Soul Thief (Blue Light Series)

by Mark Edward Hall

“We know that your sight reawakened on the morning your house was destroyed.”

  “Who are you people?” Doug exploded. “How the hell do you know these things?”

  “Please, Doug, you have to stay calm. It is in our interest to know these things.”

  “Do you have a goddamn tap on my mind?”

  “If you think we’re the only ones watching you, then think again.”

  Doug shook his head, as if he was trying to remove cobwebs from his brain. He sank back into his pillows with a weary sigh. “I’m still not all here yet,” he said. “There’s stuff missing.”

  Lucy laid a delicate hand on Doug’s arm. Gooseflesh rose beneath her touch and he felt a quick moment of embarrassment. Lucy sensed it and drew her hand away.

  “I know,” she said. “You’ve been through quite an ordeal. Be patient. The memories will return in time.”

  Lucy’s optimism was infectious and it made Doug feel better. How could he not believe her? How could he not trust her? She seemed so familiar to him; the smile, the sincerity in her voice, all of it together helping to set his mind at ease, even as he lay here at her mercy, a prisoner of her will and whim. The thought was a little unsettling.

  “How about this,” he said. “You tell me what you know about me, and if I can remember and you’re wrong I’ll correct you.”

  “Fair enough,” Lucy said, “but I’m not sure you’re strong enough for this.”

  “Please?”

  “Be warned,” she said in a voice that tried to be stern but failed. “If I think it’s too much for you I’ll stop. I just got you back. I don’t intend to lose you again.”

  Doug agreed.

  Lucy said, “We know that occasionally throughout your life you’ve foreseen certain events before they’ve occurred, usually tragic events, such as the crash six weeks ago. You have some sort of second sight.”

  “I’m cursed,” Doug said.

  Lucy shook her head. “No,” she said adamantly. “Being cursed is too simple an explanation for what you have.”

  “There’s this . . . thing that sometimes accompanies my spells,” Doug said. “Like it’s in my mind but somehow more real. I don’t know, I can’t explain it. It even talks to me sometimes. Or I think it does. I saw it for the first time on the day Tommy Ricker broke my nose. It did terrible things to their babysitter and her boyfriend. And I think it took Tommy and Savannah.” Doug hesitated. “Do know about that?”

  Lucy nodded. “We’ve been trying to isolate it for years.”

  Doug stared at Lucy in astonishment. “Isolate it?” he said.

  “Our organization has been keeping tabs on this creature since the fourteenth century. It’s one of the reasons we exist.”

  Doug was nearly bowled over with a strange species of relief. That he was not alone in his knowledge of the Collector was like having a tremendous weight lifted from his heart. “It’s real then?”

  “You know it’s real, Doug. You’ve seen it. You’ve communicated with it. You’re witness to its atrocities.”

  Doug heaved a weary sigh. “I think some part of me has always believed that thing was a figment of my imagination and that I was somehow responsible for all the terrible things that happened.”

  “No,” Lucy said. “You were not responsible. We believe your mind is open to areas other minds can’t even begin to grasp. We don’t know why that is so. We may never know. It might have been there from birth and the bone shard triggered it, or it might have been triggered solely by that incident. Being able to see this . . . creature, to know of its existence is a rare gift. To know its intentions is even rarer and quite valuable in the right hands.”

  “But what is it? Do you know?”

  Lucy avoided Doug’s gaze and he knew that she was about to lie to him. “I want the truth,” he said, his voice hard.

  Lucy ran a frustrated hand through her long silky hair. “Listen, Doug, I’m not sure you’d believe me if I told you.”

  “Try me.”

  Lucy sighed. “Okay,” she said. “We don’t believe it’s of this earth. There’s a lot of speculation about what it is and where it came from. Some believe it to be a member of an alien species. Others theorize that it came through a portal from another dimension or alternate universe. Religious fanatics are convinced it’s some sort of fallen angel.”

  Doug stared speechless.

