The Demon Collector

by Erik Lynd

  19

  "Well, the Demon Collector fellow seems like a high-class guy, epitome of human evolution," Hamlin said.

  "Yeah, and that was just the stuff he did before dying and going to Hell. I'm sure since his escape he’s done even worse. I mean, that perverted need mixed with whatever powers he could have dragged back from Hell..." Christopher said.

  He was sprawled on the couch in the lair. He stared blankly at the stone-gray walls trying to clear his mind. He had a whiskey near him, it was his second since returning from the Library. It hadn't escape him that he was drinking a lot more now, but he thought it was to be expected. Being the embodiment of Damnation caused a lot of stress.

  He had to hunt, he knew that, but he needed a moment to think and to speak with the others, although he wasn't sure why; it's not like they had any idea what he was going through. They didn't understand his stress. He felt Eris’ eyes on him from across the sitting area. She watched him with a frown on her face. What the hell was that all about?

  "So, what are we going to do?" Hamlin asked.

  "We? Since when did you get the Hell power?"

  Hamlin frowned. "Okay kid, what are you going to do?"

  "I don't have much of a choice. I need to hunt the Demon Collector down and stop him."

  "No," Eris said suddenly. "You can't, not in your... condition."

  "My condition?" asked Christopher.

  Eris had stood up and shifted from foot to foot. "Yes, your condition. I have been trying to tell you. You’re not you. You are becoming something else, something not…good. We... you need to fix that first. I think hunting isn’t a good idea until we fix what’s wrong with you."

  "'What is wrong with me?' What is wrong with me? I'll admit there is something...off…since the bite from the werehellhound," said Christopher. There was a short whining sound from Hell Cat. "No, I don't blame you, girl. The dark soul was controlling you until my command," Christopher continued, then turned back to Eris. "But I don't have time to go 'fix me'. Today is this first day of chaos. I have to stop the Collector before his army destroys everything."

  Eris folded her arms and looked down at him, somehow fiercer than Dark Eris had ever looked. "You need your soul back or you won’t be able to stop what is coming. You’re too weak and vulnerable in this condition..."

  "ENOUGH," Christopher commanded. He rose from his seat, and darkness gathered around him; clouds of dark mist filled the room. He felt the power flowing though him, arcing out and painting the room in flashes of blue and white. The shadows had pulled to him and he was once more wrapped in his hooded coat. He towered over Eris.

  But it was not Eris that stared back at him. Dark Eris didn't blink, her face a stoic mask as she faced him. She wasn't moving. She just stood there daring him to do something.

  "Christopher!" Hamlin shouted.

  "I’m going to hunt. I will harvest his soul."

  He turned and gathered the shadows close about him so that they couldn’t see his face, but he could see the hurt and anger on their faces.

  He had no time for that. The rage had him now, its power coursing through him. Better to forget them, better to forget her. He summoned Hellcat to his side and she flowed into the shadows around him, somewhat reluctantly he felt. Great. Was she was against him now too? But at least she was backing him up. Not calling him weak and vulnerable.

  He left the lair heading down the tunnel to the slum. He would stalk the streets, try to catch the scent of the dark soul. He flowed through the sewer tunnel, letting the shadows carry him along, pulling and pushing so that he almost floated. He leapt up the stairs and slammed open the metal door; it screamed in protest with rusted hinges and twisting metal.

  On the other side of the door he paused. If he appeared on the streets like this, he would be recognized, at least as the character from the YouTube videos. Word would spread, and no doubt the Collector would hear. The Librarian was right; the Collector might be waiting for him, but he didn't need to announce his presence. He still might have the advantage of surprise.

  Christopher released the shadows and they fell back into place. He kept the coat however, shaping it into a black hoodie. He still couldn't afford to show his face, not to mention that a white man walking the streets of a Mexican slum might seem a little out of place. His control of shadow was still fairly rudimentary, but it was enough to keep his face in the dark.

  "Fade," he commanded Hellcat. She obediently disappeared into the shadows.

  Looking less like hell on earth, he exited the building and stepped onto the streets of Neza-Chalco-Izta. The streets of the slum were not loud like the streets of New York, but the noise was constant. It was still early in the evening, just after seven. The sun had set, but people still roamed the street.

  Christopher thought of it as a street, but it was more of a concrete slab. Several inhabitants looked at him, startled by his sudden and out of place appearance. But for the most part he was ignored. The buildings were old, decrepit. Where they were falling down, cinder blocks and corrugated metal sheets filled the holes. Tarps stretched across exposed roofs and open second-floor doorways. Sheets, not curtains, filled most windows. But in contrast, even in the dark, he could see that some of the cinder blocks were painted bright colors. He could see art: street graffiti mostly, but a lot of it was artistic, not destructive. Despite the impoverished conditions, some took pride in what they had.

  Music played in the distance, traditional perhaps, but it was hard to tell. Another radio playing more modern pop songs was closer. TVs, audible through open windows, also jumbled into the mix. He could hear arguments and laughter.

  And the smells. There was the expected odor of trash, his heightened senses could detect it clearly, but there were also the smells of dinners cooking: fragrant foods filled with spices filled the air—along with the more unpleasant smells.

