“Burn her! Burn her until there is nothing to gather! I do not wish to witness a remaining bit of hair, bone, or clothing!” The ruler commanded, sheathing his bloodstained sword.
A sense of misgiving rippled through the assembled horde, filling the minute recesses of their diseased hearts.
“Destroy her!” The monarch snarled heatedly, his dark countenance feral. His men remained conspicuously silent, torches raised, the flames flickering in the rapidly rising wind touching the valley. “Destroy her, I say!”
The cold grayness of D'Angel's eyes glowed in the firelight, and his men hurried to their task. Frowning, a muscle ticked furiously in his clenched jaw before he spat at the woman's crippled body.
“Ensure she’s burnt beyond recognition, and scatter her ashes to the wind. I won’t have a martyr for the people.”
There was a sudden burst of illuminating flame before the sickly stench of burning meat filled the air. The fiery glow emitted from the woman's corpse brightened the night's sky. Incandescent fingers of orange-red flames leapt hungrily upwards, in silent competition with the ghostly lamentation of the wind.
The hag’s shriveled form burned hastily, and the intense fire consumed what little there was of the ancient seer's tattered remains. To the knights viewing the hungry blaze, her flesh appeared as nothing more than dry autumn leaves, her ashes scattering glowing sparks into the air. Abruptly, a breathless rider rode a breakneck speed into the clearing, a shower of flaming embers dusting his armor.
“I bear magnificent tidings this eve, sire!” The short-winded knight shouted, drawing near. The weary rider struggled for breath while he reined his steed to a ground shuddering halt. The hapless knight inhaled the nauseating odor of crisp flesh and burning clothes. He shuddered beneath the weight of his armor, unaware his liege lord made a mental note of the reaction. “I’ve magnificent tidings, milord!”
“What news do you bring?” D'Angel, the self-appointed ruler of St. Lorraine, postulated glaringly.
“You have been blessed this night with the arrival of a successor, milord,” the rider managed, a forced brightening his sweat-drenched features. “God and your beauteous Queen Anjelie have graced your majesty with a fine pair of healthy sons!”
The monarch blanched, and the muscles in his throat convulsed. He swallowed, and cold sweat touched his brow. Somewhere, the morose cry of wind whispered with the witch's cackling laughter, and a frisson of dread enshrouded the implacable sovereign’s dauntless form.
At the same moment, the final remnants of the old woman's ashes rose, dancing on the wind, and dusted D'Angel's dark armor.
CHAPTER ONE
Autumn
Twenty Years Ago
Within the face of every daemon, there lurks an angel, for every daemon seeks salvation. Bear with me, dear reader, for I shall regale you with a tale of such an unfortunate.
Whenever Lucien traveled, humanity avoided him, often trembling in dread. The sensation would vary by certain degrees, but the results were the same. Encroaching on his personal space was the equivalent to crossing barren tundra in the furthest most regions of the world.
However, the freezing climate lacked any similarity to the sudden and incomprehensible chill assailing any person nearing him.
An unfathomable flow of silent energy radiated from the man’s body. The vibrant source likened to an underlying agitation that dimmed, magnified, and then spilled from his lean length. This impression contained a forcefulness that vibrated in great and unseen waves, similar to an electrical surge of static. The burst would increase tenfold before spiraling up and out, reverberating quietly into the air.
This current of energy wasn’t the only item different about the lone individual.
There was something unspoken and dark about him, perhaps an awareness governed by a more fearful sense. He didn’t have to move aside, since unseen hands seemed to repel human forms from his presence. It was pointless to warn the crowd of their trespasses with even a burning glare, for an untouched space of nearly two feet encircled him.
It was best humanity avoided him as if he were evil personified, he reasoned. He couldn't deny the charges, nor hide from what he truly was, a creation of evil. Whether it was the vileness lurking within his genetic pool, the chill spilling from him, or a sense of impending death, he remained alone. He had long forgotten the simple feel of a human touch and the contact of warm skin.