  “I told you, Doug.”

  “Alien? Fallen angel?”

  Lucy nodded.

  “So in other words, you’re just guessing. You don’t actually know what it is.”

  “That’s right. It’s some sort of invader that defies all human laws and no one knows what it is or where it came from. We do know that it’s real.”

  “Why is it that I’m the only one who sees it?”

  “You’re not.”

  “Who else sees it, then?”

  “There have been quite a few in human history. Most are long dead. As far as we know there are only two other people alive who have seen the demon.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Édouard De Roché and his daughter Annie.”

  “No,” Doug said. “You’re lying.” His face had gone ashen and his breathing was laborious. “That can’t be true. Why? How?”

  “He’s interested in something of yours, Doug, something of yours and Annie’s.”

  In that moment Doug knew exactly what it was that the demon wanted. In that moment everything in Doug’s life became clear.

  “Why is he interested in our child?” Doug asked.

  “We don’t know. We believe he knows something about the human race that no one else knows and somehow your child is important to that equation. You were targeted. And so was Annie.”

  “Oh, Christ,” Doug said, “That would mean that our meeting wasn’t an accident. It would mean that the whole thing was set up, that De Roché wanted me and Annie to get together.”

  “No, he never wanted that, Doug,” Lucy said. “That part’s true. His hate for you is real. It was a question of need. You and Annie were the combination needed to deliver the right child. You see, a long time ago the Collector made a deal with De Roché, but now De Roché is trying to betray him. It seems now he wants to change the rules.”

  Chapter 49

  “I cannot allow you to do anything that might jeopardize the health of your child,” Greta told Annie.

  Annie snorted out a petulant laugh. “Is that so?”

  Greta stared icily. “Yes, that’s so.”

  “I’ll do what I damn well please.”

  “Your father has instructed me—”

  “I don’t care what he told you!” Annie turned on the woman, her eyes bright with fury. “Tell him if he wishes to hand out instructions he can come in here and do it himself. He wanted me here, and now he doesn’t even bother to interact with me. Well go, tell him. I’ll not take instructions from his whore.”

  Greta’s hard stare only deepened.

  Annie was dressed in white shorts and a loose-fitting T-shirt and she’d been busy clearing the furniture from the center of the east wing floor of her father’s house when Greta came into the room. She was now on her knees rolling up the carpet.

  “Why on earth are you doing that?” Greta asked.

  “I don’t want to get paint on it,” Annie replied.

  “Paint?” Greta said, clearly stymied.

  “Not that it’s any of your business but I’ve decided to paint.”

  “You want to . . . paint?” Greta said. “The contractors were here less than six months ago—”

  Annie shook her head in irritation. “I’m an artist,” she said, even as the look of confusion deepened on Greta’s dark visage. “Oh, I forgot, my father doesn’t recognize that aspect of his only child’s existence so he probably never mentioned it.”

  “Artist?” Greta said, as though she’d never heard the word before.

  “That’s right,” Annie said, getting to her feet and brushing her dusty hands togeth
er. “I paint pictures.”

  “Pictures? Pictures of what?” For some reason Greta could not wrap her brain around what Annie was telling her.

  “Anything I goddamn well please.”

  “You don’t have to be crude.”

  Over the course of the past several months Annie’s dislike for Greta had deepened into something akin to hate. It wasn’t any one particular thing that caused the emotions in her; it was a combination of things, she decided. First, it was obvious to Annie by now that Greta was sleeping with her father, probably had been since long before her mother had been killed. But that wasn’t the whole thing. Who her father chose to sleep with was his business. She just wished he could have waited until her mother’s bones were cold in the grave before he became so obvious. But more than that, it was the greedy way Greta looked at her pregnant belly, which was now starting to show splendidly. And it was the way in which she doted over her, trying to make her eat and exercise, like some demented coach from hell.

  “How long have you been doing this . . . this . . . painting thing?” Greta asked, as if she hoped it might be just a passing fancy.

