The Soul Collector

by Quijas, Tamela

  “You were downtown, lost, in the pouring rain.”�

  Eva nodded, incapable of doing much else. The memory was foggy, dim shadows of years gone by.

  “You weren’t frightened, as you should have been,”� Lucien continued, his voice evolving into a smoky whisper. He began to rock on his heels and she sensed his agitation.

  “I wasn't frightened,”� she admitted, dazed.

  “There was a reason why you didn't show any fear.”

  “I…”��

  “Look at the glass,”� he instructed gently. “Look and you will see the man within isn’t some manufactured form of trickery.”

  Feeling tethered to a marionette’s fragile strings, she turned. The tarnished mirror was before her, the warm glow of lamps evident in the reflection. She clearly saw her image, the warm beige of her sweater and tailored black skirt in the forefront. Lucien stood a few feet behind her, his figure barely discernible due to his dark attire.

  The figure sent a new wave of goose flesh over her skin. The sepia colored outline wavered and flickered, resembling a dissipating puff of smoke as it hovered in the air. She blinked, afraid to close her eyes, fearing the figure would dissolve as rapidly as it appeared. Some part of her rationalized the image wasn't an illusion, especially when his face creased into the slow semblance of a smile.

  The spirit was that of a young man, his ridiculously skinny figure, and angular features familiar. There was a soft blurring around the edges of his face as he wavered in the air, and his body turned questioningly to the other male occupying the room. Eva followed suit and stared at Lucien. He returned her perplexed regard, his expression bland.

  Her eyes wandered back to the reflection. She paled and her face reflected a flood of indecipherable emotions. Awe and confusion were evident, mingled with a startled disbelief.

  At first, uncertain, fear ran through her. Her heart jumped and she squinted, the chill increasing. The supernatural figure at her side didn't move, becoming more solid, while the air about her grew frigid. Again, she glanced toward Lucien, struggling to regain the normalcy of her accelerating heartbeat.

  Her freezing hand sought the smoothness of the back of her neck while she stared at him in confusion. She shuddered, knowing her eyes were shadowed with emotion, although they didn't bear the slightest resemblance to his darkening gaze.

  She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. As her lashes rose, an unexplainable soft radiance filled the room. With each passing second, the glow brightened, throwing the far corners in deep shadows. In the brilliance, the fathomless steel grayness of Lucien’s eyes vanished, replaced by impenetrable obsidian.

  As their gazes met, she felt her legs would buckle. She shuddered while he continued to stare at her, his face devoid of emotion. His lips tightened and the last remaining vestige of color drained from her, her soul drawn into the unholy hue of his piercing regard.

  Lucien was the first to break the hold he held over her, and the room swirled while she struggled to regain a much-needed breath. Frantically, she attempted to gather the insane thoughts threatening to run screaming from her mind. Her gaze darted back to the antique glass, wanting to reassurance of the image revealed in the blemished depths.

  “Please, don’t faint.” She heard his plea but, in the deep recesses of her mind, she detected the whispery sound of raucous laughter. The humorous reverberation appeared to erupt from the figure standing in wispy reflection at her side.

  She staggered to the couch. The calves of her legs struck smooth leather, and Eva collapsed. This time, she didn't care as the material protested. Incapable of speech, or coherent thought, she gulped, the action tearing at her throat. Her stunned attention shifted from the mirror, then to the man whose unearthly eyes bore into her. She blinked and assessed the situation, wondering if she’d ever be place two words into an intelligible sentence after tonight.

  Lucien took a careful step backwards and stood by his chair, not seeking the abandoned comfort. It was obvious he intended to place as much space between them imaginable. She was unable to meet the darkness of his intent gaze and, instead, her eyes dropped to his hands. The pallor of his flesh appeared as brilliant as two bright beacons against his dark trousers.

  He self-consciously slipped his hands into his pockets. Eva watched him for a long moment before her attention rose to the baffling darkness of his gaze. Her breath escaped her in a short little pant while she struggled to calm myself.

