“Do you believe in disembodied spirits?” Luke Angeles persisted.
She was close enough to realize, although it appeared he was looking at her, his attention remained riveted to a point just beyond her. A word settling on the tip of her tongue tingled, longing for release, the faintest sound of laughter invading the multitude of murmuring filling her mind.
Dimly, Eva realized a change sweeping over him. The camera didn’t detect the alteration, for he kept his face in profile. The cold grayness of his eyes vanished and, instead, the color became the most unsettling shade of sable, hungrily consuming the clarity of the orbs.
“If you believe, Evangeline, he'll give you my name.”�
…Lucien�
CHAPTER FOUR
There are those that shall never see the light, for the wealth of their evil has made their soul incapable of being salvaged�
The seedy hotel was located just off the last exit of the major interstate, somewhere deep in the bayou of a distant southern state. A foreboding sense of malaise emanated the dilapidated structure and caused many travelers to suffer second thoughts about pausing. Often enough, vehicles would accelerate past the ramshackle lodgings, desperate to leave the crumbling structure behind.
Despite the lack of lighting, and the abundance of refuse and weeds consuming the vacant parking lot, an elderly man ambled across the cracked cement. His gait was joyous and there was a crooked and dizzying parody to his childish skip.
In one hand, he swung a room key. In the other, he held a relentless grip on a half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey. He spun and paused before leaping gracefully into the air. A wild cackle of insane laughter burst from him when he reached the assigned room, his hands oddly steady while he unlocked the door.
The hotel room reeked of decades of stale cigarette smoke and urine. Outside, the sound of rapidly passing interstate traffic rose to a deafening crescendo. Noise and odor were of much concern to the room's single inhabitant, nor the obvious lack of cleanliness. In the span of his lifetime, he had slept in far worse lodgings, and this wasn't as unpleasant as it appeared.
The stooped and crooked figure kicked shut the warped door. The action was that of a much younger man but the thought was ridiculous. The man was elderly, appearing ancient beyond his years, the passage of time unkind.
In truth, he was older than he appeared, or humanly possible.
His face was horrendously pock marked, the pitted scars running deep and only separated by heavy wrinkles. The yellowed whiteness of his hair hung in brittle and limp strands about his shoulders. Each lank lock exuded the stench of smoke, alcohol, and some other underlying odor.
The hand that brought the weight of the whiskey bottle to his cracked and dry lips was gnarled and twisted. Despite his advanced age, his hands didn't quiver. His hold was strong, firm, and slightly unsettling. Taking a long swallow, minute trails of fluid trailed from the sides of his mouth. He gulped loudly, lowering the bottle and wiping at the dampness with the cuff of his tattered coat.
Displaying the agility of youth, he tossed his lean weight onto the soiled blanket covering the bed. He cackled as the mattress protested, and his grip on the bottle didn't relax. The fluid never splashed from the bottle as he situated his body on the misshapen pillows, ignoring the scurrying of roaches. He traced the tip of his tongue over the chipped and yellow contours of his teeth, the action more of one to wet the dryness filling his mouth.
Always parched, he was forever seeking an ever-evasive drop of moisture just beyond his reach.
He sensed the return of the small creatures to the comforter. To his finely tuned ears, he heard the scurrying of their legs, muffled by worn fabric. He remained rigid as the brown forms came closer before his unhindered hand lashed out. His speed was unimaginable, more akin to the lunge of a striking snake, as he captured the struggling body of a roach.
His narrowed eyes focused on the rapidly moving legs of the creature he held between his over long and cracked nails. He was still, brooding as the insect struggled. He watched the creature’s antenna spin and swirl, seeking escape.
Humorlessly, he chuckled, increasing the pressure until the insect's narrow body oozed a mucous-like fluid. The legs of the pest shuddered for a moment, then stilled. The man opened his mouth wide, placed the carcass on his tongue, and relished the ensuing crunch as he closed his mouth.
