Darkness Devours (Dark Angels 3)

He nodded, caught my hand, and tugged me toward him again. We reappeared in what looked like some sort of rumpus room. It ran the width of the house and was very shadowed, thanks to the fact that all the blinds had been pulled down. A large TV and several sofas dominated one end, while on the other, there was a Ping-Pong table, and on the wall a much-used dartboard. The faint aroma of toast lingered in the air, but there was no kitchen in this room, so it was obviously drifting down from somewhere else. But there was something else underneath that scent—something odd and unpleasant.

Frowning, I pulled away from Azriel again and somewhat cautiously stepped toward a door that led into a short corridor. My legs didn’t wobble, but that one step still had a somewhat disastrous effect—it set off an alarm, the sound shrill and ear-piercing.

“Fuck,” I said, running into the corridor and hoping like hell it led to the front door. “I didn’t even think of the place being alarmed.”

“You wish to leave?” Azriel said, his footsteps silent as he followed me.

“No, I wish to turn the damn alarm off.”

Immediately ahead were stairs leading upward, but the corridor made a sharp turn to the right and, as I’d hoped, led to the front door. And right beside it was the alarm control box. It was very old technology, but it still featured a handprint scanner and that was something I couldn’t get around. So I did the next best thing—drew Amaya and shoved her sharp point into the heart of the box. The box exploded spectacularly, throwing sparks everywhere, but at least it shut the damn alarm off.

Although it still seemed to be sounding in my head.

“Right,” I said, sheathing Amaya and looking around. I couldn’t see any cameras—one thing to be thankful for, I supposed—and I doubted they’d be hidden, given both the age of the house and the alarm. Hiding them would be more trouble than the old house was worth—it was the land that was the prize with this place. “We probably have five to ten minutes to look around before either security or the police arrive.”

“Then we had better proceed with our search.”

Azriel stepped aside and let me lead. I walked into the first bedroom, my footsteps echoing on the polished boards, the sound beating in time to the pounding in my head. The room, small but neat, contained little more than a double bed and a chest of drawers. The other three bedrooms were much the same, and the bathroom possessed a double shower and a sink. There was no sign of everyday use in any of the rooms, which meant that if our fake Nadler lived here full-time, he had to be doing so upstairs.

We went up to the next floor. And there, in the living room, discovered the source of that strange scent.

It was a body.

Nadler’s body, to be precise.

“Well,” I said, frustration heavy in my voice, “this fucks everything up.”

I stopped near Nadler and stared at him grimly. He lay on the floor in front of the large, L-shaped leather sofa, and he was on his side, his knees tucked up toward his chest and his arms crossed. The pose was childlike, and there was an almost serene expression frozen onto his face—as if this death was one he’d welcomed. There was no blood, no apparent trauma on his body, nothing to indicate how he’d died—although his skin was extremely pale and looked decidedly strange. Almost like meat that had been left in a freezer for too long. My gaze drifted to his feet—they were bare, and on one leg I saw the faded remnants of a scar. This was the real Nadler, if what Jacinta had told us was true—in death, a face-shifter couldn’t hold on to any physical alterations he might have made in life.

Somewhat reluctantly, I stepped forward and touched him. His skin was cold—almost icy—and his muscles taut. It had to be rigor mortis, which meant he’d been dead for at least twelve hours.

“This death is nowhere near that fresh,” Azriel said, voice grim as he knelt beside Nadler.

I frowned. “If it was a lot older, he’d be smelling more than he is.”

“Yes, but the natural decomposition process has somehow been restricted.”

Being stuck in a freezer would do that—and it would also explain his icy skin and the freezer-burn look. I looked over at the open-plan kitchen. There was a refrigerator-freezer at the end of the counter, but the freezer section wasn’t anywhere near large enough to hold a body—even one curled up like Nadler was.

Azriel added, “His soul does not linger in this room.”

Good. I’d really had enough of ghosts for the moment. “Meaning he died when he was meant to?”

Azriel shrugged. “That is hard to say. Just because his soul isn’t here doesn’t mean this death was written. Souls tend to haunt the place where death found them—if Nadler was not killed here, then his soul would not be here.”

I frowned. “Can you read the last moments of his life?”

He shook his head. “As I said, this is not a fresh death. Memories do not linger for more than a day once the flesh is dead.”

That they lingered at all was amazing. “Then is there any way you can tell how long ago he was killed?”

“Reapers escort souls. We do not analyze the method of their deaths.”

I crossed my arms and leaned a hip against the high back of the sofa. My muscles were still quivery, and even that minor bit of support felt good. “Yeah, but you hunt and kill demons who prey on humanity and destroy said souls—surely that has given you some knowledge of when a death might have occurred.”

“Sometimes, yes. In this case, no. His body composition is not usual.”

If he wasn’t fully thawed, then I guess it would seem unusual. “If his death is a lot older than a day, it means he was probably already dead when both the secretary and the photographer were murdered.”