  “Evangeline…” He began softly, his voice a whisper.

  “Don’t you dare Evangeline me!” She snapped as she regained her breath.

  “Let me explain…”

  “Explain?” She shouted furiously. “What could you possibly tell me?”

  “If you allow me…”

  “Damn it! Ever since I did that interview with you, I’ve suffered two,” she paused and calculated the hours. “Shall we make it nearly three sleepless nights?”

  “I didn't intend to disturb your sleep, Evangeline.” Lucien appeared contrite, although his jaw tightened.

  “I’ve listened to this insatiable hum, in here.” She tapped her forefinger to her clammy forehead, and glared at him. “It’s driving me crazy and I’m tired of it!”

  “I'm not responsible for what you’re hearing.” He protested with absolute innocence, his attention on the luminescent form hovering by the gilded frame. Lucien’s eyes held censure, and he grimaced at the flickering image. “If you have the need to place blame anywhere, blame him.”

  Eva shifted a sidelong glance at the mirror, and the translucent outline shimmered. Her jaw tightened and her eyes narrowed, her cheek color alternating between a heated flush and stark pallor. She swallowed and turned.

  “This…this….this thing is responsible?” She waved her trembling hand at the spirit.

  “The voice and image are not of my making.”

  “Have I gone crazy?” Eva managed to choke out the question, unable to think. There was an inner war waging within her, the journalism side longing to rationalize the situation, and the human side wanting to run in fear.

  “No,” Lucien responded. “You haven't.”

  “I’m not absolutely certain.”

  “Lunacy’s never been a predominate factor in your family,” he assured with a grim quirk of his lips. “To be honest, out of all your relations, you're the sanest person I know.”

  She let his comment hang in the air, unclear if she should be offended. She stared at him, striving to remain calm, and felt she was losing control of the situation.

  “You can you see him, too?” She questioned in a hushed monotone, minute traces of shock lacing her normally steady voice.

  Lucien’s hands tightened into fists deep in his pockets. The sigh escaping him was far heavier, revealing his discomfort. She stared into the unnatural darkness of his eyes, seeking answers, and he couldn’t maintain the contact.

  He contemplated how to tell her of his power. The task was far more difficult than he imagined, since he hadn’t revealed his secret to a living soul for nearly four centuries. His lids lowered over his eyes as the living world tilted around him.

  “I asked if you could see him,” she repeated more forcefully, rising. His eyes flew open and, hastily, he stepped back. Her hand touched air, and she growled in frustration.

  “I've always seen him.” His admission was grudging, the grinding sound of his teeth loud. The darkness of his vision ebbed and the familiar steel color of his eyes swept over her anguished features.

  “Always?”

  “Yes,” Lucien didn't lift his eyes.

  “Can you hear him?” Her voice dropped to a whisper.

  “I can.” Ruefully, he nodded. “Not as clearly but, yes. I can hear what he says, if I choose to listen.”

  “He sounds…”

  Lucien looked at the spectral image that had remained on the fringes of this woman’s life. This man had been a determining factor of her existence, and an essential part of her youth. As she’d
grown and stopped believing, he remained. His presence, although otherworldly, had shaped and molded her.

  “The hum is an attempt to reconnect with your inner psyche.” He supplied the explanation in the gentlest way possible, his hands leaving his pockets and hanging at his sides.

  “Why does he want me?” She asked in a whisper.

  “You were close, at one time.”

  “So all this noise I keep hearing…”

  “The sounds are not just noise. I can imagine you hear an incessant droning later punctuated with intense whispers?” He sensed her nod. “The murmuring, did they sound like a hundred voices running rampant in your head, each clamoring for attention?”

  She nodded. “I felt I stepped into a nightmare.”

  Lucien emitted a humorless chuckle, his lips curling. She referred to the sounds he heard every waking moment of the day as the effects of a bad dream and he wished his life were as simple.

  His nightmare was never-ending, and there wasn’t any possibility of escape.

  “It’s not what you imagine,” he assured her, not turning from the mirror. “You aren’t mad. Instead, you’ve been granted a bizarre gift most paranormal investigators would envy.”