As if by unseen hands, the set at the foot of the bed clicked to a predetermined channel. He squinted at the apparatus, the faded color of his glassy eyes fastening on the images projected on the flickering screen. His vision cleared and he took an extra deliberate swig from the grimy bottle he held. The sultry and appealing image of the female host remained. A lulling sound filled his ears and his eyes drooped downwards, his intent focus vanishing as crepe papery lids closed over nearly colorless orbs.
Whether the numbing effects of the liquor or the weariness of his aching bones brought on the drowsiness, he didn't know. He preferred sleep, the fingers of Morpheus teasing his numbed brain. Sleep would ease him of the hunger and the need to seek what his damned soul craved.
The woman's voice from the program was soothing and seductive, he thought dimly, paying attention to the gentle cadence. He felt himself drifting in and out of consciousness, faint glitches of her words dropping into the depths of his slumber.
She was an oddity, he thought, intelligent and appealing. Dimly, he admitted she was sexy. She boasted the build of the women of his past, not like those half-starved waifs cavorting about the stage and screen in this age. She had a lusciousness that begged a man to seek the silkiness of her thighs and her ample bosom.
He dozed, her voice spinning in his mind.
Lucien
The name brought him awake. He didn't stay on the soiled coverlet, as most would, wondering if the name was a figment of his imagination or a sleep-numbed mind.
He shook himself, remembering he didn't suffer from such a human frailty.
He shot upwards, awake, and alert. He rubbed at the gritty dryness of his eyes with his knuckles, the half-empty bottle falling to the blanket, unheeded fluid seeping free. He wiped drying spittle from the corners of his mouth and blinked, forcing a semblance of moisture to his eyes, his attention riveted to the flickering images on the set.
A slow and triumphant smile curved his cracked lips while he eyed the man whose face appeared.
Ah, it had been so long!
It had been eons since they had last met.
He listened to the interview, the sultry looks, and husky voice of the anchor no longer appealing. The other held his rapt attention, his carefully placed and antiquated speech flowing familiarly over him.
Memories flooded him, instigated by the words seeping from the man's pale lips. Brutally, he shoved the thoughts aside and focused his anger on the television set. He chuckled as the framed images flickered and danced, the reception instantaneously distorted as the mechanism emitted a mysteriously plume of smoke.
Life had dealt the old man an unfair hand, one he intended to rectify.
New York wasn’t so far away, he thought, calculating the hours it would take to reach the state. Haste was imperative, and he wouldn't allow one more moment to slip by while Lucien D'Angel basked in the lights of fame.
“The time has finally arrived, dearest brother,”� Julian sneered and fell back on the bed.
CHAPTER FIVE
Guide me, my dearest angel, away from the darkness governing my life�
Eva was frightened.
Grudgingly, she admitted to suffering from an uncomfortable sense of apprehension and anticipation. The latter coiled deep inside of her stomach and made her nauseous. The queasiness accelerated as she approached the lobby doors of the ultra modern apartment complex. She wasn't able to pinpoint the precise reason behind her misgivings, though she did arrive at a conclusion.
Either the foolishness of her actions, or the individual residing in this stylish abode, set her on edge.
Eva acce
pted one indisputable fact. Two days earlier, she had made a fool of herself, believing she asked the one question on everyone's tongue. However, she was wrong. She had demonstrated an absolute lack of the professionalism, and jeopardized her good name…all because of one man!
Her conscience was suffering a slow and certain death. Over the past twenty-four hours, guilt ate away at her. Worse, there was the ever-present tone of his censorious voice echoing in her mind.
Why, Miss Keyes, what a unprofessionalquestion.�
It had been during those long-suffering hours before dawn, while tossing and turning, that she had an epiphany. Flying from her bed, she flicked on the lights in her apartment, frantically searching her notes. Somewhere in the crammed files, there was an obscure address.
Eva hadn’t felt the slightest twinge as she planned her next move, committed to do the one thing she had never done in her lifetime.
She would make a personal appearance at Luke Angeles' doorstep and apologize. It was the least she could do, and hoped the attempt would be accepted.
