“I'm three hundred and ninety-eight years old.”
“Bullshit!” She snapped and looked him over critically. “You can’t be any more than thirty-five!”�
“I was twenty-one when my curse was delivered onto me,” he left the explanation hanging and Eva sensed unspoken pain. “I fail to age as a living human does. More or less, the passage of nearly every twenty-five or thirty years of a human life is the equivalent of one of mine.”�
“Living human?” Eva felt the baby fine hairs on the back of her neck rise. �
“Yes, a living human.”
“If you’re not human, what are you?” She questioned. “I see a man, as far as I can tell.”
“What your eyes show you isn’t a lie. There’s a slight exception, though. I'm not as you, I merely exist, nothing more. I'm simply a shell encompassing organs, an illusion relying on a costume of flesh.” �
“I..."�words failed her and she felt her brain had shut down, her confusion intense.
“Have I managed to leave you speechless?” A single brow rose.
“I don't know,” she responded candidly, a part of her thinking his story would make a fantastic bestseller. “I'm trying to be objective.” �
“You refuse to believe me?” �
“You did say you're close to four hundred years old?” �
“Yes,” he shrugged, his action barely registering.
Eva's lips tightened. “Well, I imagine this is the most ridiculous fairytale I’ve heard!"
“Stranger matters have occurred.” �
“Fine,” she grumbled. “Let's just say what you're telling me bears some sort of truth. If you aren't human, then what are you?” �
“What would you want to believe?” He executed the same shrug, his expression placid. “What do you presume I am, Evangeline?”
“Tabloid fodder says, to become one of your elite crew members, you either have a pact with the devil, or you're a vampire.” She scoffed at the absurdity of the words as she uttered them.
“You can’t consider my age, but you would prefer to imagine I’m of some other creation, besides human?” He left the question hanging in the air and took a hesitant step toward her.
“I’m quirky like that.” She answered sarcastically. “So, are you a vampire?” �
He laughed, the smoky sound filling the room. Amused, he continued to chuckle, wiping mirthful tears from his eyes.
“I'm not a blood crazed vampire.” Eva felt color flood her face. “Your lovely neck is perfectly safe.” �
“So, are you in league with the devil?”
“No, not with the devil.” �
She couldn’t miss the stress he placed on his response.
“Are you one of the undead?” �
“I can't be, if I’ve never experienced death.” He supplied the answer as if he were discussing the weather. However, she did catch the faintest sense of remorse and irony clouding his admission.
“D'Angel.” �
The name fell from her numb lips, and she realized it did fit him, oddly enough. He brought to mind the paintings of angels from her youth, elaborate images filling the stained glass windows at her parent’s church. Those same angels had been pale and glowing, radiating with an indefinable serenity.
She sensed any angelic reference to Lucien D'Angel hit a distinctly sour note.
“Yes, my name is D'Angel.” He reiterated, but she was aware of the expression that suddenly flooded his face. Intense disgust was clearly etched in every line, the name not one he cared to acknowledge. He shook himself, sloughing off whatever demons that invaded his thoughts.
As he took another hesitant step toward her, Eva wondered why she felt more chilled than she’d ever felt in her life.
“We’ve got that much down,” she managed tightly.
“There are oddities in this world the normal and fragile human mind can't accept.” For a second, he appeared to restrain a shiver of his own. “What I'm prepared to show to you, Evangeline, I need you to grasp with an open mind.” �
“Why?” �
He took another step toward her. The intense darkness of his eyes didn’t reflect the gentle lighting filled the room, and she heard a sharply inhaled breath somewhere in the deep recesses of her ear. Eva realized the wavering spirit of her brother vanished as rapidly as he appeared.
Without uttering a word, Lucien lifted his pale hands, the flesh of nearly colorless palms level. She pulled back, startled by the unexpected action, and powerless to restrain a choking gasp of revulsion.