  “Since I was a child,” Annie said.

  “Oh, I see. And it’s something you plan on continuing?”

  “Do you think I just sit around the house all day long like a spoiled little rich bitch while my husband works to support us?”

  “This is something you’re serious about then?”

  “This is something I’ve always been serious about,” Annie told the woman. “I have works at several New York galleries. Actually I have a show scheduled.”

  “Oh, dear me,” Greta fussed. “Not before the baby’s born I hope.”

  “Yes,” Annie replied. “In September, actually.”

  “You’re not still thinking about doing it, are you?”

  “I most certainly am,” Annie said, becoming more irritated by the second. “My husband’s dead and I’m not just going to wither up and fade away. I plan on living my life.”

  “We’ll see about this.” Greta turned and marched out of the room. When she was gone Annie continued with the business of making the room paint proof, covering the furniture and spreading a sheet of thin canvas on the floor. When that was accomplished she began sorting through the paints and brushes she’d had delivered several days ago. She would not let Greta, or her father, or anyone, for that matter, sway her in her resolve to continue with her work. She knew she’d never stop grieving for Doug, but realized that grief was a debilitating emotion and she would no longer allow it to control her life. She needed to think, she needed to plan her next move, which was her inevitable escape from the bounds of this wicked place. How she could have let herself once again come under her father’s spell she could not adequately say. She knew now that the future of her child, and probably her own future was in jeopardy, and what better way to think than to work. Yes, she would work, and think, and get strong, and plan her strategy. And when the time came she would run for her life and for the life of her child.

  Chapter 50

  In the days that followed Doug became stronger. There were things in his immediate past that he could not recall and his frustration over just what they were had begun to swell into something monstrous. His last clear memory was of being shot. He remembered Annie and him being driven from their home; he remembered the terrible confrontation with De Roché and his fight with Annie on the beach and their subsequent reconciliation. He remembered the dinner party, getting drunk and wandering into the forest behind De Roché manor and the things he had seen there. He vaguely remembered Rachael’s funeral and some incident that had occurred there, but he could not remember exactly what it was.

  Like a nagging tic at the center of his psyche it remained, insisting that time was short and that he must recall the event soon. But it was no use; try as he might his spent mind would not focus. So he lived those days in recovery, talking to Lucy about his childhood and the terrible things he’d been witness to.

  “You can’t imagine how it made me feel to see those people die,” Doug told Lucy. “Strangers, friends, my parents. Murdered, all of them. And for what? But worse, to know that Tommy and Savannah were still . . . alive somewhere and calling out to me.”

  It was the third day of Doug’s reemergence into the world of the living and during those days Lucy held vigil for hours at a time at his bedside. She was a comforting presence, but deep in Doug’s heart he felt a growing unease with this woman that both disturbed and tantalized him. His initial impression that she was somehow familiar would not go away.

  “Do you honestly believe that those kids are still alive, Doug?”

  It was a long time before Doug could reply to Lucy’s inquiry. He had mulled that question over in his mind a million times, but had never been able to come to a reasonable conclusion. “No,” he said finally. “Not in the way we think of being alive. But there might still be a chance for that little girl . . .” He hesitated, not sure if he was remembering things correctly. Not even sure if what he’d seen had been real. But when he remembered a little girl named Ariel and her pleading voice he knew that it was.

  “You’re talking about the incident in New Hampshire on the morning you and Annie had to run for your lives.”

  Doug sighed. “So that was real, huh?”

  “The feds tried to keep it hush for as long as possible but we had people on the inside.”

  “I don’t know why they call out to me,” Doug said. “I can’t help them. I’ve never been able to help them. Why does he take children? Why does he kill everyone else and take the little ones?”

  “We just don’t know,” Lucy replied simply.

  “When the children talk to me they tell me they’re in a dark place they call The House of Bones. Do you know if that place is real?”