In any case, her conscience demanded mind-numbing and dreamless sleep.
Her decision etched in her mind, she seized the opportunity to visit the mystifying man. She provided the attentive cab driver with the scribbled address, shut the car door behind her, and leaned back in the seat. Her nose wrinkled at the vehicle’s unappealing odor, but she forced her busy mind to relax. Her tension seeped away as the vehicle picked up speed, and she gave the cabbie credit as he maneuvered through New York City's evening traffic.
She peered out of the cab window, relishing the approach of fall. Central Park was gorgeous this time of year, the season evident in the color of the leaves, the towering trees transformed into a multicolored quilt of reds, browns, and gold.
Fall was, indisputably, in full swing.
Eva snuggled deeper into her jacket, the evening chill more pronounced. As the streets sped by, she recognized sites she hadn’t seen in years.
Wonders wouldn't fail to cease, she thought, viewing the area. The host of Those Among Us just happened to have an apartment in her old neighborhood!
Old wasn’t the correct word, and an unexpected twinge of homesickness plucked at her heartstrings. There was still a scattering of the older residences, viewable on the fringes of the modern structures. Sleeker and far newer apartments replaced a majority of the pre-Depression Era row houses, which had filled these streets for decades.
The cab came to a slow halt before one of the blindingly modern buildings. She peered out of the window, absorbing the full glory of the four-story facade. The building was far too contemporary, she thought, and her lips tightened as she paid the driver.
She shivered, and then grimaced. Suffering from a bone freezing iciness for the past few days, she wondered if she were catching cold. Eva pulled her coat tighter about her and winced. She had scarcely stepped foot on the conspicuously vacant sidewalk when she became aware of the incessant hum growing in her inner ear. Her frozen fingertips longed to cover the sides of her head, wishing she could drown out the sounds, but knew the action would be futile.
She couldn’t escape the murmurings, for they filled her mind every waking hour of the day.
Eva rubbed the back of her neck with cold hands, frustrated as the low-pitched buzzing sound evolved into more definable series of words. The figments of phrases caused her to pause, brooding. Many of the glitches she recognized were teasing, laughing, before evolving into half-hearted dictates.
Chilled to the bone, she focused on the shining glass double doors of the apartment building. Her hands dropped to her sides as she passed a judicious eye over the building's impressive facade.
The unexplainable sense of déjà vu and the strange voice in her head could only be associated with one individual, Luke Angeles.
She paused, knowing Luke Angeles wasn't correct. A ghostly voice had whispered the man’s name into her ear a few nights past.
Lucien…
Lucien, what?
Eva could bet a month's paycheck everything about him was false. For hours, she scanned various sites on the web, seeking him on every search engine, unable to uncover any information about the ever-elusive man.
In other words, he simply didn't exist.
Taking a deep breath, Eva approached the structure. She pushed the glass doors open and stepped into welcoming warmth. Past the entryway, a hulking figure blocked her path. She paused, patient as he rose from behind the streamlined desk situated between two elevator doors.
With a great show of his impressive size, he rolled his broad shoulders and Eva deduced the man as an off-duty officer. His primary profession was apparent by the way he stood, as if he were prepared to issue a command, or obey an order.
Obviously, he was pulling in a bit of extra cash by clandestinely moonlighting as security/doorman to the plush apartment complex. She couldn't knock him. Times were rough for everyone and a living was just that, a living.
The door attendant gave her a liberal once over. His features darkened perceptibly and his eyes, beneath the nearly weight of bushy brows, narrowed. At first, he mentally judged her. There had to be numerous individuals seeking entry to the building, and she wasn't one of the regulars.
“May I help you?”�
“I'm here to visit Mr. Angeles,” Eva didn't relish having to exchange words with the intimidating figure that easily had a hundred pounds to his advantage, and the protective attitude of a pit bull.
“Mr. A?” He paused, fascinated.