Resplendent in the glow filling his apartment, her host carried scars more common to a world century’s old. Savagely burnt into his left hand, he wore a circular brand depicting a multitude of angels and demons, eternally intertwined, and cavorting in a lewd dance of death.
As she watched, a yelp of unavoidable fright escaped her bloodless lips.
The scar burned with an intensity only rival to a freshly applied brand. The garish images appeared to absorb all radiant light and illuminated the room with a gleaming display of intense white. The winged angels rose brightly, withdrawing mighty swords that shot minute rays of reddish flame against the abnormal pallor of his skin.
Eva fell back into the sofa as the engraved demons danced wildly against his flesh, their faces twisting into hideous visages of terror and fear.
“I need you.” His plea was heartfelt although his words struck a chord of dread deep within her.
“Why?” The word stuck in her throat as she cringed back into the leather cushions.
“I want to die.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
I shall grace you with what little heart remains, for the rest has been plundered by the darkness of my own damned existence�
Lucien D'Angel was grateful he didn't have a heartbeat.
If he did, the betraying beat of the organ would have prevented him from reaching where he stood.
Instead, he would've reverted to the cowardice of his youth, and remained in his apartment. There, he would be safe from the darkness, and the unsettling image of one mortal woman.
He was elated he didn't need his lungs.
If he’d been able to inhale one semblance of a breath, he knew the trembling air would be strangled. If forced to endure a stuttering heartbeat and unable to capture the most minuscule of breaths, he wouldn't have arrived where he stood.
He chuckled uncomfortably.
Perhaps, facing Julian's wrath would've been far easier.
He looked at the foyer floor of her apartment complex. He, Lucien D'Angel, stood on the threshold of a dwelling in a century old brownstone. The once second in line to the infamous throne of St. Lorraine was hesitant, and despising every damned moment.
His wariness was all due to one female, one he couldn't afford to slip away.
His death depended on her co-operation.
Lucien felt frustrated, the sensation one that hadn’t been part of his chemical make-up for more years than he remembered. He battled spirits on a daily basis, all without a second thought, but she unsettled him with one glance. It took only one doe eyed look from sensual Evangeline Keegan to toss him, headfirst, into a world he never had experienced.
Since their fateful meeting, she shook him to the core of his forgotten humanity. She placed within him an anxiety that didn’t reside in his carefully structured life.
Without knowing why, she had shattered his calm.
The woman had left his apartment in absolute terror a week earlier. He recalled the expression in her horrified eyes, and the memory pained him. He couldn’t blame her for her fear, though. Reese’s spirit had been enough, but his action had driven her over the edge.
Upon reflection, he expected her reaction.
There wasn't a soul who could withstand the horror in the depths of his brutally maltreated hand. He shrugged and considered the thought. The sentiment of repugnance extended to him, and his abhorrence was the reason behind the constant use of leather gloves
.
Reconsidering the events of the disastrous evening, Lucien chose to stay away, not wanting to see the disgust he knew would be evident in her dark eyes.
Nevertheless, despite his vow to wait, he had to speak to her. A week was ample for her to gather scattered thoughts and understand the spirit shadowing her.
He lifted a gloved hand and closed his eyes, a disconcerting quiver assail his normally calm nerves. He bit at the sensitive skin of his lower lip, his teeth digging deep into the tender flesh. Evangeline, despite the years spent observing her every move, remained an enigma. He didn't know if she’d grant him audience, and he hoped she’d allow the more journalistic side to overtake any thoughts of self-preservation.
Lucien opened his eyes, the brightness of the hall lights blinding him. He blinked before focusing on the high sheen of the polished brass knocker before him. He glared at his distorted reflection, the outline of the implement brilliant against the dull hue of the crimson colored portal. Silent, his eyes darkened, his concentration directed toward the entity hovering beyond the door.
Reese Keegan’s spirit was strong.
