About the story

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 A beautiful boy with a floral backpack crossed the threshold.

“Is this Complaints?”

The Invigilator let her spectacles slide down her nose. Not to look intimidating, although that was a useful side effect, but to sample the view more clearly. Muscles, check. A good jaw with sexy stubble, check. Sparkling eyes, check.

The Invigilator sighed. This wouldn’t be one of hers. Even though her office had an unmarked door and was buried in the secure area surrounded by janitorial storage, tourists somehow still found it. And tourists were not her business. 

“I think you’re in the wrong place, sir. What’s the problem?” 

The young man slapped a franchise agreement on the desk. It looked legit. It had all the right stamps and the sacrificial fees were up to date. 

“This airport is my territory, bought and paid for, and now someone is poaching. It’s totally unacceptable. You have to do something.” 

The Invigilator turned to a new page in the Complaints Register and wrote the date at the top with a sharp, blood-stained fingernail. 

“Name? Occupation?”

“Hamish. I’m a Soul Eater.”

“Sin Eater?”

“Gods forbid. No, Soul Eater.”

“Never heard of it. What do you do exactly?”

“It’s a great gig. People have a lot of time on their hands in an airport. They worry, they feel sorrow, regret, the pain of parting. And there’s temptation on every side. All those pretty spring dresses down on the concourse, and the lovely flesh inside them.” 

The Invigilator looked at her watch. The boy took the hint and got to the point. 

“Places like this, people forget to guard their souls. I can snack all day. It’s a fresh and luscious al fresco feast.” 

The Invigilator cleared her throat.

“Except for politicians, of course,” said the Soul Eater. "The business lounge isn't healthy."

He frowned. A bad taste in his mouth, presumably.

“Anyway, I’ve worked all morning, and look!”

He opened the backpack for inspection. It was empty.

“Nothing! I’ve been robbed. All my luscious little golden balls, gone!”

That was an interesting way to visualise souls. The Invigilator leaned back in her chair.

“I’ll pass your complaint on to Commercial Disputes. That’s all I can do.”

“That’s it?”

“Sorry. But drop by any time. I’d love to chat. About lust.”

She smiled. The boy bolted as if the Devil was after him. They always did. She had no idea why.

The door slammed open to admit an officious young woman flashing a Quota Enforcer badge.

“Good morning, ma’am. There’s an over-harvesting problem right here in your airport. I’ve had to spend the whole morning restoring stolen souls. It’s totally unacceptable. You have to do something.” 

The Invigilator sighed and  turned to  new page in the register. It was going to be one of those days.