by Danae Ayusso
Repossessors of Souls
Danae Ayusso
Copyright © 2013 Danae Ayusso All Rights Reserved
Published by Geeks on Ink Publishing
This story is copyrighted and property rights of Danae Ayusso. This is for personal entertainment use only, any reselling, redistribution or online publishing is strictly prohibited by law. This story may not be reproduced, distributed, modified or reposted to other websites.
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Stand License Statement
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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All characters and situations are fictional. Any similarities to an actual person or persons and situations are purely coincidental and rather impressive.
Due to the wide variety of genres that I write, and my broad fan base, I categorize each book/series/collection with a rating to prevent my younger audience from accidentally purchasing a book that isn’t appropriate for their age group.
BOOK RATING:
ADULT URBAN FANTASY/ACTON-ADVENTURE/ROMANCE
**Adult situations, content, sexual content and language**
For more information about the series and the author please check out
www.danaeayusso.com
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The rain came down in sheets of gray, reducing visibility to mere feet. The dirty sidewalks turned into black oil slicks, and the light from the overhead lampposts painted rainbows across the oily surfaces. People hurried down the streets, their umbrellas creating a canopy of colors when seen from above, but offered very little protection from the downpour.
At the end of the block, a man rounded the corner in a full run. Pushing and shoving his way through the crowd, the incessant complaints left behind him did very little to slow him. In and out of traffic and parked cars he ran, trying to outdistance the shadow giving chase. A taxi couldn’t stop in time on the wet asphalt and slammed into the man, sending his body up onto the hood, his shoulder embedding itself in the windshield.
But even that wouldn’t stop him.
Bloody and broken, the man staggered to his feet, his head snapping from side to side, looking for the shadow, as he retreated away from the accident and gathering crowd. Then, through the rain he saw him, a man standing as still as death: burning amber and black eyes, shirtless, tan muscular body covered in delicate tattooed script, barefooted though his feet didn’t touch the ground, and black canvas pants that were dry despite the rain. The hustling crowd unconsciously moved around the still figure, seemingly not even seeing him. Determination burned in his eyes, his face was slated as expressionless as the stone it appeared to be carved from, and the wounded man knew that he hadn’t a chance.
“No!” he yelled, and started backing away down an alley, limping and bleeding as he went. He moved in sluggish circles as he walked, looking above him and all around, always returning his attention towards the sidewalk and the man watching him from across the street.
A bus passed by, its horn blared, causing the retreating man to jump, startled. When it cleared, the amber-eyed man was gone.
“No! Please God, no,” he stammered.
The lights adorning the buildings on either side of him started to flicker on and off; the sound of their bulbs humming filled the sudden silence, acting as the perfect accompaniment to his racing heart. Deeper he retreated down the alley, his feet splashing through puddles and his heels catching on empty wooden crates and piles of trash as he went. His tear-filled eyes scanned the sky, but they always returned to the mouth of the alley. Every time someone hurried past, he jumped, relief instantly washing over him for a brief moment.
Then, an all too familiar sound pulled his attention to the sky; the flapping of wings, the unmistakable thrum made when they started their descent.
“Please, God, no,” he pleaded, looking back to the mouth of the alley, and he jumped, startled.
The barefooted man stood there, motionless, staring at the trembling man.
Slowly shadows started creeping along the walls and asphalt, stretching out towards him. The shadows started to take shape, long adumbral wings that reached out towards him.
“No!” he yelled and turned to run, turning into the barefooted man that was suddenly behind him. “Please,” he whispered. “I can pay, I swear it.”
Slowly the expressionless man raised his arm up, the light catching on the brass cuff bracelet adorning his wrist. When he opened his hand, a black rosary spilled from his grasps, the red and black cross at the end swung back and forth like a metronome keeping time.
“Please no,” the bleeding man stammered.
The barefoot man mumbled under his breath in a deep raspy voice, “Da, quaesumus Dominus, ut in hora mortis nostrae Sacramentis refecti et culpis omnibus expiati, in sinum misericordiae tuae laeti suscipi mereamur. Per Christum Dominum nostrum.”
The trembling man stood there wide eyed, mouth gaping open, his attention going between the angelic blade suddenly sticking out of his chest and the angel’s hand wrapped around its hilt.
“Amen,” the barefooted angel whispered and the area was shrouded in silence. The glowing of the man’s soul illuminated the darkness as if it were day, flowing from his broken body to the glowing eyes of the angel in front of him.
When the light extinguished, the sword disappeared and the body dropped to the ground. The angel watched as one of the thin lines of tattooed script wrapping around his chest started to glow gold then white, confirming the soul was successfully repossessed. When the script faded to faint, barely visible to the naked eye, tan, the angel turned from the body and started down the alley, leaving the rapidly burning vessel and the stench of death and sulfur behind him, and the angel’s form disappeared in the rain.
Fall in New York City.