He felt the familiar burn of his palm beneath the thickness of the gloves, and realized strong wasn’t an adequate word. Reese’s ghost contained an essence rivaling any of the demonic or intelligent figures so prevalent in the city's shadows. He would've been an intimidating energy to be reckoned with, if he were of a darker disposition.
At present, Reese wasn't the essence of the docile spirit, but neither was he something to fear. Instead, Lucien sensed a protective force. The ghost would only resort to the more intense nature if anything threatened his sister.
“Commendable behavior, Keegan,” Lucien murmured the words of praise to himself.
He detected the soft hum of the voices, one the woman filling his thoughts, and the other of the phantasm. The precise words were indecipherable to human ears, but they gave Lucien pause. His head shifted to the side and he attempted to interpret the sounds, pulling, and separating the ghostly images of the others lingering in the hallway.
He was correct in his assumption; Eva's brother was more than strong, his words becoming more clear with each passing second. He didn't plea for understanding, nor did he seek what his sister wouldn't freely grant. He merely repeated the undeniable facts of her life.
Lucien smiled remorsefully at Evangeline's obvious grumble of displeasure, knowing she was far from pleased. His lips twitched while he deciphered her muttered words, and he imagined the discontented expression she wore. No longer was she a troubled waif running from disapproval. She fought and revolted against everything and, even now, she revealed a tenacity he envied.
She had changed during the last decade, which made him distance himself. As a man, he endured a curse far worse than the one haunting him. It didn't require a beating heart to fill him with a need, for Evangeline had matured into a luscious woman, ripe with delectable curves and intelligence. His overactive imagination unraveled illicit thoughts during the late evening hours, and each thought centered on the woman holding his existence in her hands. He suffered from a hunger, perhaps an obsession, which endangered the notion of the salvation she offered.
Above death, and redemption, Lucien D'Angel hungered for her.
He hadn’t savored a woman's touch in more centuries than he cared to remember. A vivid and deprived imagination brought the wonder of Evangeline's supple curves to his mind. Her softly rounded features summoned forth a need he thought erased, and his mind tormented him with an insatiable and unfulfilled hunger. Lucien grimaced; thankful the lack of pulsating blood prevented him from suffering from a rampantly surging groin.
“You’ve become a beastly animal, D’Angel.” He chastised harshly beneath his breath, wondering if the soul of the daemon lurked more within his psyche. Evangeline was special, the lone link to fulfilling a prophecy, and he shuddered to imagine the consequences if he chose to succumb to his weaker side.
Lucien slid the length of his hand across the door, the dark color of his leather glove bright against the crimson colored wood, before drawing himself upright. Resigned, his expression bleak, he dropped the weight of the brass knocker down.
There was the distinct sound of a heavy bolt moving, the latch scraping loudly. Tense, his palm burning, Lucien's mind rebelled against the images of seduction filling his tormented thoughts. His shoulders straightened militarily beneath the heaviness of his coat, and he drew himself rigidly upwards.
The door opened and revealed a face forever etched into his psyche. Suspiciously, Eva perused his hesitant form, and he stifled a wounded frown. The heaviness of her scowl said what she didn't voice…she wasn't pleased that he, of all people, stood on her threshold.
“Good evening, Evangeline,” he murmured. Evident beneath the surface of her entrancing and cosmetic free features, he knew she was irritated. Whether the ire was directed at him, or the image hovering within the apartment, he remained uncertain.
If there had been any chance he could have expected another reaction, he was wrong, and couldn't fault her if she slammed the door. He was grasping and straws and hoped …no, prayed, she would accept him.
Eva didn't return his greeting, and exhaled resigned breath from pinched nostrils while she scrutinized him. Her expression didn’t change as she stepped away.
Lucien contained a pained wince, wondering if the door was going to slam shut.
To his surprise, there was the unmistakable rattle of added latches before the portal flew open. She turned and he grimaced, pulling his hands from his pockets as he entered. He closed the door behind him, ignoring the multitude of locks decorating the panel.