  “A gift?” She retorted scathingly and scowled. “Your damned paranormal investigators can have it back! I want a refund!”

  “I’m sorry, Evangeline.” He seemed truly contrite. “You’ve been granted a gift that'll not leave you, unless he chooses to seek haven elsewhere.”

  She exhaled, and Lucien was aware the young man remained solidly at his post by the imperfect glass. The wraith like figure-displayed hesitance before his head flew back and his shoulders shook.

  “Is he laughing?” Eva questioned, her scowl deepening. Lucien didn’t turn, but he did manage a tight smile.

  “Rest assure, he’s not laughing at you,” he hurried to explain. “He’s amused because you’ve regained the ability to see him, again.”

  “What the hell do you mean by again?”

  “When you were a child, you had the power,” he lifted his hand to the spirit, his expression grim. “He's always been at your side.”

  “I don’t believe you!”

  “Listen,” Lucien instructed, observing the ghost’s lips as they moved, the hum of indistinguishable words filling his sensitive ears. “He'll tell you of your past, and your life to this point.”

  “You’re crazy!” She screeched.

  “I wish I were,” Lucien sighed, the sound heavy. “Look at him, Evangeline. Truly look at him. Can you honestly say you don't recognize him?”

  Lucien remained silent and, for the present, the voice in her head screeched halt. Both men looked at her, if she could describe the ghostly image as such, their expressions hopeful. Her gaze focused on the unmistakable truth evident before her eyes and a sob ripped from her aching throat, and tears welled.

  She couldn't ignore the spirit, his shadowy image reminding her of her youth. She knew him for what he had been...the epitome of the perfect older brother who never returned home.

  “Reese,” she whispered, tears streaming and dripping from the soft curve of her chin. She repeated the name reverently. “Why can I see him?”

  Carefully, he selected his words. “As I said, you’ve been granted a power, a gift.”

  “Ah, that damn gift, again.”

  “Evangeline,” he paused, his uncertainty evident. “Sometimes, we aren’t given a choice in what fate deals us.”

  “Why me?” She sobbed.

  “I don’t know,” the simple declaration filled her with trepidation. “Your brother has chosen you for his own reasons. Why is beyond my understanding.”

  “I don’t understand….”

  “Think of the past.” He urged. “What do you remember of your brother?”

  “There’s four of us, at least there was,” she managed thickly. “Reese was the oldest, followed by Francis and Mariah. I’m the youngest, but we were always close, despite the age gap. Reese spoiled me, and he called me his little darling.”

  “You were close?”

  Eva’s eyes closed and a great sense of calm swept over her, the familiar sound of his gentle voice became suddenly clear. “I had forgotten him.”

  “No, you didn’t forget, you became an adult,” Lucien supplied soothingly. “Children are far more receptive to the world beyond what adults envision, and see what adults ignore.”

  “Who are you?” She managed with a gulp, her question sounding peculiarly distorted. She staggered, wavering on the ridiculous height of her heels.

  He remained silent, his shoulders slumped, his expression dejected.

  “I want to know who you were, Angeles!” She was unaware of the sharpness that entered her voice and Lucien longed to smile.

  Were.

  Unknowingly, she selected the only word that could describe him.

  “That’s a difficult question to answer.”

  “Will you just answer it?” Irritated, she wiped tears away.

  “Do you promise not to have an attack of the vapors, if I do?” He asked again, more to assure himself she was thinking clearly.

  “I'm not going to faint, damn it!” She snarled.

  She pressed her knuckles to the ache forming in her temple. Petulantly, she threw the weight of her body back into the couch, wearily closing her aching eyes. The suddenness of her actions appeared to place Lucien at a loss, and he remained silent for a long while.

  When he did speak, his words were soft, as if he were aware of her speedily growing headache.

  “You’re the first person I’ve known who has had the otherworld revealed to them.” He cleared his throat, and frowned. She opened her eyes, wondering why it appeared difficult for him.