The colors, the smells, that quiet and peaceful moment that welcomed all of the holiday hoopla, sales, pretty sparkling lights, and goodwill towards man—in the human spectrum, called Eden, of NYC. The immortal side, called Edom, celebrated as well, but it wasn’t the birth of Jesus they were celebrating...he wasn’t cool enough to warrant a holiday. It was the turning of the seasons that deserved to be celebrated in Eden. To anyone that once called Heaven or Hell home, the changing of the seasons was something to be celebrated; Heaven and Hell were constant and never changed. My best friend once described the snow as being a visual orgasm without the sexual stimuli! That was a mental picture that I could have lived without, but that was why I loved him.
There was no better place to be than in the city that never sleeps. The shopping was to die for; the food, oh holy hell the food was the greatest thing since sex and designer shoes... I loved shoes. I really needed to hit up that sale at Saks tomorrow.
Maybe I can slip Ornias a Benjamin to get a sneak peek tonight. I should call him.
Yeah, I think I’ll do that after I close out this appointment.
When I stepped out from the massive maples lining Central Park, I shook my long hair out, and pulled my fingers through it so I could see how it looked in the sun. Another reason why I loved the Fall; my hair looked amazing with autumn colors: dark blonde with honey and gold highlights. The way the sun reflected off of each strand made it appear as if I had a head full of loose, curling satin ribbons, and I looked amazing in earth tones. Not every demon could
pull off blonde hair and look this damn good.
Okay, stop admiring yourself so you can get this over with and go shopping.
That was a novel idea.
It's now or never.
“Lahash,” I called out, and instantly the man I’d been following stopped in mid-step. Quickly my long legs started closing the distance between me and the nervous Fallen. “We need to talk,” I informed him, trying to prevent what I knew he was about to do.
Slowly he turned and looked at me over his shoulder, his solid violet eyes darkening as they burned into mine. “Go to Hell,” he snarled then took off running.
Damn it. Why do they always have to run?
I took off after him, moving in and out of the crowd as I went.
“You are only making this harder on yourself,” I warned—I really needed to learn to keep my damn mouth shut and just take what I came for. My shrink would say that I was in need of ‘non-intimate’ contact, but that was just the opinion of one overly priced professional.
The Fallen started to lose ground, and resorted to knocking over newsstands and hotdog carts as he went. I jumped over them, landing on the balls of my feet, careful not to break a heel in the process. As I passed the stunned onlookers, some spit at me, others ran the opposite direction—obviously they were on the list—and a few yelled and called me every name in the book.
I loved being popular.
Lahash pivoted, ducking between two parked taxis, and hurried across the busy street, trying to double back towards Central Park. Cars, taxis and a bus slammed on their breaks, narrowly missing the stumbling Fallen. I stood on the sidewalk with my hands on my hips, shaking my head in disappointment at his anything but impressive attempt at evasion.
“Stupid men,” I huffed under my breath as my black feathery wings unfolded from behind me. With a single flap, I was propelled into the air, high over the street and traffic, and over the set of stairs he was hurrying down. I landed in front of the Fallen just as he reached the bottom of the stairs, and he skidded to a stop, nearly smashing into me.
“Hello, Lahash,” I said, smiling warmly, and my long, slender hand wrapped around his throat in a blur of movement, and effortlessly picked him up off of his feet.
“Please,” he gasped then whimpered, and tried to pry my vice-like grip from his throat. "Just a little more time, that’s all I need. I swear it. I just need a little more time.”
My wings pulled up high behind me, readying to take flight if needed, and the crowd that had gathered backed up. Since the only threat there was me, I folded my wings away a looked over the pathetic Fallen in my grasp. “You know the rules. You signed the agreement, not me. Why should I take your death into myself?”
It was a rhetorical question.
“I have a family," Lahash offered.
They always played the ‘family’ card; the ‘I just got married’ card; the ‘I’m all they have’ card.
Seriously, I had heard them all before.
“Then you should have told them goodbye when you were given notice,” I said as if it, because it really was, inconsequential.
His fist slammed into the side of my face, and my head snapped to the side to absorb the blow—someone wanted their ass kicked and hard. When my head snapped back towards him, his complexion blanched.
“I was going to be nice about this, but now you’ve pissed me off,” I snarled, and my wings unfolded again, their impressive expanse stretching high into the air causing gasps from those watching.
Two gunshots tore through the aria of NYC, sending pigeons and doves into the air in a flurry of feathers. Thin tendril of gray smoke rose from behind Lahash, and the onlookers shook their heads in disgust. Mothers covered their children’s eyes and mumbled words like whore, slut, and bitch. I guess those words would have applied if I were still in the dark period of my life, but I was in therapy two times a week to work that shit out.
Haters, a demon can never catch a break.
My wings folded away, now that we were done measuring demonic cocks, in essence, and I watched as Lahash’s chest started to glow. Bright light of pure energy traveled from his still heart and up his throat, and out through my hand. My tan skin illuminated from the inside out, and I followed the path of the glowing energy as it rolled up my arm, eventually dissipating in my chest. I dropped the lifeless Fallen to the ground, and holstered my demonic silver and black gun: Persuader.
