Keri Arthur

Azriel was waiting out in the front. I opened the somewhat grubby-looking door and stepped into the carpeted foyer. Inside were two people; the woman behind the desk was tall, thin, and blond, and she looked somewhat harassed. The man standing in frontof the desk was older, grimier, and smelled of dirt, urine, and booze. And he didn’t sound happy—although it was hard to say since he wasn’t actually speaking English.
    The woman’s gaze landed on us. “I don’t suppose either of you speak German, do you? I only know a couple of phrases.”
    I shook my head, but Azriel stepped forward and touched the man on the shoulder. He said something in the same guttural tones that the man was using, got a reply, then turned to the woman. “His name is Hans Klein and he is seeking accommodation for the night. He has fourteen dollars.”
    As Azriel said this, Hans dumped his money on the counter. It was grubbier than he was. The blonde didn’t bat an eyelid—she was obviously used to it. “Could you explain that he has to fill out these forms? Can he write?”
    Azriel asked, then nodded and said, “We are here to view room one-twelve.”
    “Jake Green’s room?” Her gaze came to me. “Are you Risa Jones? If you are, we were told to expect you.”
    Obviously, Hunter had been in contact with her. Either that, or she was psychic. I showed her my driver’s license and, once she’d checked it, she put a key on the desk. “Up the stairs, second to last door on the right.”
    “Thanks.” I swept up the key and headed for the stairs. The hall above was basic but clean, and I suspected the same would apply to the rooms themselves. But to the homeless, basic was probably like five-star to us. I glanced at Azriel. “How come you know German?”
    “Reapers do not only collect English-speaking souls.”
    “I know, but isn’t it against the rules for reapers to communicate with the souls they collect?”
    “There is no rule against it, but generally most souls have no desire to speak. However, there are always one or two who like to talk.” His amusement crinkled the corners of his eyes. “You would be one of them, I think.”
    “Are you suggesting I talk too much?”
    “I would never suggest anything like that,” he said, the gravity in his voice belied by the twinkle in his eyes, “even if it is true.”
    I laughed, though the sound died on my lips as the smell of death began to invade the air. I stopped in front of room one-twelve, staring at the police tape that barred our entrance. Even though I wasn’t squeamish, I really didn’t want to go in there. I’d been in the presence of death far too much today.
    “I can view it alone, if you prefer,” Azriel said.
    I shook my head. “The Directorate sets up mobile recording units at crime scenes. Hunter will know if I don’t go in there.”
    “But this is not a Directorate investigation.”
    “Not officially, but that doesn’t mean she won’t follow protocol when it comes to keeping a record of everything—and everyone—that goes in or out of that room.” Even if no one else ever saw the recordings.
    I opened the door, then ducked under the tape. A soft whirring greeted my appearance, and I looked up to see the black, oval-shaped recording device hovering about a foot or so above our heads. I gave it a cheerywave, showed it my driver’s license, then turned my attention to the room.
    And I really wished I hadn’t.
    The room itself was basic—a bed, a dresser, an old TV, and a small bathroom that contained all the necessary facilities—shower, basin, and toilet.
    But the walls were smeared with dried blood, and there were recent stains on the brown carpet—stains that hinted at human body parts. One was in the shape of a leg, another a foot, then part of an arm, and god knows what else. Thankfully, all the bits had been gathered up and, from the smell, now lay under plastic sheeting on the bed. Oddly enough, I couldn’t smell putrefaction, just death and