Page 44 of Finders Reapers

“You don’t really see Drudes around anymore. Most of the ones in Hell were eaten by something called thedevouring beasts. The ones that survived aren’t quite right anymore. They’re something else entirely. True Drudes are almost extinct. Reapers tend to stay out of Cyclian politics.” Rome explained, brushing his dark hair out of his eyes. “We should drop this guy off at HQ.” He continued, gesturing towards the drifting soul that had somehow wandered towards the cart-park area and was standing waist-deep in a row of carts.

Color drifted back into the world as if someone had upped my saturation on my eyesight.

“Let’s put your clothes in the Camaro,” Rome suggested. “We can pick them up later.”

I had no idea how Rome remembered the guttural, complicated Cyclian words that made up the spell to open a doorway to HQ, but we passed through the doorway to the disabled stall in the Target bathrooms and came out the other side in the pristine white and chrome office in the desert.

Sasha spotted Rome, and a smile took up her entire face. I couldn’t deny that she was beautiful, in the same jagged way that Rome was. Sasha spared me a single glance before sniffing, tilting her nose in the air, and turning away abruptly.

I didn’t know Rome well, but he tensed as she greeted him in Russian. Sasha appeared to rapid-fire questions at him, but Rome said barely a word. He responded with simple grunts and the occasional ‘Da’ or ‘Nyet.’

I felt a little bit smug that Rome had actually talked to me when he seemed to tolerate her—though, at that moment, I was ignored as they chatted.

I crossed my arms over my chest, with only the soul from the target parking lot for company. Awkward. The poor guy hadn’t said a word, and I understood what Rome had meant when he had referred to souls as Wisps. Emotionless, blank, and translucent—echoes of the people they were.

After waiting ten minutes for Sasha or Rome to pay attention, I decided to lead Car-guy to the conference room at the end of the hall, the third door on the left, as I remembered it. I knocked once and ushered him to his seat.

Charon wasn’t there, but the conference room was filling up, and I had no doubt the Ferryman was about to begin his ‘Welcome to death’speech.

When I came back to the reception, Sasha handed Rome his keys. “I wish we could go for a ride.” She sighed. “You need to visit me more.” Sasha made sure to shoot a pointed look my way.

“Maybe.” Rome hedged as he took the keys from her hand.

Sasha didn’t want to let go, but she released her fist after a moment and blew Rome a kiss as he turned away.

“Are we taking the Mustang?” I asked as Rome strode to the massive glass doors that led to the desert outside.

He grunted but didn’t confirm yes or no. I followed on his heels, squinting against the intense sunlight as we stepped onto the cracked asphalt.

“She likes you,” I told him.

Rome ignored me.

“Sasha. The receptionist,” I clarified.

He quirked a brow as he unlocked the car. I was sure to follow, just in case, he chose to leave me behind.

“Don’t want to talk about it?” I surmised. “What did she mean that she wished you could take her for a ride? I can take a doorway. You could ride back to Las Vegas with her if you wanted to.”

Rome scoffed. “Sasha is a... What is the English word for it? A poker-ghost?”

“Poltergeist?” I frowned.

“That is the one.” He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “She is a spirit but can touch things. She cannot leave the office.”

“Oh. Wow.” My eyes widened. “Why is that? Is the office special? Is it built on an ancient Native American burial ground or something?” I joked.

Rome eyed me as if I had lost my mind. “Crossroads between Hell, Heaven and Here.” He said as if that was an explanation. “Maybe you should take a nap.” He suggested. “It’s a long drive back to the Bellagio.”

“Uh-huh,” I murmured as I turned towards the window.

Rome started the Mustang and turned on the AC.

“So,” I began, elongating the word. “How did you die?”

Rome clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth again, but he did not answer my question.

“How long have you known Sasha?” I continued, changing tact. “Was she Russian too?”

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