Ignoring the group of onlookers mumbling about what a low life piece of shit I was, I pulled my blouse up on the side and looked at the delicate tattooing along the right side of my abdomen; the last dark tan line of delicate tattooed script illuminated, glowing black and red, confirming that the soul was successfully repossessed. The glowing script faded to faint tan like the others adorning my side, so I released the handful of silk and dropped the Fallen to the ground, his body turning to ash where it fell. I stepped over him, leaving a swirling wake of ashy powder behind me as I went.
The wind would spread his ashes so my job was done. Some repo men saw it as a symbolism for life or some shit. Personally, I didn’t give a flying fuck in the wind—that totally worked in that particular context—and just made it a point to not be downwind; ash in the hair was a bitch to get out.
Lahash was my last appointment for that particular batch. Now I could go back to the Hub, deposit the package, get paid, and get some pie and shoes.
Being a repo man, well in this case, super hot repo woman—my therapist hinted that I might suffer from delusions of self-grandeur and that I should work on that, but was just one professional’s opinion and not at all reflective of mine—wasn’t as bad as people thought. Sure it sucked that you’re viewed as an evil asshole that was only out to take someone’s soul, which you are, but no one ever took into consideration that the soul being repoed was signed over in a contract for whatever reason and because of their lack of payment, they were up for repossession. Just like in Eden when you don’t pay for your damn car, some asshole in a truck repos your car. Same premise, only much more severe; you can’t live without a soul.
On one level, I could relate and understand where they were coming from; as a repo man you got paid bank for repoing souls. However, if you failed to collect all of your appointments in your batch, or if you repo a soul that wasn’t actually up for repo—clerical errors didn’t happen according to Upper Management—you forfeit your soul. It wasn’t always like that, but back in the late nineteenth century, times got tough in both spectrums and every asshole immortal became repo men and started repoing souls that weren’t contractually claimed and it costs tens, if not hundreds, of thousands their lives. After that cluster fuck of stupidity, repo men had to go through training, get licensed, maintain your credentials, and sign a No repoing unless contractually claimed and assigned by Upper Management contract. In a nutshell, you repo what wasn’t actually up for repo, you forfeited your soul for theirs. It sucked, but if you did the job how you’re supposed to do it, you didn’t have to worry about the legalities and the potential loss of your soul. Because it was a high-risk profession, repo men got paid good money doing what they did because there weren’t that many of us around anymore—we tended to have big targets on us because of our line of work.
Honestly, to me it seemed like a win-win. Have you seen how much a pair of Jimmy Choos cost? It was highway robbery! And to think that they called me a goddamn demon! It was hypocritical on so many levels.
But what could I do? Some people were addicted to drugs, and I was addicted to shoes and pie...it could have been worse.
When I started across Bethesda Terrace, I felt the need to stop and take a moment. With a heavy sigh, I leaned against the stone railing and looked at the Angel of the Waters Fountain. There was something beautiful about the bronze fountain, even though it was a stupid angel, and I had envisioned myself as the woman ever since it was unveiled in eighteen-seventy-three. Sadly, demons were never represented by beauty and splendor for the masses to find solace in; like the children r
unning around the base laughing and trying to splash each other; the couple hugging, rocking back and forth to the song of love playing in their hearts; the creepy barefooted dude without the shirt on...who didn’t actually need one because he had a nice body and was looking up at me as if he knew I was checking him out; or the old couple feeding pigeons on the bench within view of the angel’s face.
No, demons were depicted as horrible creatures that are grotesque and only worthy of a quick and painful death by angelic blade. The irony was demons were once angels thus we all shared the same blood and ancestry. Leave it to humans to take the ramblings of drunken angels that accidently slipped into their spectrum as truth.
Michael and Gabriel should have had their wings clipped for that bullshit.
Family squabbling was what separated our sides to begin with it, and sadly there wasn’t shit we could do about it now.
Great, now I really do sound like my shrink. I think I need to reevaluate my position on these expensive bitch sessions that I’m paying over a grand a week for. That’s almost a pair of shoes for Hell’s sake! Damn it. That over-paid bitch is really getting into my head now, and I’m not even on the couch this time!
Yeah, no more therapy sessions for me.
I sighed, shaking my head at my own absurdity.
“Live in the moment, not the past,” I whispered, a sad attempt at a pep talk, one that even I wasn’t buying.
On a happier note, I was done working for a couple of days, would get paid, maybe get a buttload of shoes that night, otherwise I’d have to cut a bitch or two in the mayhem of the Saks sale tomorrow morning. There was always a silver lining to everything!
That put me in a better place mentally, and I looked at the rainbows created from the castoff of the fountain and it made me smile.
I wonder if anyone would get pissed if I stole that damn fountain and put it in my living room. I don’t think there’s enough room for it, but it would be a hell of a conversation piece.
“Oh well, maybe later,” I huffed then started across the bridge.