Soul Thief (Blue Light Series)

by Mark Edward Hall

  One thing was certain, the Collector was a clever illusionist, but for the most part his stunts seemed contrived, his repertoire limited to cheap parlor tricks, butchery and kidnapping. And when he became bored with his little sideshows he would run back to wherever it was he hid and continue to draw power from the unfortunates he had taken there as sustenance.

  The real power was in the artifact, in the things it could do, in the visions it could portend, both horrible and wonderful, and in the protection it could afford its owner. He suspected that the Collector wanted it but was not powerful enough to take it as long as the one who possessed it was alive and refused to relinquish it. What Redington could not understand is how the Collector had managed to corrupt Isaac Ross, a trusted member of the Order. Earlier in the day Redington had completed his meeting with the young woman, and she’s the one who had informed him that Isaac was the suspected traitor.

  Redington carefully made his way toward the stairwell and what he hoped would be freedom. Along the way he reached toward a candle sconce, tipping it and dropping its burning contents to the carpeted floor. Then another. And another. The candle wax splashed as flames spread out and began to burn with vengeance.

  “You would destroy your precious house of God?” whispered a voice that froze Redington in his tracks.

  Redington placed the trembling fist that contained the artifact against his heart. “It is merely a building of stone and wood,” he replied. “The true house of God dwells within us all.” He scanned the corridor looking both ways for some sign of the illusionist. He saw nothing.

  “You are misguided,” said the voice.

  “I will not have this conversation with you, demon.”

  “I do not believe you have a choice in the matter, oh faithful one,” the cynical voice said in reply.

  “Why did you kill those men?”

  “To remind you how unimportant they are in the scheme of things.”

  “They were human beings.”

  “They were plotting against you. All these years you have possessed the sacred artifact; all these years you have known that it must be passed, and in the end they would have taken it from you. Their deaths have insured no obstacles.”

  “I could have handled them. You did not have to butcher them!”

  “They were a danger and now they are irrelevant.”

  “Where is the traitor? There were six men.”

  “Ah, yes,” the Collector said. “You should be very careful. He is a clever one.”

  Behind Redington the carpet was catching fire. Whorls of thick smoke billowed and he could feel heat at his back.

  “You misunderstand me, priest. My intentions have always been pure.”

  “So you say.”

  “You still do not believe.”

  “I don’t care. Just let me pass.”

  “I am not blocking your passage. You are free to go.”

  “Kind of you,” Redington said moving closer to the stairs.

  “I am the one who bargained for the artifact and then placed it in Jesuit hands.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “It is because of me that you now hold it to your heart.”

  “I only wish to see that it reaches its rightful owner,” Redington said. His back now too close to the blossoming heat, Redington took several more tentative steps along the corridor and onto the stairs, cautiously watching for any sign of the illusionist and his trickery. Up till now he had not shown himself. He might never, but Redington could not be sure of that. Now smoke was billowing around him seeking exit, and he knew that he must move quickly.

  Almost at the top of the stairs now Redington saw a silvery motion flicker across the door opening in front of him. It could have been nothing, then again . . .

  If he could just make it to the outside, there were men there, agents of the Order. They would protect him, help him get away. He should have gone yesterday, and not called the meeting. It would not have been a popular decision but the elders would still be alive. He clutched the artifact tightly in his fist and held it to his chest where he could feel its heat close to his beating heart. “I know you’re there, demon,” he said. “You’re trying to trick me, but it will do you no good. I’m well aware of your deceits.”

  “You are not interested in anything more I have to say?”

  “All lies!”

  “Are you certain of that, priest?”

  “You think you know something I don’t. You think you have secrets? You’re wrong. I have spent more than thirty years studying you and your evil ways. I saw what you did to my two young friends at Coffin Pond. What you’re about is trickery, simple trickery. That’s all. The powers you stole after the fall have made you a poor illusionist at best, and I’ll not be taken in by them.”

  Redington reached the landing and passed through the doorway looking left then right. Smoke billowed out of the opening behind him swirling around his legs. He saw nothing except the cathedral’s empty expanses as he began making his way down the aisle between the pews, his free hand working at the buttons of his robe as he did so. Beneath the robe Redington was dressed as any normal citizen. He had been expecting something to happen—not this exactly, but something—and he was prepared to make his escape, if necessary.

  “There are many who desire the artifact, monk. Guard it well.”

  Redington stopped abruptly. He was standing at the church’s massive front entrance unfrocked. He turned, facing the empty room. Back toward the altar, flames were blossoming up through the floorboards and smoke had begun to fill the great hall. “Don’t worry, Demon. I do not intend to relinquish it. I’m aware that the artifact has always had its suitors.”

  “I’m not talking about scholars and dreamers, monk. I’m talking about power mongers, those who wish to do this world great harm for their own gains.”

  Redington laughed aloud. “Just like you, demon. Please, what do you take me for?”

  “You have always misunderstood me, monk. I do not wish any harm.”

  “No? What of the butchery then, the children, all the crimes you’ve committed against humanity?”