  As Christopher passed he shifted his vision, scanning the pedestrians about him. Weighing their souls almost automatically. He could see their sins, and there were many and they were horrible for some, but he could also the goodness, the love of life. He saw the ones dragged down by drugs or crime, he saw the ones that had given up and embraced the corruption, but he had also seen the ones that fought on, that nurtured that spark of life to lead them out of whatever darkness they had been surrounded by. Yes, there was extreme poverty here, but there was also community. Death held a place here, but that seemed to make life all the more important.

  Still, poverty bred evil and he found it here more than anywhere else he had been. Whether it was the families that had sold children into sex trafficking, the murderers that walked the streets, the drug gangs that poisoned and killed, there were plenty here who deserved the judgment of damnation. He sorted through it all, looking past the mortal sins to the darkness behind. He searched for the dark soul.

  Christopher walked the streets trying to catch the scent of the Collector. It didn't take him long. Instinctively he ran through what he knew of him, this Fredrick Bailey. As he mentally thumbed through the life told in the journal, it hit him. The stench of the dark soul cut through the smells that permeated the slums. The scent was stronger than before, not because he thought his prey was closer; it was more like the scent was clearer. It was as if knowing something about Fredrick Bailey's life and damnation somehow attuned him to the dark soul.

  He could taste the soul-stench on his tongue. It was disgusting, but also distinctive. He could almost taste what his prey was thinking. It was unending thirst for collecting his objects of power.

  "Jesus, he's worse than a Pokémon player," Christopher mumbled to himself. He almost giggled, but then caught himself. It would not do for the Lord of Damnation to be seen giggling.

  He sped up after he caught the scent. The hunger to take a soul was growing stronger and pushing him faster and faster. He looked inside the people he encountered, searching their souls for the telltale sign of demonic taint.

  He found murder and death, he found abuse
and hate. He found injustice and self-loathing. He found the sadistic and the just plain angry. But no demonic blemish on a soul, just normal mortal malevolence. It wasn't until he was deep in the slums, still following the scent of the Collector—the spore of the dark soul getting stronger with each step—that he spotted his first demon.

  It stood in a window gazing down at the street. Christopher saw it before it saw him, and he ducked back into an alley. All the streets were alleys, but at least he had the cover of a wall. He peeked around the corner to confirm he had not been seen. He hoped that out of full costume he might not be recognizable, just another dude in a hoodie. The last thing he wanted to do was get himself noticed.

  "And what the fuck do we have here," came a voice from behind him.

  Christopher spun, but was able to resist releasing the Weapon or pulling the shadows to him. Behind him stood two men—large and made mostly of muscle, heads shaved, skin covered with tattoos. In the dark Christopher could see the tattoos clearly; he couldn't understand them, but he knew what it meant. These men were part of a gang.

  "Oh great," he said.

  "Was that English, motherfucker?" The leader glanced at Christopher's hands. Christopher had ensured that his face was not visible, but his hands were another matter. "What the fuck is an American white boy doing in our little community?"

  At first Christopher tried to think up a good lie. Something about being with a charity group, trying to do research for a documentary. But he didn't really have time for all that, and they would probably just want to kill him anyway. He settled for the direct approach.

  He looked into their auras, sifting through their souls, and what he found made his stomach turn. He moved quickly, before they could react. He caught the younger of the two men, not much more than a boy, by the neck and threw him against the wall of the alley. The man smacked against it and slid down, stunned.

  The shadows came instantly by his command and draped him in his long coat and hood. The Hunter of Lost Souls, Lord of Damnation stood before the gang members in his full glory.

  The thug had not moved; it had happened too fast. His mouth hung open in shock and terror. Christopher switched to Spanish.

  A growl let him know Hellcat was with him, by his side. The gang member's eyes shifted briefly to the giant panther as she coalesced from the shadows. Panic and terror played across his face. He must have realized who Christopher was.

  "You are Carlos Garcia. You murdered at least ten men and raped countless women. You think power over people through terror is true power. You are wrong,"

  Christopher stepped closer to the thug, who backed away, pressing himself against the wall as though trying to bury himself in the brick.

  "You are him, aren't you? You aren't going to do anything, right? I mean you're the good guy, man," the man pleaded.

  "But the worst?" Christopher continued. "The worst is what you did to your mother, to your sister. You killed your own mother while she slept and then you quietly went into your little sister’s room and raped her."

  "How? There's no way you could have known about that shit. No way!"

  "But I do, just as I know when you were tired of her, you sold her. First to your friends and then to anybody with enough pesos."

  The man had slid to the ground, still trying to sink away. He had his hands up as though that could stop Christopher.

  "No, I can explain. I mean that's not what happened. You can't do this! You're the good guy," the man pleaded again.

  "You don't need to explain Carlos. I know you, the real you."

  Christopher had pulled the Weapon out. It transformed into a large, wicked-looking knife crackling with power and hunger.

  "And for the record, I am far from a good guy."

  Christopher caught him by the neck and lifted. He brought the knife down, slicing through muscle, bone, and soul. He felt the blade snag the man's soul, and the gang member's eyes widened with fear and the sudden realization that there are fates worse than dying. In the next instance, his soul was sucked into the blade and the life went out of his eyes.