The lack of human contact tore at him.
Humanity rushed past, year after year, century after century. Forced to endure an existence not of his making, he remained condemned to a life of loneliness and regret. He halted in the middle of the crowded sidewalk. Intentionally, he remained where he stood. Disgruntled figures pushed past, reaching, but never touching. Mortal resentment blazed in the brightness of their eyes, but he avoided them.
Instead, he rolled his shoulders, forcing their negativity to vanish on wordless fingers.
The grinding sound of his own vertebrae echoed in his sensitive ears, and he straightened. He rolled his shoulders again, ignoring the sounds of protest issued, and his tongue flicked over his front teeth. He savored the faint aromas existing beyond of decaying foliage, and the over-perfumed human bodies, or the refuse rotted nearby in over-flowing trash bins.
Secretly, he sought to taste the moisture evident in the mid-autumn air, knowing rain would arrive soon.
He raised his face to the approaching twilight and threw his head back. His nostrils flared and his gaze scanned the weighty under-bellies of the clouds overhead. His eyes narrowed to fine slits, fringed by light-colored lashes, and he sniffed at the air.
His senses tingled, and he inhaled, filling his lungs. His mouth twitched and he quivered with barely constrained exhilaration, the pervasive scent of humanity vanishing. He smirked as a solitary drop of wetness landed on his raised cheek, the single bead as light as a long suppressed teardrop. The diminutive speck trailed past the corner of his lips, then his jaw. There, the drop quivered before flowing into the collar of his dark trench coat.
His tense body relaxed.
The raindrops were soft, trailing over his closed lids, and resting like opalescent pearls on his lashes. Yet another droplet struck, and Lucien’s smile broadened. The warmth displayed in the single action caused many pedestrians to hesitate, marveling at his striking appearance. Another long sigh escaped him, and he remained unaware of the strange image he presented.
His arms flew wide, as if he intended to capture each precious drop. The unaccustomed foreignness of an overjoyed chuckle threatened to erupt from his chest.
It had been so long since he had surrendered to unabashed pleasure, and his throat ached.
The slender column of neck muscles rippled, and a rusty sound flew forth. The low pitch of the chuckle rose, as light as the drops from above, before warming to an all-consuming laugh. The rapture of the moment glowed in his face, and a few people hesitated, staring at him in wonder.
Lean and tall, his height was more at ease with the humans of this century than in the last. There was a distinct haughtiness to his face, defined by slashing cheekbones and an aquiline nose. His jaw was firm, bordering on stubbornness, and his lips were a thin slash of color in an otherwise colorless face.
He knew his appearance was remarkable, but he hid the knowledge within a wall of shame.
His arms fell limply to his sides, but his face remained pointed heavenward. The briefest touch of pain filled his features, and a gentle sigh seeped from the bonds of his still heart. Palms upwards, he lifted his hands and flexed his fingers.
Within seconds, his palms became drenched, the wetness running in thick trails from his fingertips.
He shook the dampness away and ran his hands though his waist length, startling white hair. His fingers parted the sodden strands into deep and marked furrows. He remained oddly detached in the midst of the mêlée while he extracted a fine nest of tangles.
His hands fell free and he lifted them again to the swolle
n skies. The rain began to fall in earnest, soaking the thick material of his trench coat. Languorously, he inhaled the marked freshness filling the humid evening air.
Underneath the scent of rain and mist, he detected the unmistakable fragrance of night, hauntingly sweet and beckoning. Soon, twilight would bring the shadows haunting him.
Blinded by the deluge of rain, his eyes stinging, he blinked. Drenched, he wiped the rain from his face, the droplets falling from his cheekbones and chin. To a man of weaker constitution, he would have worried about his health as he stood in the torrent, opting to join the multitudes scurrying for shelter.
Not fearing sickness, he remained where he stood, damp strands of hair sticking to his skin. He had forgotten what the infirmity encompassed, for illness was a frailty delicate humans contracted, not one such as him.