  “What I’ve done has been necessary for the sake of the artifact. Nothing shall stand in its way.”

  “I wish you would go now, demon.”

  “I will, but not until my business here is done.”

  An agitation arose, buffeting the atmosphere inside the great room as whorls of smoke curled and spiraled. Redington could feel its influence tugging at his hair and his clothing. He did not wait around to see what would happen next. He spun around and turned the doorknob, pulling inward. The old oaken slab of a door opened without effort. Outside the sun had set and darkness was quickly claiming the land. The old priest stepped from the building. He scanned the parking lot looking for allies but saw not a single soul. He was not surprised. The Order’s agents were nothing if not discreet.

  An angry wind suddenly arose, speeding past him, coming from inside the church, and along with it, heat and smoke. Redington was knocked to his hands and knees. A noise caused him to look up. Isaac Ross stood above him holding a gun, his face distorted with greed. His black robe flapped in the hot wind.

  “Hand it over,” Isaac said. “I’ll not tell you again.”

  “Why?” Redington asked. He put his head down and gripped the artifact tightly in his fist. He would never willingly relinquish the object. Isaac would have to kill him.

  “Immortality,” Isaac replied.

  “What?” Redington said confused. “I don’t understand.”

  “I have a new employer,” Isaac said, “and he has made certain . . . promises.”

  “Oh you are such a fool, Ross. He cannot offer immortality, and even if he could he would betray you.”

  Redington chanced a quick glance out into the yard. His hope was for an eleventh hour rescue.

  “That isn’t going to happen,” Isaac said. “I have persuaded most to join me. The ones that refused, well . . . you can only imagi
ne.” He pressed the gun’s muzzle against Redington’s temple. “You have three seconds.”

  “Never!” Redington said. He bowed his head waiting for the kill shot.

  A strong bolt of singeing wind roared suddenly from the open church door; it was as though the cathedral was a living thing expelling the heat of its breath. A ball of flame engulfed Isaac Ross catching his robes on fire. The gun dropped from his hand and Ross began to dance and scream, running from the porch and toward the tarmac where he disappeared in a trail of fire. Just like that Isaac was gone. The wind ended abruptly. The old priest grabbed the railing with a hooked claw of a hand and gingerly eased himself to a standing position. His legs trembled and he was having trouble steadying himself.

  You must move quickly, a voice whispered close to his ear, eliciting gooseflesh on Redington’s nape. I have given you a momentarily reprieve. Your enemies are out there. If you die before the artifact is passed it will mean the end of everything.

  Confused, Redington made his way down the stairs to the church’s parking lot. A series of keening wails, blood chilling in their ferocity rang out.

  “Oh, God,” Redington said. But even as he mouthed the words he understood that it was already too late. Those who had come to protect the holy body had somehow been infected with evil. Now they were being slaughtered without remorse, clearing the way for his escape. Suddenly Redington was very confused about the Collector and his intentions.

  Not waiting around to see what would happen next, the old priest ran in panic from the church yard toward the road beyond. Behind him the church’s basement fuel tank exploded, sending showers of sparks and coils of flame whipping high up into the night air. St. Ignatius had become an inferno.

  The old priest stopped suddenly, trying to quell the panic in him, knowing that he must appraise his situation in a rational way if he was going to make it out alive: he had no money, no car, and no way to warn the young man and his wife of what was coming. By some miracle he still possessed the artifact. Yes, he must go there, and take the object directly to the young man. It was madness, of course. How would he do it? Even if he found McArthur how would he make him understand? How would he make him believe that the artifact belonged to him and his unborn child? That it always had. From the beginnings of Christianity it had been written. How could he do it? How could he make him see? Then, in a moment of pure and liberating inspiration he began to understand.

  He stopped, watching and listening for anything unusual. But above the roaring of the fire he could hear nothing. There was a stirring of heated air in the tree branches above him, as currents of sparks whipped about on the night-wind. It seemed that on this night an unholy conflagration had settled over the quiet countryside of Darby, Ohio.

  Think, damn it. You’ve got to think rationally. You’re only going to get one chance and you have got to make it a good one.

  The answer was there in an instant. I know how to get his attention. I know how to make him understand. The priest doubled back around to the church’s parking lot, watchful for enemies. Other than the flaming building before him, everything seemed uncharacteristically normal. He almost laughed at the absurdity of the thought, at his own casual observation. Normal? Nothing was normal. Nothing would ever be normal again.

  You must move quickly. I have given you a momentarily reprieve. Your enemies are out there. If you die before the artifact has been passed it will mean the end of everything.

  In the lot behind the flaming church, several limousines were parked; these were the vehicles that had delivered the dignitaries to their sure and sudden deaths. Redington cautiously approached the first limo. From a distance of six feet he could see nothing but the reflection of flames on the tinted glass of the side window. He stood for a moment staring at the car, seeing the fire’s hypnotic reflection. Finally he simply walked over and opened the door. The seat was empty and the keys were in the ignition. He did not know if he was relieved or disappointed. No matter. He got in and started the vehicle’s engine, backed up and then pulled forward out of the lot. Out on the highway he turned south and stepped on the accelerator. Up ahead in the distance a massive blossoming of light erupted. It seemed to light the entire world like some colossal nuclear explosion. From out of the whorls of fire and swirling clouds of burning gas the face of a demon materialized. It had a grinning maw of a mouth, spade-pointed ears and blazing red eyes. Redington knew what it was, a sign, an omen of a possible future hell here on earth.