“Yes, Mr. Angeles.” She nodded her head, granting him her widely photographed Eva Keyes smile. His glowering expression lightened and recognition flooded his eyes before he issued a low and appreciative whistle.
“Hey, you’re that interviewer from TV! Don't tell me! Don't tell me!” His hands flew upright, broad palms facing her while he struggled to remember her name. The pit bull impression immediately vanished, and she found herself likening him to an over-eager, over-sized bull terrier. “You’re that lady from Keyes to New York! You’re Eva Keyes!”�
“Yes, sir,” she responded dutifully, her smile tight.�
“Eva Keyes!” Another appreciative whistle followed her name. He came around the desk and approached her, his hand outstretched in greeting. “The wife is not going to believe this one!”
“The one and only,” she affirmed.
“The great Mr. A lives in the building I work in, and the famed Eva Keyes is visiting. Now, if that just doesn’t take all!”
Eva found her hand enveloped in his strong grip and winced as the limb was vigorously pumped up and down. Dimly, she began to have second thoughts about approaching the most popular paranormal investigator in the world on his home territory. To add to her worries, she wondered if there was any chance she’d stay off the front page of the morning papers. Her personal visit with Mr. A would be pricey tabloid fodder, and the publicity would be her fault.
As the door attendant released her hand and returned to his station, Eva waited while he continued to prattle on, taking a moment to sign an autograph. After what seemed an eternity, he recollected his duties. He pressed an invisible button on his computer keyboard, summoning the ever-elusive Mr. Angeles' attention.
“Hey, Mr. A, you would never guess who's here to visit you!”�
There were two faint words uttered on the other end, the exact phrase as indecipherable as the muttered tones filling her ears. Whatever was said, the security guard guffawed uproariously. Tears were evident in his eyes while he choked out his response.
“What do you know, Miss Keyes?” He asked quizzically, not really demanding an answer. He continued to chuckle as he buzzed her past the door at his side. “Our Mr. A is a ghost hunter and mind reader! It seems he's been waiting for you.”�
***
She stared fixedly at the closed door until she swore she detected her distorted likeness in the buffed wood. She huffed, straightening her shoulders and shook her head. She wondered if her uncer
tainty was as obvious as her wavering reflection displayed.
It was too late to turn around, and running would make her appear a bigger fool. Struggling to regain her composure, she grasped at the ornate silver knocker and dropped it. She flinched as the sound reverberated down the lengthy, vacant hall.
Eva’s heart accelerated to a maddening tempo and she questioned her sanity. She didn't know if an apology would really matter. She took another fortifying breath, made a move to reach for the knocker again, and nearly leapt out of her stilettos as the door swung open.
The towering man, whose image tormented her for the past few days, stood before her. As usual, he wore nondescript black, but she recognized a difference in his clothing. He lacked the thickly corded turtleneck and, instead, wore an expensively tailored silk shirt. Eva stifled a gulp, her eyes fastening on the top series of buttons that remained agape, exposing the barest bit of pale skin.
She colored painfully, and forced her gaze to his face. He looked her over, his gaze lingering on the heavy material of her winter coat and the ridiculous height of her shoes, and his interest seemed to increase.
Ever sedate, he didn't say a word. Instead, his attention flickered past her. For a second, she imagined he glowered at something just over her shoulder and she had the overwhelming urge to greet whoever was standing behind her.
The expression changed, becoming one of weary resignation. Eva straightened her shoulders, stifling a bone-chilling shiver. Once more, she felt hot color rise to her cheeks as his gaze flickered before settling on her eyes, causing her breath to catch and her heartbeat to stutter.
Her mind reeled. Eva inhaled a desperate gulp, the thudding of her heart filling her ears, realizing he had one hell of an effect on her senses. Despite years of professional training, she feared she’d greet him with nothing more than a babbling stammer. Despite the cold and lack of sleep, he left her speechless. She didn't understand how she could become such a bumbling and unprofessional mass of femininity with one look.
The Soul Collector (previously released as Angel's Fire, Demon's Blood) Page 6