Lucien's gaze was riveted as she irritably paced her apartment. He watched each step she executed on ridiculously slippered feet, her spine rigid. His frown deepened as his gaze shifted from her rounded curves and traveled over the living room.
Lush colors of cream and red brightened the room, accentuated with large turquoise colored throw pillows. The hues were lively, reflecting the warmth of her nature simmering just below the surface. Prints filled the walls, varying from photographs of her estranged family to movie posters hearkening of a bygone era. Lucien granted Eva a few eccentricities as his wandering regard rested on enlarged pictures of various tabloid covers, all revealing her smiling face.
Her image was everywhere, except on the glowing screen of the desktop computer.
He stilled his flinch, the face on the bright screen one he couldn't fail to recognize. It was the photograph of a brilliantly executed portrait, revealing the image of the one man he hoped obliterated from his past.
Lucien's grimace vanished. His pained gaze lifted to her wan face, made paler by the obvious lack of cosmetics. She appeared frazzled, her shoulder length hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, and dark circles evident beneath her large eyes. His lips tightened into a thin line and he nodded.
Silent, he looked her over. Despite her high flush, her mere essence made him control an unbidden tremor. To his jaded eyes, she was his angel, his fire, sent to grant him salvation.
Eva appeared more entrancing tonight, wearing faded denim jeans and a form-fitting Henley. The fabric clung and accentuated every deliciously rounded curve of her body and Lucien winced. The image on the computer faded from his thoughts, and his mind spiraled into the deepest depths of the proverbial gutter.
Striving for self-control, he focused on the flickering sepia image that stood at a discreet distance. Staring into the wavering features, he recognized the censure in the specter's judgmental frown.
Shamefaced, Lucien did the one thing he had never done in his life to any form, living or dead…he gave Reese an apologetic shrug.
“Evangeline, I understand my being here is difficult for you,” Lucien began.
“Difficult wouldn't be the correct word,” she answered, her voice echoing. “I figured you’d show up sooner or later.”
He smiled weakly. “I imagine your week has been…”
“Ah,” he interjected, knowingly. “I, of all people, understand.” �
She gave an unladylike snort.
“I suppose you could, Lucien,” she supplied, her gaze flicking over his dark attire. She imagined four hundred years would give someone many memories, and more than a few unhealthy nightmares.�Brushing her thoughts aside, she spun about, her slippers squeaking on the wooden floor. The smoky image of her brother was nearby and she was content he remained silent.
“Will you allow me to explain?” �
“I let you into my apartment, didn't I?” She snapped, running her hands over the thighs of her jeans. He couldn't control the direction of his gaze and watched her repeat the action, a strange sensation twisting in his gut. “If I didn't want you in here, trust me, you wouldn't have made it past the stoop.” �
Mildly amused, Lucien bit his lip. He pulled his attention away from her delightful curves, and pushed his gloved hands deeper into his coat pockets. His stomach fluttering, he encouraged her to continue, knowing a tirade simmered violently beneath the surface.
“He,”�she lifted her hand and pointed at the shimmery figure wavering in the far corner. “That thing! Ah, hell, I haven't had a warm apartment in nearly a week. I’m freezing, no matter how much I turn up the heat, or how many sweaters I wear. And,” she almost screeched the words, her fingertips wagging at the lone spirit, “I can't get a moment’s peace! He just won't shut up!” �
Lucien listened tolerantly to her outburst. He detected the trailing lilt of unmistakable laughter filling the room, the eerie sound barely discernible. Eva's hands rose to cover her ears, vainly attempting to block the sound, and her grimace visibly deepened. She flinched and spun about, her attention leaping from one, then to the other. The frustrated expression she wore said far more than any words falling from her luscious lips.
“You make him laugh.” Lucien noticed the deep grimace forming between her arched brows and the downward pull of her full lips.
The Soul Collector Page 9