  “Continue,” she ordered.

  “You truly amazed me." He admitted ruefully. "You see what is impossible for most to understand, yet known I speak the truth.”

  She watched him exhale a slow breath and wondered why the action brought a cryptic smirk to his otherwise placid features.

  “There’s so much I want to say, Evangeline,” he admitted. “I don’t know how much you’ll accept.”

  His lips tightened while he lowered his hand. He longed to reassure her, but comfort seemed impossible. His gaze lifted to the supernatural being hovering nearby, and there was deep-seated resignation evident in his face.

  Uncertain whether she’d bolt from his apartment in terror, he was grateful she hadn’t reverted to the proverbial screaming banshee at the precise moment she’d seen the spectral image.

  “If I can accept a disembodied spirit, I assure you I’m not going to freak out with whatever else you have to show me.”

  “My name is Lucien,” he began, his words halting.�

  “I already know that much,” she snapped irritably, sensing he was stalling.

  “I was born Lucien D'Angel.”�

  “Fine,” Eva attempted an uncaring shrug at his admission. “D’Angel. I suppose that explains why I couldn't Google you.”

  “Except for my books and show, you wouldn’t have found anything under the name Angeles.” He admitted with a chilling smirk. “If you used D’Angel, though, you would have discovered something far more sinister.”

  She paused and her eyes narrowed. “Give it a rest, D’Angel. If you had a sinister past, there’d be a mug shot somewhere.”

  He shook his head. “I doubt that, dear.”

  “Okay, then, let’s go with the obvious,” she retorted, choosing to ignore his comment. “I have to give you credit, mister. Angeles, D'Angel. At least your choice in names bears some similarity, since they both translate into angel.”�

  “Don’t mock me, or point fingers, Evangeline,” he chastised, a steel edge creeping into his rebuke. “It appears those guilty of the same sin are the first to condemn it.”

  She flushed. Lucien D'Angel wasn't the only person with a pseudonym. Her name, Evangeline Keegan, had always been a mouthful. She’d discovered people had a t
endency to remember the simple name she used.

  “It wasn’t my intent to mock you,” she responded with forced humility, and he gave her a slight nod. Her lips tightened as she waited for him to continue.

  “I am not guilty of any crimes.” He sighed deeply, his expression brooding.

  “What do you mean?” She was growing more confused by the minute.

  “I was christened was Lucien D'Angel,” she sensed the admission were difficult. “During the era your infant country was being discovered, my father conquered the kingdom of St. Lorraine.”�

  “Your father?” Eva questioned with skeptical disbelief.

  “My father was known as D'Angel the Destroyer, for apt reasons.” There was an obvious lack of pride in his pensive tones. “You can please yourself and discover all the information you want on your precious laptop. There’s a few sites dedicated to the atrocities he inflicted on the masses.”�

  The name he uttered, D'Angel the Destroyer, sent an uncomfortable chill rippling over her and she rubbed her hands over her arms.

  “Are you seriously expecting me to imagine you were born four centuries ago?”

  He shrugged, though his lips quirked at her outraged tone.

  “If you can see a ghost, why can’t I be four centuries old?”

  “Fine, let’s suppose you are that old.” Her tone said otherwise. “You couldn't have a father named D'Angel the Good, Lord of Just and Might?”�

  �He shrugged. “I can only supply you with the information you request.”�

  She released the tight hold on her arms and waved a dismissing hand, gracing him with a sarcastic smile. “Please, continue with this fantastic tale of yours. I'm riveted!”�

  “My father had two heirs,” ignoring her sarcasm, he rocked again on his heels, his brow furrowing. “We were born the year he laid claim to St. Lorraine.”�

  “Are you telling me you're from the sixteen hundreds?” She couldn't contain her obvious disbelief.

  “1615, to be precise,” he offered effortlessly.

  “1615,”� she repeated the date dumbly, echoing his frown. “If you were born in 1615 that meansyou’re…”�Eva paused as she attempted to crunch the dates in her head. Unable to concentrate, and numbers became a confused jumble.