Repossessors of Souls: Expendable Pawns

by Danae Ayusso

  His amber and black eyes moved around the area, looking for a sign of the soul, but nothing registered with his extra perception. Irritated and slightly disappointed, he turned to leave when a soft whimper came from the darkness and the heavy iron chain pulled slightly, the clanking of the links against each other echoing throughout the space, and his heart started to pound in his chest.

  With a sword in one hand, white and gold flames sprang to life and danced across the blade, and a dagger in his other hand, he slowly crept towards the darkness, careful not to make a sound.

  The flames from his sword illuminated enough that he could eventually see the battered body curled into the fetal position in the back of the cave, the chain secured around its neck in a metal collar that was much too tight and had cut into the soul’s skin, streaking it with dark red blood.

  This doesn’t make sense, Angelus mentally argued, I was sent to find a soul, not a person!

  The battered body convulsed, causing him to jump back startled, and he readied his weapons.

  “Will you please just do it already, I beg of you. Let me die.”

  Angelus had to strain to hear the pained, whispered words, but the emotion and agony behind each ripped through him, dropping him to his knees. The weapons fell from his hands and clanged loudly against the floor.

  Zion is a woman, a…I do not understand, this isn’t a demon. Father, please hear me, what do I do? Angelus pleaded, his eyes moving over the woman many times trying to figure out if he should follow his father’s directive or return home.

  “I know you are there. I can hear you, bastard son of an Ahuizhotl!” Zion yelled, her head lolling to the side to face him. Both of her eyes were swollen shut, her face was battered beyond anything he had ever seen before, her smooth skin was scarred with new and old burns, poorly tended to cuts, and stab wounds littered her arms and chest, even her breasts were scarred. Not an inch of her was spared from their relentless beatings and torture.

  Tears flooded Angelus’ eyes: a first for him.

  “Who are you?” she stammered then started coughing and choking before spitting up an unhealthy amount of blood. She fell back to the stone floor and sighed. “You do not smell as the others do,” she said, then using the last of her strength, slowly started clawing her way towards him.

  Unable to move or say anything, he sat there watching the pitiful creature claw her way over to him. It was obvious that each movement caused her unimaginable pain, but she never cried out. The woman was fearless and determined; two things that he found indescribably attractive and respected in a woman. When the backs of her bloody and broken fingers brushed against his hand, Angelus gasped and his head started to swim.

  “Please, m’Lord,” she whimpered, and clawed up his body, pulling herself up as far as she could before she lost the battle and slumped against him.

  Instantly Angelus’ arms were around her, holding her tight to his body, her swollen cheek resting against his.

  “Kill me, I beg of you,” she whispered.

  Angelus opened his mouth more than once, but nothing came out; he was completely speechless.

  A demon he would kill without giving it a second thought, but this wasn’t a demon, not even close. What she was, he didn’t know, but what he did know was that she wasn’t evil or bad, and that his father was right; this soul would cause a war between their worlds and bring ruin to his.

  “I cannot, I am sorry,” he finally whispered.

  Zion sighed and tears streaked down her swollen and split cheeks. “Can you tell me what I have done?” she pleaded in a whisper.

  This confused the angel holding her. “What do you mean?”

  She sniveled. “m’Lord, what did I do that was so terrible that it warranted such horrific punishment? I do not recall doing anything wrong or bad. I kept to myself as much as possible. Please tell me so I can apologize and may die with a clear conscience.”

  And that was it.

  Anger flared in the usually levelheaded angel, and he took up his sword and slammed it down against the thick chain anchoring the woman to the stone. The fragile woman jumped, startled, in his arms, but made no attempt at trying to scramble away from him. He held her as tight as he could with one arm while the other swung his sword over and over into the magically bound chain, eventually hacking through the thick metal.

  “Who are you?” Zion choked, relief flooding her for the first time in her entire life.

  “No one,” Angelus told her, pulling Zion’s broken and battered body into his arms.

