Darkness Devours

I frowned, but tried again. “Are you responsible for the deaths of five addicted vampires?”



Still nothing in the way of any discernible response. Frustrated, I glanced at Azriel, but he merely shrugged. “As I have said before, I am neither able nor allowed to communicate with the lost ones.”



Which left us with little more than we’d already had. I glanced around the metal emptiness of the room, trying not to visualize how they’d all died, then spun on my heel and walked out. To say Amaya was unhappy with this was another one of those understatements. And her pissed-off hissing was giving me a damn headache.



As the door slammed shut behind me and the sound echoed down the long hall, I said to Marshall, “I suggest you stop using that room. It wouldn’t be wise to introduce any more anger into it.”



“It’s not like I planned such deaths,” he said. My instinct said it was another lie. “But even if I had, what the hell do any of us have to fear from ghosts? They’re not likely to be the cause of our current troubles, given that they have no flesh, let alone teeth.”



“They may not be responsible,” Azriel said, before I could reply, “but the depth of their anger and grief is certainly enough to attract other entities.”



As Marshall’s gaze swept Azriel, it narrowed a little. Trying to read him, I thought, and knew he’d have more luck trying to read the metal walls around us. After a moment, he must have realized this himself, for he said, “What other sorts of entities might we be talking about? Demons?”



“That is always possible, given what is going on elsewhere,” Azriel replied. “But we should not limit our search to just demons. There are spirits more than capable of this type of kill. Wendigos and Rakshasa would be two of them.”



“Rakshasa? I’ve never heard of them,” Marshall said.



Neither had I, but I wasn’t about to mention that.



Azriel glanced at me, amusement briefly creasing the corners of his eyes. “Rakshasa are unrighteous spirits—always female—able to take on various physical forms. Like Wendigos, they are malevolent and cannibalistic, and their fingernails are venomous.”



“Well, both of those certainly fit what’s happened to our victims.” I crossed my arms and tried to ignore the rising sense of dread. I really, really didn’t want to face a spirit that could take on human form and eat me, but I had a growing suspicion that such a confrontation lay in my future. “How do we go about catching and killing this thing, whatever it is?”



“It has found the perfect hunting ground in this place,” Azriel said. “It will be back.”



“Unfortunately, it’s not exactly a place I can hang around very easily.”



“In flesh form, no,” Azriel agreed. “But you have other options.”



Options I wasn’t going to discuss with Marshall earwigging. I glanced at my watch and grimaced. It was nearly four. I had to be at the café in two hours—so much for my relaxing afternoon. “We need to check out the home of the last vamp who died before I have to go to work.”



“Meaning I can open the feeding rooms now?” Marshall asked.



I studied him distastefully, wondering why nature had paired an uncaring heart with such a merry countenance. But I guess that could be said about a lot of successful businessmen, and that’s all Marshall was. And the people who had died were nothing more than stock. “Yeah,” I said, my voice barely civil. “Just not this one.”



He didn’t look pleased, but I guessed if he feared Hunter enough, he’d obey. And if not, he’d open the room again once I left, and bugger the consequences.



“Excellent,” was all he said.



He motioned us toward the elevator. It bounced us up to the lower ground floor and we stepped once more into the stinking morass of needy vampires.



I crossed my arms and followed Marshall through the darkness. The flickering light of the two swords cast eerie shadows across the gaunt faces of the nearest vampires, and it was all I could do to keep walking at a steady pace.



It was a huge relief to reenter the little foyer and watch the double doors close securely behind us.



“We’ll be in contact if we need anything else,” I said, clasping Marshall’s offered hand. This time his grip was much stronger. “What was the name of the last victim, by the way?”



Hunter may have sent me his name and address, but it never hurt to double-check. She liked her games.



Marshall seemed amused, and I suspected its cause was Hunter’s aversion to information giving. Obviously, he was well acquainted with it. “Jake Green. What about the ghosts?”



I shrugged. “I’ll tell Hunter. She’ll probably know someone who can disperse them for you.”



Which wouldn’t solve anything if he just kept on creating more of them, but that really wasn’t my problem right now.



Although it might be in the future.



Azriel touched a hand lightly to my back, guiding me out the front door and into the black and red hall. Valdis gave me enough light to see by, although her flames still held a tinge of red. Thankfully, Amaya had calmed somewhat, though I think it was going to take hospital-strength painkillers to get rid of the headache she’d given me. To be fair, though, that could just as much have been caused by the situation we’d been in as by her song.



“Where to next?” Azriel asked, as he began climbing the steps.



The street-level door opened as we approached and the sudden rush of sunlight had me blinking back tears. “According to Hunter, Jake Green lived about five minutes away, on Little Miller Street. Flat one-twelve. I’ll meet you there.” I looked around, wondering where the Cazador was.



“He awaits near your motorbike,” Azriel said and winked out of existence.



I grimaced and made my way back to my bike. It was tempting to look around to see if I could pinpoint our shadow’s position, but that might only give the game away. He might be invisible, but I doubted he was dumb. I climbed onto my bike and rode across to Little Miller Street.



It turned out Green’s flat wasn’t actually a flat, but an old redbrick warehouse that had been turned into accommodations for the homeless. I studied the building for a moment, then turned the bike around and parked farther down the street, near another—cleaner—factory. Maybe I was doing the homeless a great injustice, but I’d rather be safe than sorry when it came to my bike. 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 front of 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 cheery wave, 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.