He drew in an extra deep and useless breath, wiping the rain from his face with a rough sweep of his hand.
Old habits die hard, and some simply refused to die, much as his own life.
He stifled the urge to voice the bitter words and sunk his teeth into his lower lip, remembering the many human fallacies from which he didn’t suffer. Breathing, speaking, sickness, heartbeat, and the need for human companionship…everything he hadn’t experienced for centuries.
The palm of his left hand ached with the course of his thoughts.
The sting wasn't the normal twinge of a long forgotten scar. Instead, it was the ever-persistent ache of horribly singed flesh, brutally marked with his father's seal. The brand, as painful as the night administered, encompassed the delicate flesh between the base of his fingers and wrist. The symptom of pain was the only sensation he retained, all others reduced to vague memories.
The ache he welcomed, for it reminded him he was still part of the world, albeit neither living, nor breathing.
Normally, he kept the hand gloved. The gruesomeness of the mark one he didn’t wish anyone to glimpse, the sensitive skin puckered into a grisly oval design of lewdly intertwined demons and angels.
Abruptly, his father's coarse words echoed loudly in his ears … I should know my enemies and my friends. You are neither, and you are an abomination to those who dwell in my house!
He curled his fingers into the aching flesh, his nails digging deep. The action wouldn't draw a single crimson drop of precious blood, for the vital liquid hadn’t pulsed through his veins since his transformation. Scars would fail to materialize from the sharp tips, and he carried only the marks inflicted during his human existence.
His suffering and damnation were penalty for his unwanted, supernatural gift.
He unfurled his fingers from his tortured palm and allowed cool rain to pelt the stinging flesh. Ruefully, he acknowledged the brand was a lesser punishment than what he might have suffered. In his youth, his father would have granted a weaker human the torments of fire, the lash, or the terror of being drawn and quartered.
It was enough his sire demanded the brand as adequate recompense, warning him of the identity of his twin sons. Perhaps, though, if D'Angel the Destroyer had been capable of understanding the entirety of the witch’s curse, he would have granted one son a more benevolent fate…death.
Instead, he remained condemned to a world overflowing with spirits.
His thoughts of the past fading, Lucien focused on the humans surrounding him. In a scant matter of seconds, and to his changing vision, the mortals lost any semblance of solidity. The outlines defining each figure wavered and blurred, resembling watercolor forms suffering the force of the rain.
Soon, images far more ethereal would replace the rapidly abating masses. To the ungifted eye, the sepia colored shapes were invisible. The ability to recognize their existence depended on the spectator, but few mortals perceived the images among the living.
In the shadows of the inky evening, he detected the undead. They were the spirits of the damned, the poor wretches everlastingly lost and abandoned, and those condemned to remain earthbound.
The presence of these unfortunate souls was commonplace among the breathing, their numbers equaling their counterparts. If anyone chose to speak to him, Lucien could testify the spirits lurked everywhere. Bound to an endless purgatory, those souls remained lost in a world that didn't recognize them. Humans suspected, and then disproved their reality, despite evidence otherwise. Left behind, they suffered. Unseen, mortals couldn’t hear their whispers, pleading for salvation.
The memory of Lucien’s heart ached in his chest. The persistent burn in his palm accentuated the sense, while he sympathized with the plight of the unseen hordes. He knew of their suffering, for they suffered much as he, trapped, ensnared evermore in the unseeing universe.
His life, as well as theirs, was an indescribable Hell.
The ghastly images became nearly indistinguishable in the encroaching nightfall, the flickering phantoms made more transparent by the pelting rain. Each smoky soul twisted and contorted, their hollow eye sockets gleaming bright, a sense of the rage threatening to erupt from them.
Daemon's blood.
The harshly accusing words, barely audible to the human ear, resembled a soft whisper of wind. Lucien readily recognized each syllable, as if he were a part of the haunted masses. He shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets and turned away, his bitterness, and grief apparent.
He couldn't fight what he bore witness to, nor disagree with the charges.
Daemon's blood.