  “No one has ever felt so safe,” she mused before unconsciousness took her over.

  Unable to stop himself, Angelus kissed her forehead and held Zion even tighter against his body. “You will be safe, even if it is the last thing I do,” he promised the unconscious woman.

  For days, Angelus and the woman ran through the maddening mazes of Hell. When he needed to rest, they hid in the darkest corners and deepest crevasses they could find. The battered woman shivered and shook, even in the hundred-and-twenty degree humid environment of her home. She was freezing, and a fever was running rampant through her system. Angelus wrapped her in his angelic garb, the tunic covering past her round backside, and he couldn’t help to think that even bruised and scarred, he’d never seen anything so beautiful.

  When Zion was strong enough to support her own weight, she ran behind him, her hand wrapped around his, as she blindly followed him through the winding maze of darkness. Angelus wrapped her feet in thin straps of cloth from the tunic and secured his pampooties to her feet. He would be fine, and his pain would be inconsequential if she was spared from anymore than she had already endured.

  The angel lost count of how many he killed, even those that didn’t pose a threat, but looked at the blind woman with him for longer than Angelus would have liked, were ran through with his sword. None of them deserved the honor of looking upon her, scarred and beaten, blind and broken or not. They were beneath her in every way possible, even the angel fighting and risking his life, his reputation with his own people, and his heart, was beneath her in his opinion. If nothing else came of this, he wouldn’t fail her; he couldn’t. This creature, this woman...this girl that he knew nothing about, that he hadn’t said anything to since freeing her from her shackles, owned his soul, and more importantly, his heart.

  When they reached the end of a long corridor and could go no further, he pulled the exhausted girl in his arms tighter against his chest as she whimpered and convulsed from the nightmares plaguing her unconscious mind, dropped the angel to his knees.

  “Father, hear my prayers. I beg of you; pull this soul from Hell. If anything, Father, she needs and deserves to live. If Hell requires a soul, take mine, I forfeit my soul for hers. Please, Father,” he begged, then screamed in frustration when his prayers when unanswered.

  “You will both leave here and never return,” a deep voice said from the darkness, and Angelus pulled a blade, ready to defend the woman in his arms.

  Out from the darkness a man stepped, his black on black suit was perfectly tailored to his muscular body, and his large black on black eyes moved over the body in the angel’s arms many times.

  “You will not touch her,” Angelus hissed.

  “No, I won’t,” the demon said to Angelus’ surprise then looked up at the angel, and his black on black eyes turned white, amber and black. “Take her as far from here as possible, and then you go as far away from her as inhumanly possible,” he said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Tell your father, our father, thank you for saving my daughter. She is all I have left, and I never wanted her in this world, yet I was not strong enough to part with her. I will help pull your souls from Hell, but you have to promise that you will never tell her nor seek her out, and never reveal the truth behind your intentions for the rest of your days.”

  Angelus shook his head. He wanted to tell the woman in his arms everything; every thought he’s ever had; every emotion he’s ever experien
ced, especially the ones that she was causing within him. He wanted to listen to her for all eternity, and to be by her side, protecting her and holding her, until the end of time.

  “I cannot,” he whispered.

  “You have to. What you give to her you will never have again,” he repeated what the demon woman had told him. “You must go and remember your promise, Brother, for if you do not, you will find yourself back here and you will not have the woman in your arms when you do.”

  Angelus looked from the woman to the man, and his eyes returned to black on black. Reluctantly he nodded. “Thank you, Adramelech.”

  “Thank you, Angelus,” Adramelech said with a nod then pushed his hands out from him and an invisible wave of energy smashed into the couple, forcing them from Hell to the surface.

  The sensation was unlike anything Angelus had ever felt before and it hurt, but not nearly as bad as the thought of never being able to see the woman in his arms again, or being able talk to her, or hold her, or just be around her. The realization that he would never get to say goodbye flooded him with a sense of agony and dread to the likes of nothing he had ever known before, and he wished that he could die instead of experience the Hell of melancholy he was being tortured with now.

