The Demon Collector

by Erik Lynd

  Some of the inmates, those least in control of their faculties, giggled at the colorful show. But even they stopped as bubbles drifted closer. The floating globes of power slowly spread out, each one narrowing in on a target. Soon, the bubbles entered cells.

  Then the screams began.

  At first just screams and yell of panic, then of terror, then they turned to cries of pain. One by one what had happened to the first prisoner was repeated.

  The Collector walked the ward smiling, laughing at the antics of his little seeds. They clawed at the bars that held them in, or shredded their mattresses. Each was transformed, but each was different, beautiful in its own way.

  When all the bubbles had found their hosts, when all the howls and yelling had reached their peak, the Collector looked to the demon in the walls. The gremlins that did the tech work. "Open it all up," he said.

  In moments all the doors slid open with a rattle and a bang. The horde piled out; a wave of half-human, half-beast creatures flowed from the cells, swirling about the Collector. He spread his arms, laughing loudly. They swarmed about him in a frenzy, but did not harm him. They never would. They were part of his collection after all.

  The doors to the ward slid open and the Collector pointed towards them. "Time to go children, time to remake the world. And don't worry. There are plenty of other prisoners to play with along the way."

  The Collector smiled as they almost danced their way out of the ward.

  11

  "He’s here," said the soul shaper as she burst into the dining room.

  Golyat looked up from the paper he was reading. The New York Times, not one of these Mexican rags. He had it brought to him from the local market. The latest news was important now, to gauge the unrest, the fire they were stoking. Yes, he did get most of his news from online, but there was something satisfying about holding real paper. Or maybe he was just old-fashioned. He could remember a time when paper was as valuable as gold.

  She stared at him across the large dining table. Everything was large in this house, this hacienda. Golyat hated small places. He tolerated cars, but only for short periods. He only flew in private jets so he would have room, space around him.

  That is why he had purchased this hacienda in the Polanco district of Mexico City. It was one of the largest single homes in the city, filling the entire city block. Soaring ceilings, large double doors throughout, classic regional architecture. Beautiful and opulent, just the way Golyat liked it.

  The table stretched out before him could easily seat twenty. The chandelier above, the furniture along the side of the room were all ornate enough to boarder on ostentatious. Three plates, empty except for the scraps of his breakfast, sat on the table in front of him. Moments before they had been filled with eggs, bacon, and all manner of other breakfast food. He was a large man with a large appetite, he ate about five times the average human. The chair he sat it was also large, custom-made and big enough to fit two normal men.

  Although it was early, he was already wearing a suit, dressed for the day. His suits were his pride and joy, custom tailored for him by the world’s best tailors. He had stashed a large cache of them underground for his use after the end of the world. He will be the best-dressed person during the apocalypse.

  "Grace, my girl, how many times must I tell you to knock before bursting in like that?"

  Grace was the witch and soul shaper he had claimed from Anabelle after she failed to dispatch the new Hunter of Lost Souls. Besides that failure, she had violated the trust and rules of the Alliance by using their resources without permission. Although even Golyat would admit 'trust and rules' were a stretch.

  Grace was a young girl with talent well beyond her age. She was fourteen, and when he had inherited her she had been mostly dirt and bruises: a weak and mousy child, afraid of everything. She had suffered for a long time with Annabelle; the woman had viewed her like a garden tool: use it as much as possible and when it breaks, throw it away and get a new one. In truth, she was a tool to Golyat as well, but like any tool, if you take care of it—clean it up, keep it well maintained—it can last a long time. Only when you are done with your project do you throw it away.

  He had cleaned her up, given her clothes—she wore jeans and a t-shirt for the moment, but she had a whole wardrobe of beautiful things—fed her well, and she blossomed. Both in beauty and in power. She had blond hair, no longer brown from caked-in dirt as it was when he had first rescued her. Her pale skin held just a hint of color, not the pasty dullness of malnutrition and having been kept in a dark basement. Her eyes were still meek and fearful, he had seen to that, but they also now held an edge to them as though she was starting to see a glimmer of her power and what she could do with it.