  Lucy nodded earnestly. “We think it is. We’ve been trying to find it but it’s complicated. The Collector is a supernatural being. He exists on a separate plane of existence from the rest of us. He manages to cross over long enough to do the things he does but doesn’t stay here. We believe it’s possible that his House of Bones doesn’t reside on our plane.”

  “So how do we stop him?”

  “My organization has been trying to figure that out for centuries. Maybe you can help.”

  “Me? How?”

  “Well, the fact that these children call out to you and that you hear them makes me believe that you are somehow closer to his plane than the rest of us. And from what you’ve told me there seems to be some sort of special connection between you and this latest child, Ariel.”

  “I can’t imagine what it is. I don’t even know her.”

  “True, but I think that through her, your connection to something important is more tangible.”

  Doug lay back against his pillows with a weary sigh. “I just don’t understand why I’m cursed with such terrible sight.”

  “I think it’s about the future, Doug. I think you’re somehow tapped into the future through this creature.”

  “But I’m not capable of seeing the future,” Doug said.

  Lucy frowned. “I think you are, Doug. What about the plane crash?”

  Doug was silent for a long moment as he stared at Lucy. “Okay,” he said. “But that doesn’t explain my parents and all the other things that happened. Those incidents happened as I was seeing them.”

  “Maybe not, Doug. Maybe you were seeing them just before they occurred. Tell me you’ve never considered that.”

  “I honestly haven’t, but if it’s true . . .” Doug’s voice trailed off and Lucy saw the pain in his eyes.

  “No, Doug, you were a child. You could not have prevented any of it from happening. Don’t go there.”

  Doug stared at Lucy as that nagging tic in the dim recesses of his memory again tried to surface, some long lost knowledge or familiarity was trying to surface, and although Doug sensed that it was gaining in strength he was still unable to grasp it. And just like that the fragment f
luttered away like dark confetti, leaving him with a dull headache and more questions than answers.

  “What’s going to happen when the authorities finally get their hands on me?” Doug asked. “They think I’m a terrorist.”

  “They’re not going to touch you,” Lucy said.

  “You don’t know that.”

  “They think you’re dead.”

  “You know I’m alive. The nurse and doctor know I’m alive. How many others? Come on, tell me.” Doug had raised himself slightly up off his pillows. “How do I know I’m safe in this hospital?”

  “You’re not strong enough for this, Doug.”

  He sank wearily back down feeling angry and confused, his sunken and rheumy eyes gazing out at Lucy from a drawn and pallid face. Outside, the light of day was already fading. How long had they been talking? Surely not more than a few hours. Everything seemed somehow distorted and Doug felt a strange sense of vertigo, like he was only partially back from some terrible place. “But I need to know why this is all happening,” he said.

  “And you will. Please trust me; right now you need rest more than anything else.” Lucy rose to leave.

  Doug put his hand out and gripped Lucy’s wrist, holding her, looking her directly in the eye. Could he trust her? There was that veil of doubt again threatening to turn into a solid wall. Who was she really? Where had she come from? What did she want from him? This woman he hardly knew suddenly had all this power over him and he sensed that she was enjoying it. No one had ever had this much control over him and the realization of it gave him claustrophobia. He wanted to bolt from the bed and run for his life, but he forced himself to stay calm. He knew that he must if he was going to heal and get out of this nightmare alive.

  Lucy put a comforting hand atop Doug’s. “I don’t know what I can say that will set your mind at ease.”

  “How about the truth?” he said.

  Lucy stared back at him unflinching. “I’ve been as straight with you as I can be, Doug, and that is the truth.”

  Doug gave a weary sigh. She’d just given him another evasive answer, but what was the use? “I’ve gone through my life thinking I was somehow responsible for . . . everything,” Doug said. “And there’s still some part of me that believes I caused it all. I’ve spent my life since then trying to be normal, trying to rebuild my self worth, running from those who would use me for their own ends. Hear me. I won’t be manipulated. I won’t be used.”