  However, dying wasn’t an option. This woman, Zion, the strange creature that had an even stranger affect on him, owned his soul, and that would never change. And he must live in order for her to survive, for his life meant nothing if she didn’t have hers.

  Once on the surface, he held her tight to his chest and kissed her head, praying that his Father would give him a sign, something that would tell him that taking his soul away, hiding her away from all worlds, was the right thing to do, and that it was his will to be done.

  But he found only silence.

  They were greeted by an older couple that took the unconscious woman from him, and with much reluctance he let go; each bore the sigil of Adramelech so Angelus knew that she would be safe with them.

  Many times he opened his mouth to tell her goodbye and that he loved her, but his words long evaded him. When the trio was nothing more than a dot on the distance, and the blackness of night cloaked the horizon in its protection of darkness, he readied himself for the enviable.

  Four streaks of gold shot across the sky, each slammed into the earth causing an explosion of light that consumed the darkness, making it as bright as day. Quickly the four walked across the earth, the wind blowing through their long hair, their white tunics were adorned with silver and gold runes, each had a sword in hand and their wings pulled up behind them ready for a fight.

  Karael smiled wide. “Brother, you have returned and empty handed I see. Such a shame,” he mused.

  Angelus nodded, and their surprise, he held his wrist out for the inevitable.

  Zaapiel smiled, his black hair blowing around his face. “I have been waiting for centuries for his, little brother.” He slapped the brass shackle around Angelus’ wrist, the burning metal passed through the skin and bone, but the pain was nothing more than an afterthought to Angelus. The pain of watching the woman he loved walk away from him, not being able to tell her goodbye, or his name even, was a million times more painful than anything his brothers could do to him. Once shackled, they vanished in an explosion of light.

  For centuries Angelus stood, pushing against an immoveable object, his muscles taut and in a state of perpetual contraction that was painful, but it didn’t bother him anymore. After centuries of replaying over and over in his head what happened in Hell, silently praying and speaking to his father, which he never spoke in return, he came to the conclusion that he could not love Zion.

  The woman, the creature of questionable origin, was nothing more than a headache and heartache waiting to happen. His current situation was confirmation of that. If he loved her, and she didn’t reciprocate, he could never love again, just as he could never own footwear or a shirt again, because he gave them to her. What he gave to her, he would never have again, and that wasn’t something he was willing to risk. Living an immortal existence without the hope for love wasn’t worth the slight hope that love was possible. As Shakespeare said, it was better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all, but in Angelus’ case that wasn’t an option. If he loved and lost, he could never love again, and that wasn’t something he was willing to risk.

  For the first time in centuries, since watching the woman, the soul he had waited his entire existence to find and love, disappear into the darkness, Angelus opened his mouth. “Father, I understand now!” he called out. “I am not worthy of love, thus I am not worthy of the pearl. I understand. I did as you asked, and in return I ask for nothing, not even peace of mind. Do you hear me?! I do not want anything from you ever again!” he yelled, pushing against the immovable object with all of his might, and it moved.

  Slowly at first, the cracking of stone was deafening, and the ground violently shook under his feet from the force, but he didn’t let up. Angelus pushed with renewed strength and purpose and hatred fueled blood towards the soul that would never love him in return, and he pushed the solid formation over, his shackles breaking away, leaving him standing there panting, covered in sweat, blood and dirt, and with the brass shackle around his wrist as a permanent reminder of what he would never have and what he could never permit to feel: love.

  New York City wasn’t his favorite place to live, but at least there were amenities there that the third world shit holes he usually squatted in didn’t have; running water, electricity, heat, picturesque parks. And that was where he found himself that day, enjoying the beauty of Central Park.