  Her control was becoming better; soon she would be able to manipulate the shard of the Hunter's soul they had taken from him. Then the Hunter himself would be Golyat's tool. One he could be less gentle with and still last a million lifetimes.

  "I'm sorry sir...I didn't mean to... I'm..." Grace stammered, suddenly that fearful girl she had been.

  "Steady girl. I will not beat you this time, but you must remember these things."

  She nodded her head, visibly relieved. He did not beat her as much as Anabelle and he didn't usually treat her as dirt, but when he did beat her, she never forgot the lesson.

  "I’m sorry, I just thought you should know. He’s here."

  "Who, my girl?" Although as he asked, Golyat already thought he knew the answer.

  "The Hunter sir," she said quietly. Grace was across the room from him, but she winced as she said it, ready for him to strike out of anger. He held back when he did hit her—he would kill her with one strike otherwise—but the blows were devastating nonetheless, leaving her broken for days at a time.

  "Here? In Mexico?" He asked.

  She nodded. "Here in Mexico City."

  "You have felt this?"

  Again, she nodded, eyes downcast. "Yes. I had been feeling something odd all night. This morning I touched the shard of his soul as I practiced. That's when I knew he was nearby."

  Golyat stood, the chair creaked in relief as his massive bulk lifted off of it. "How could that be? There’s no way he could know."

  He stood up and walked to the window overlooking part of the city. He stared intently as though he might be able to spot the boy. "How did this happen?" It was possible that the new Hunter had resources he was unaware of, but unlikely. More likely the boy picked up a clue or was directly told by a traitor in the Alliance. That last thought disturbed him the most.

  "I don't know how he found out, Mr. Golyat, but he’s here now. I can feel it when I touch the shard of his soul. It calls to him although he might not know it. He might even be drawn to it."

  "It can't be coincidence, girl. Nobody comes to Mexico City in winter for a vacation. Most likely we are betrayed. I will have my people look for him. In the morning we leave for the ruins, the work there is almost done." He looked at Grace, as though he would smile, but he didn't. He never smiled. "You have done well, girl. Now go and practice more with the shard. It doesn't matter that he is here, he is still a boy. He would have tried to fight us at some point anyway. And now we have a secret weapon."

  "What is that, Mr. Golyat?"

  He approached her slowly until he towered over her by several feet. He could see the fear in her eyes. "Why you, my dear, of course. If he somehow manages to defeat all that we have for him, then you will be the final act. You will make him ours. But first let’s take the opportunity to send him an appetizer. I'll have my people start at the nicer hotels; he has money now and like any kid, I bet he’s itching to use it."

  12

  Christopher was on his third margarita, top shelf tequila. Why not, he reasoned; he was loaded. Maybe it was his fourth, he had lost count. But he deserved it. Only a few hours ago he had gone through his second training session at the Library.

  This time the session had been with a charming Cossack who didn't try to hi
de his joy in beating Christopher. Musashi had at least tried to keep from laughing at him.

  This time there was no forest. Christopher had found himself in the steppes—eastern Russia, probably. The cold air, once again more vibrant than reality, cut into his skin like daggers of ice.

  A man, wearing red baggy trousers, a heavy brown shirt, and thick vest, stepped from nowhere it seemed. He had a thick mustache and several days’ growth of beard on his cheeks and chin. He carried two curved swords. He looked pissed.

  "You know what this is, what we do?" the man asked.

  "Yes. I mean, I’ve done this once before."

  "Good, then we begin."

  He tossed one of the sheathed swords to Christopher. Caught by surprise, he wasn't fast enough and fumbled the catch, dropping it in the most spectacular way possible.

  "This will be a long day," the man said. "Now pick it up."