  From its stationary holster beneath the seat, he extracted the loaded nine-millimeter automatic he knew would be there, and laid it on the seat beside him. Soon the blazing fire in the sky faded as the demonic face melted like hot wax. But Redington knew it wasn’t over. It was only the beginning. He must reach his destination and carry out his plan if there was any hope of saving humanity.

  A mile or so further along he passed several fire trucks and other emergency vehicles, lights flashing and sirens blazing, traveling in the opposite direction. Next he picked the cell phone out of its cradle on the dash and dialed a number. “They are all dead,” he told the voice on the end of the line. “You were right about the traitor.”

  “I see,” the voice said. “Is he dead also?”

  “I do not know. When I saw him last he was running from the church all afire.”

  “If he is alive we will find him.”

  “Do it before it is too late. He is plotting with forces of evil. I don’t think we have much time. I am on the move.”

  “And your destination?”

  “For obvious reasons I cannot say. You will more than likely read about it in the newspapers.”

  “Don’t do this, sir.”

  “There is no other way. You know what to do next.”

  “Yes,” said the voice, “I know.”

  “Times have never been as dark as they are about to become,” said the priest. “We must not fail.”

  “Godspeed,” the voice said.

  The old priest pressed his thumb against the off button, settled back in his seat and uttered a prayer as he drove on toward his destiny.

  Chapter 35

  The funeral attracted many onlookers. The service was held in a large church surrounded by a huge cemetery. Scores of people were in attendance, so many that most had to stand outside, for there wasn’t room inside the massive cathedral for everyone.

  The event had an unreal air to it, as if contrived to have the entire world know that the wife of one of the richest men on the planet was dead. The church and the grounds around it were virtually overrun. External speakers relayed the service to those outside the church.

  Among the mourners in attendance were some of the most famous faces in public life; politicians, Wall Street notables, distinguished members of the scientific community, even a smattering of Hollywood’s elite. The presence of so many celebrities attracted hordes of peeping toms, and of course the press was everywhere, pointing cameras and talking into microphones. The fact that De Roché had announced his intentions of setting up an exploratory committee for a possible presidential run, compounded by the nearly simultaneous drama of his wife being murdered was the number one topic of political pundits on most of the major networks, and on the internet over the past twenty-four hours. Conspiracy theorists were having a field day. Would he still run? Had the murder been politically motivated? Would the controversy hurt his chances if he did decide to continue his bid? Of course there were no good answers to this endless procession of questions, because the season was young and so far De Roché had not officially thrown his hat into the ring.

  For Doug, the morning had been strange and a little unsettling. He had ridden to the funeral in the limo with Annie and her father. Annie sat silently on the seat between Doug and De Roché. She wore a plain but elegant black dress that Greta had provided for her. Annie had accepted the offering without comment.

  The suit of clothes Doug had worn the night before was totally trashed. Annie had asked no questions about why
and Doug had not spoken of it.

  From a group of men’s garments Doug had chosen a simple dark sports jacket that he’d paired with clean blue jeans and dark-colored sneakers. Never being comfortable with funerals, he didn’t suppose the deceased cared one way or another what the attendees wore. Ah, but it wasn’t the deceased one needed to impress at funerals, now was it?

  Doug’s mind was still reeling from the things he’d seen and heard in the woods behind De Roché Manor the night before. Could things get any crazier? He’d finally seen credible evidence of De Roché’s character as a human being. The bastard was a monster. He had not murdered the woman directly, but he’d let her die just as surly as if he had killed her. Now Doug was torn as to what he should do about it. If he called in the cops, would they even come? And if they did come, would they find the woman buried somewhere on the old man’s property? Would they even look? Doug dismissed the idea. Some inner sense told him that it would be futile. De Roché was above the law.

  The most astonishing thing about last night was the Collector’s presence at the scene. There was no doubt that he’d been there. Doug had seen him, and so had several others. And he’d been doing something to the woman when the dogs had attacked her. The thought struck Doug that perhaps the dogs had not intentionally attacked the woman. What if they’d been after the demon and the woman had simply gotten in the way?

  All of this was conjecture, of course. Doug did not have a clue as to what had actually gone down last night or what the old man’s role in it had been. And furthermore, he had no clue about what the demon he’d been seeing since childhood had been doing there at De Roché Manor. The only thing he was certain of was that De Roché and the Collector were connected in some way.

  Doug and De Roché had not spoken since the dinner party, which was fine by him. He had nothing more to say to the man. He just wanted to put the past two days behind him and get as far away from this place as humanly possible. So Doug was surprised and a little annoyed when on the ride to the funeral De Roché began to talk.