  For hours, Angelus stood and stared at the Angel of the Waters Fountain. There was something calming about it. It wasn’t that beautiful of a fountain compared to the craftsmanship and artistry in Europe, but for America it was nice. The angel on the top, as much as he found looking upon it calming, was infuriating at the same time. The poorly carved angel had the face of the woman that had haunted him, for what seemed like, his entire life.

  Every sculpture, every angel carved from precious stone, every renaissance painting, reminded him of the soul that he hadn’t seen in centuries and would never see again. The woman that he wasn’t entirely sure what she looked like because of the swelling and numerous breaks and damage to her face, but in his heart he knew that she was the most beautiful creature to ever exist, a beauty he could never gaze upon or stake a claim to or hold in his arms. Those days with her battered body in his arms were the only time that he ever felt needed and complete. Something he had never, and would never, feel again. The woman that he hated with endless passion, and yet couldn’t stop loving at the same time, was the only driving force he had in his life.

  Confliction was a bitch in Angelus’ opinion.

  A strange sensation pulled at his extra perception, and a familiar feeling that he hadn’t felt in centuries caused his heart to race and his head to swim. He looked up at the Bethesda Terrace and his eyes widened as they focused on the woman leaning on the stone railing with a white aura around her, a lost soul finding its way home, and its way to his heart.

  With wide eyes he watched the woman look around the area, her large brown eyes moving between everyone and everything around the fountain, and for a moment they focused on his and he could feel his pupils dilate and his heart started to race, flooding his ears with the pounding of emotion fueled blood. For a moment he forgot about hating this soul, and yes, this was the woman that he had loved since the first moment he saw her, and had hated for centuries, but none of that mattered. All that mattered was that she was alive. She was well. She was healthy. She was seemingly happy aside from the small sigh that escaped her beautiful lips, and the slight scowl pulling at the corners of her mouth. All he could envision was holding her in his arms again, kissing her, feeling her breath upon his skin once more, and telling her everything he promised that he wouldn’t.

  No. I can’t love her. I promised and I have never broken a promise...I co
uld not handle not being loved by her, thus I must hate her.

  Reluctantly he watched her sigh again then turn away from him, and he let out the breath he was unaware that he was holding and switched spectrums without realizing it and hurried away, in the opposite direction of the soul he had been feebly telling himself to hate for centuries.

  In a daze he walked past security and took the stairs, quickly heading up the twenty-nine flights instead of taking the elevator.

  The batch manager looked up at him. “What are you doing here?” the woman groaned.

  Angelus looked around, uncertain of where he was. Then it registered. “I received a message saying that I had to pick up my batch instead of remotely uploading,” he venomously informed her.

  The woman tapped away at her computer. “Huh, I guess you’re right. There appears to be a high priority in it. It will take me twenty-minutes to get it ready. Did you want to download while you’re here?” she suggested.

  Anything to help get his mind off of Zion.

  “That is acceptable,” he said. He ran his access card through the reader and entered in his code, 36-24-36, the measurements of the woman he held in his arms while escaping Hell—it wasn’t the most polite code, but the numbers were engraved in his mind like no other.

  Bay thirteen,” she said with a forced smiled.

  Angelus nodded and the access door slid open.

  While he waited for the batch to pull from his system, his mind wandered to the soul standing against the railing. She is beautiful, he thought. Beyond beautiful. I have never, in Heaven or Hell, seen a creature that embodied what it meant to be of both worlds, and never have I seen perfection like her before; flowing blonde hair, the sun caught the highlights making them look like ribbons of silken gold, and the large curls beckoned for me to knot my fingers in them. Her nose, so delicate and perfectly sculpted, completely different from the smashed and non-symmetrical one I first saw on her battered face—but she was beautiful to me even then. Wide, full, lips that looked as if they were pillows of rose tinted velvet—I can only imagine how they would feel against mine. Her light tan skin was blemish and scar free, and I wanted to, I needed to, touch it to see if it feels as soft as if looks.