  He lifted his blade as though to strike. Christopher snatched the blade off the ground and clumsily pulled it from its sheath. "Wait! We are using real swords? Shouldn't we use practice ones?"

  The man hesitated as though confused. "Why? You cannot die here."

  "Yes, but I’ll still feel it if you cut my arm off."

  "But pain is good; it is the best teacher. You are lucky to learn in such a way." The man raised his sword again to strike.

  "Wait!" Christopher frantically thought of something to stall him. He wasn't ready for live blade practice. "I don't even know your name?"

  "True. I am Ivan Platov, and I will cut you a lot today, but you will be stronger for it."

  Now, sitting in the hotel bar, still feeling all the cuts and bruises slowly fade away, he wasn't sure he was any stronger.

  "Might want to go easy on those margaritas; technically the vacation part of this trip hasn't even started yet," Eris said. She was nursing her own margarita, and appeared to be better restrained, it was only her second.

  They sat in the hotel restaurant on the top floor of the building. Large windows gave amazing views of the city below. It had recently been remodeled and had a modern, straight-line feel too it. Spanish music quietly played in the background. The low murmuring of the other patrons and the occasional clink of plates from the kitchen added to the atmosphere.

  The food, too, smelled amazing when Christopher forced himself to focus on it. Though, when he didn’t focus, he could smell more than the food in the kitchen; he opened himself up to smelling the corruption of the souls around him. And that scent was not pleasant. He had gotten better at switching that skill off when he didn't need it. But still, all it took was a stray thought about the people around him or a good sniff and then it was there. He could smell the slick oily scent of the man next to him who had stolen millions from his clients to fund his sex tourism to countries where his unique desires were catered to. Christopher didn't want to dive too deeply into that. Or the odor coming off the soul of a woman who killed her first child out of frustration and framed her first husband for the crime. He shut these things out as much as possible; to not do so would drive him mad.

  Of course, not all of the patrons had such a stench around them. Most were just average, a blend of good and bad, good choices and wrong ones. For the average person Christopher would have to look deep into the shifting pattern of their soul to read anything about their sins.

  Then there were the good. The innocent child sitting with her parents was fresh and pure, with only the hint of a stain on her soul. Probably some minor transgression, not yet strong enough to corrupt her scent.

  He had once told Hamlin that this ability he had to see and smell the weight of a person’s soul was like spending life walking through a beautiful flower garden fertilized with shit.

  Christopher looked at his cell phone for the time. "Where's Hamlin? I thought he would be joining us."

  He had gotten them each their own suite on the same floor as his, best they had available. When they had come down, Hamlin had said he would be right behind them.

  Eris shrugged, "I don't know, but I think we’re doing great by ourselves," she said with a faint smile on her lips. "Where's Hellcat?"

  "Upstairs sleeping on the bed. I told her to fade if housekeeping came."

  Eris laughed, "That would be awesome. Can you imagine the maid walking in and seeing a giant panther on the bed?"

  "Yeah, it would be horrible. They'd probably make me pay a pet deposit or something."

  This got another laugh out of Eris and he joined in, finally starting to feel the stress of the day slip away. It had been nice, just talking as though they were normal people. They talked about the simple stuff: how cool the hotel was, what they thought about the city. That slid into discussion of the future, hopes and dreams. The normal stuff you talk about with friends. It was hard though, Eris' lack of memory made every subject somewhat tricky for her; with no history to fall back on, she could only give her thoughts in the moment. Sometimes she struggled visibly and Christopher's heart went out to her. They couldn't avoid the dark cloud over them. He had to say something.

  "Look, I know that I haven't been really attentive to your... problem. I mean I know I’m supposed to be helping you and Dark Eris separate, or de-possess, whatever you want to call it," Christopher started.

  "It's okay Chris, we've been really busy, with, you know, hunting down bad guys and saving people and all that."

  "Yeah but it must be hard, two people trapped in the same body."