The hushed menace behind the baleful words was unmistakable, the phrase issued in a drawn out hiss. He couldn't deny them, for they identified him fittingly. Crafted by the daemon that once ruled St. Lorraine, Lucien D’Angel was of the demon's blood.
His condemned soul sought what he would never find, the answer to the prophetic curse whispered in his youth, his redemption by the blessing of an Angel's Fire.
What the Angel's Fire was, Lucien was uncertain. For more years than he cared to recount, he sought the light of his deliverance. The flame would be the fabled redeeming quality, the salvation of his soul, and he longed for the ever-elusive brilliance promised.
Grimly, he wiped glistening drops of rain from his face. As swiftly as he performed the action, an absolute sense of impenetrable blackness overtook him. In a fleeting moment, he succumbed to his deeper, more volatile sense. His vision grew more finely tuned, resembling that of a hunted animal, forever fleeing the baying hounds nipping at his heels.
He scanned his surroundings, apprehension evident in his stance, before he paused. He wiped a shaking hand across the wetness blinding his darkened eyes, and strove to clear his vision. Stunned, he repeated the action. His nostrils flared and he shook his head, bewildered. Long strands of drenched hair whipped about his shoulders, and his dazed sight, commonly acute, blurred before alighting on the oddity that drew him.
In his refined vision, among the figures of the tortured spirits of the lost, an intensely glowing light blinded him. The brilliance was remarkable and breathtaking, reminding him of starlight.
It took a moment to notice the petite figure in the midst of the blinding luminosity, that of a young child. She sat on a vacant bench of a covered bus stop, the overhanging outline of the structure hardly visible in the pouring rain.
Purposely slowing his steps, intent on not frightening her, Lucien moved forward. He halted, his useless breath quivering from his strangely strangled lungs. A foreign, albeit thunderous, roar flooded his ears.
“Don’t be afraid, child.” His whispered words trembled. The last thing he wanted was for the child to bolt, and take with her this mysterious ray of starlight.
“I'm not afraid of you.”
A profound calmness flowed mistily about him, emanating from the seated child, and bathing him in an unfamiliar glow. Lucien felt unusual, as if he were in the presence of a spirit with the ability to rob him of both thought and his own accursed life source. A peculiarity, if he took the time to consider the petiteness of the individual.
“Do you not fear me?” He felt
the essence of his cursed existence drawn into her red-rimmed eyes.
Children, humanity in general, avoided him. This child was different, for she didn't flinch, nor cower. She continued to stare, her brown eyes wide and trusting, and filled with unspoken hurt.
She had been crying---great heartfelt tears he recalled from his own childhood. The girl's eyes dropped and she drew her knees up to her chest, placing her arms about her limbs. He noticed she was careful to avoid the dampened hem of her jeans and wet socks.
The child's lips pulled slightly. It seemed she was carefully considering his words, and her sad gaze swept over him. Silent, she examined him, her thoughts pensive before a shadow darkened her gaze.
“No,” she answered abruptly. "I'm not afraid of you."
“Why?” Her candor startled him.
“You’re not the bad man.”
Despite the tears hovering beneath the surface, she granted him the sweetness of a trusting smile. Her eyes crinkled before she placed her round chin on her knees.
He wasn’t the bad man…
“How do you know I'm not?” His words quivered and his speech was rusty with disuse. A chill enveloped him and he dropped to his knees, his nocturnal sight ebbing. She remained strangely silent, gazing into the rapidly lightening color of his gaze, appearing to seek the person hidden deep within.
“You just aren't,” she reaffirmed with the saddest of smiles. There was a vacant gap where her front teeth should have been, granting her a youthfulness he envied. The glow radiating about her grew tenfold as she continued to stare his eyes.
“How do you know?” He dared to ask again and she shrugged her shoulders.
“I think there's someone else that looks like you. Reese says,” she huffed for a moment, struggling to recall unfamiliar words. “There’s another man wearing the devil’s coat.”
The Soul Collector Page 2