  Christopher dropped the lifeless body and turned to the stunned young man lying on the ground. His soul was different. Christopher looked through it, tasting his life. It was a bad one, filled with abuse: horrible torture first from his father, then from the gang that forced him to join. He was not innocent, but he was not in the league of the hard-core thug whose soul Christopher had just eviscerated.

  And Christopher didn't care.

  The hunger was on him stronger than before and his will to fight it was weaker, so much weaker. This was a gang member. If he wasn't truly corrupt, he someday would be. He had done his fair share of crimes. He deserved damnation. It was Christopher's job to judge him, to condemn him to eternal Hell.

  There was something wrong here: he knew it, could sense it. But he was beyond that. He alone had the right to pass judgment, he could not be wrong. The lust was on him and the part of him that had kept this...need…in check was weak.

  "Please," the man pleaded. Just as the other had. "I don't want to die. This is all wrong."

  "No," Christopher spoke calmly. "It is so right. I condemn you to eternal damnation."

  The blade flashed and took the young man's soul. Blood from the vicious cut splattered along the wall of the alley. The lifeless body sank to the ground as the Hunter of Lost Souls reveled in the taking.

  The hunger was still on Christopher, but there were no immediate souls around to take. The Weapon wanted him to run into the streets taking souls. This was the slums; there were no innocents in the slums.

  But even as he thought that, he heard the music again. He heard laughter, he smelled the dinners cooking. He forced the logic, the realization that this place was not inherently evil. Not everyone deserves damnation, no matter how much it might seem like it.

  He put the Weapon away; without victims nearby the lust was manageable. Hellcat, sensing she was to hide again, faded into the shadows. He looked down at his latest victim. The need to harvest had receded, leaving in its place nausea. There was something wrong here. He had done something wrong.

  No, he told himself. You did your job.

  Yes, the man deserved his judgment; Christopher had made the right decision. Besides, he didn't have time for this. He glanced back at the alley entrance. What were the chances the demon in the window hadn't notice this display of power?

  Christopher looked around the corner. The window was empty. He had his answer. The demon had seen something and was off to report to its master.

  "Shit," he said.

  He once more dismissed the shadows of his coat until he was again dressed only in a hoodie. He had to assume the Collector knew he was coming, but he didn't need to stand out like a sore thumb.

  He picked up the scent again and walked deeper into the slum. The streets became narrower, darker as though the smaller they got the less light they drew in. There were few streetlights in general around here, but as he followed the scent there was less light, fewer people: as though they subconsciously knew to avoid this area.

  The buildings were more run down here. Cracked and crumbling, they looked like they could fall in at any moment. Dirt and trash lay thicker here on the streets, and where there wasn't trash there was brick rubble where the walls had partially come down. No music played, no laughter. The bright colors and decorations were gone now. Just gray and dingy buildings.

  It wasn't completely quiet. He could hear the occasional cough or incoherent grunt. Just moments before, the noises he heard had been the sounds of life; here, it was the sound of the dying.

  He knew he was getting close, the stench of wrongness was incredibly strong here. He kept to the shadows, stretching them to provide him some cover. They would be watching for him, he knew, but he had to get as close as he could. He just hoped he wouldn't be fighting through a horde of demons for that last ten feet.

  Then he turned a corner and realized he had found it. He quickly ducked back
behind the house he had just passed.

  It was a building, five stories high, the tallest building around. It wasn't a free-standing home, like some of the decaying structures in this area, but a building very much like a townhouse. The structures on either side had been reduced to rubble, making this one appear stark and alone.

  The walls were dark gray—darker than everything around it, giving the impression it was almost black. It had two upper windows and one wide front door. It had the appearance of a face with black, rotting teeth. Nothing moved around it, almost as if this area was a ghost town. Not two streets over there had been people: worn out, destitute people seemingly drained of life, but still they were there. Here was emptiness.

  There had to be guards, somebody keeping watch, but Christopher saw no one in the windows or on the roof, demon or otherwise. This was the house, it had to be; the trail of the Collector led right to it. Christopher could taste the evil essence on his tongue. It was thick around this building, but it looked deserted.

  He skirted around the outside, hidden in the shadows and shelter of the deserted homes that surrounded the black house. Originally, the black house had shared walls with the homes on either side, so there were no windows or doors on those walls, just the dark gray stone. There were more windows in the back and a door: all heavily boarded up. No entry there.

  Throughout his reconnaissance Christopher felt eyes on him, watching his every move, but he saw no one. If there were demons outside of that home, he would have been able to feel it, smell them if they were close enough. If the Collector truly had an army there would be some sign; they wouldn't all fit inside that black house.

  He wasn't an idiot. He knew it was probably a trap, but he had no choice, he would have to spring it.

  20

  "My God," Hamlin whispered.

  He stared dumbfounded at the screens. He had several news channels open. Facebook was also open, several accounts streaming at once. Twitter was spewing short messages across another screen. Hamlin was no tech whiz, but he could get the sites up and running with all the applications on the system. Eris had helped him with social media sites.