  "It is," she said looking down at her hands, "but it's hard to describe. I don't want to say we’re getting used to it, but it is getting easier I guess. I don't know, I told you I don't understand it exactly. Sometimes..."

  Despite the dimly lit restaurant, Christopher could see the transformation as Eris was replaced by Dark Eris. The only physical changed was the darkening of her eyes, but it was the shift in body language that really gave it away.

  "...It's like we’re sisters," Dark Eris finished. She tossed back the margarita, risky considering the potential brain freeze. "Enough of this sweet stuff, I need something harder." She winked at him.

  "Sisters?" That took Christopher by surprise. "I thought you couldn't wait to be rid of each other?"

  "Oh, I still think she wants to be separated; me too, although I am a little less enthusiastic since I would just end up back in Hell. But I think it's safe to say we are getting somewhat used to each other. Not perfectly, but then again sisters fight. We’re beginning to understand each other a little more."

  "You would have to return to Hell?" He wasn't sure how he felt about that. It might be her rightful place and they had only been together a short time, but he thought he would miss her if she wasn't part of the team.

  "Yes, I'd have no choice. Demons don't exist long in the mortal world without possessing a body. We eventually lose our hold on the world and sink into Hell."

  "Is that the only reason you want to stay?"

  She raised an amused eyebrow at him and seemed like she was about to say something sarcastic when she paused. Her smile dropped and suddenly she looked serious or maybe concerned.

  "No, there is something more. At first, we thought this was some sort of dumb luck, some mystic occurrence that just decided to fuck with us. I mean, we had no idea how it happened, no one to ask, no help except I remembered you, or the existence of your office at least. I could remember that, I had no idea it was you, of course; I was expecting the Beast, but there you were."

  "And I’m no help."

  "So far," Eris said, she had switched back and a smile had returned to her face, "But I have faith in you."

  "She was telling me that something had changed in your um... condition. She said at first you thought this was just dumb luck?"

  "Maybe. Yes, there’s something different. We don't think it’s dumb luck anymore. It is so hard to talk about. We are starting to feel like we have a purpose."

  "A purpose? Like what?"

  "I don't know. I told, you it's so hard to describe and so confusing.
"

  She suddenly looked so sad he wanted to reach out to her. He settled for placing his hand on top of hers. As soon as they touched she looked at him and the sadness seemed to disappear.

  "The only thing I do know is that I…we…like being with you. Just like this, here and now, just talking."

  Christopher was stunned by the admission. He stuttered, not sure what to say, but before he had a chance to get something out it was too late.

  "Am I interrupting anything?" Hamlin asked with a glance at their touching hands.

  For some reason this made them both yank their hands back as if burned. "No, no, we were just waiting for you."

  "Good because I'm starving. Sitting around all day staring at a laptop is exhausting."

  "Did you figure anything out? Any ideas about what’s going to happen?"

  "No, but various protesting has picked up all around the world. The internet, social networking thingies and all that are all going crazy. The more I read it the more I think it’s somehow artificial. I mean some of it just seems so contrived, so fake."

  "You don't spend much time online, do you?" Christopher asked. "What you just said is the definition of the internet."

  "Yeah, yeah. I know, but I just got this gut feeling. I mean it's like every activist group for every cause decided to protest at the same time. I read a couple of articles that the groups themselves don't really understand what exactly they are protesting."

  "Well I guess we’ll be here if something does happen, but I really think it will just be some malware and the typical protest we’ve been seeing."

  "And the cryptic ancient writing on the website?" Eris asked.

  "Now that does seem strange, but maybe they just found the writing somewhere and thought it would be cool. Make it look more ominous or something. Either way I need to use the bathroom." Christopher pushed back his chair and stood. The room wavered a little, the alcohol was catching up to him.

  "You okay kid?" Hamlin asked.

  "Yeah, just feel'n it a little, but hey, it’s a vacation."