Soul Catcher

by Bridger, Leigh

  And I wanted him to leave the same way.

  Pig Face rose to his full height, towering over Ian by a good two feet. Ian raised his ax in warning. Pig Face gnashed his tusked jaw and flexed his powerful arms. His legs were thin and short but not weak-looking. He balanced on large feet—splayed like paws, with long, knotty claws that matched the claws on his large hands. His dick swung gracefully in the air, always stiff. He glared at Ian but flicked a hyper-alert look toward me.

  I lunged forward, dropped to my knees by the crimson pool from Ian’s body, and placed the sketchpad on the floor.

  I swiped my hand in Ian’s blood. Staring at Pig Face, I called loudly, “I see your eyes.” I smeared my bloody fingers across the bright white art paper in front of me. “I capture your eyes.”

  Pig Face charged.

  Ian brought the ax down. It sank to the hilt in Pig Face’s chest. What harm a spiritual ax can do to a demon is hard to say, but it seemed to do plenty. He uttered a bone-chilling growl and slammed a paw into Ian. Ian held onto the ax handle and jerked it. Still holding on, he and the ax sailed sideways and plowed into a stack of large canvases against one wall.

  Pig Face leapt at me.

  “I see your mouth, I capture your mouth,” I yelled, my hand moving swiftly. More blood on the paper. “I see your head. I capture your head!”

  He was nearly on me when Ian sank the ax into his back. Pig Face whirled, giving a shriek of sheer rage and pain. This time Ian levered the ax free and struck again as Pig Face pivoted once more toward me.

  “I see your arms, I capture your arms!”

  The ax sank into Pig Face’s left shoulder.

  That arm fell to the floor. Fluid, a cold silver color, sprayed in all directions. The arm twitched and crept toward me on its own.

  “I see your chest, I capture your chest!” My hand moved feverishly on the blood-stained paper.

  Pig Face had no choice but to whirl toward Ian again or lose his other arm. He grabbed the ax blade as Ian swung it. Ian held on. A violent tug-of-war erupted. They crashed into chairs, broke framed canvases, scattered jars of paint.

  “I see your legs, I capture your legs!” I shouted. “I see your feet. I capture your feet!”

  Almost done. Only one more part to name.

  Pig Face released the ax. Ian was caught off balance and tumbled backwards. Pig Face swung toward me, his tusks bared, his good arm rising in a fist. His disembodied arm reached my sketchpad. Its paw splayed out; it dug its claws into the bloody paper. I pounded the paw with my fist.

  Pig Face lunged at me one last time.

  I looked up into his furious, evil face. Then I looked at the part of him I hated most. “I see your dick,” I said. “I capture your dick.”

  I put my bloody hand on the bloody paper.

  His lost arm withered and shrank back.

  Ian brought his ax down into the center of Pig Face’s hunched spine.

  The demon collapsed slowly to the floor in front of me, close enough for me to feel his breath.

  He breathed.

  He was alive. In some way. As alive as me. A living being. I never expected that.

  I looked over him at Ian, who stood there strong and alive . . . but not. Not really. My heart began to rip apart as I realized he was already less vivid; he was fading, along with Pig Face.

  “Ian,” I rasped.

  “I’m making sure he goes where he’s meant to go, love. I’m a soul hunter. I’ll track him out the door of this world.”

  “Don’t leave.”

  “I have to, love.”

  Pig Face laughed. His bloodshot red eyes, their round black irises going wider, stared straight into mine. Weakening, he slumped, holding himself up just barely with his arm. His eyes glittered. The hatred poured out. “You’ll be with him again. No one’s banished your Other. Not yet.”

  “You murdered my family. Any misery that came to you and your Other is misery you brought on yourselves.”

  “Ah, soul catcher! I have done more damage to you and yours than you know.” He wheezed. “And there are others who will come now. Demons like me, and even stronger. You will never have any peace. Neither you nor yours.”

  “I’ll take my chances.” I held up the bloody paper. Just smears, yes, but as I turned it to the light they shifted and formed his image. I put a hand on either side. I ripped the paper down the center and said the words that had been born with me.

  “I paint you. I trap you. I burn you.”

  Pig Face sank into the floor. His eyes stared at me with stark hatred until their last, faded glimmer.

  And then, nothing.

  So that was how it finished. One demon’s reign had ended. Two-hundred and thirty-some years of existential stalking, revenge, loneliness, hiding, death, suffering and more death, and it all came down to this: The vapor of a creature I’d named Pig Face now withered into thin air, hovered over boards where the holy mysteries of Bibles had been printed and stitched and bound, and then, he vanished.

  The air snapped his essence apart. He went . . . somewhere. Dear Heavenly father-mother-whatever-you-are, please make it true that he can never come back here.

  Gone. Done. Finished.

  I looked up at Ian proudly.

  I froze.

  He was gone, too.

  I was alone, just alone, sitting at the feet of Lindholm’s body.

  I turned my face slowly, so slowly, toward that body, and I looked at it. At the bloody, torn chest, the splayed hands, the staring, dead eyes.

  “Ian,” I moaned. Then, louder, rocking. “Ian.” Then a groan that turned into a hoarse yell. “Ian!” I sank my head into my hands and cried like I hadn’t for years, like never before in my life.

  The air simmered and glistened. Suddenly I went to an unfamiliar place, standing in the anteroom of an intimately lit ballroom, looking down at an elaborate marble floor, seeing the pointy toes of my own black stilettos. And then up at myself I looked in a large, gilt-edged mirror, and I was dressed in a short black dress—elegant, long-sleeved; for once I wasn’t about the tattoos and their symbolism, no, I was just a plain, happy girl. Just a pretty woman in spiked heels and a little black dress, with my black hair piled up on my head and a pair of little diamonds in my ear lobes.

  “Ay, love, you’re as beautiful as I expected,” Ian said gruffly, behind me. I pivoted and there he stood, the Lindholm edition, but that didn’t matter anymore, I looked up into his blue eyes and saw Ian. I would always see Ian in other men’s faces, whatever and whomever he chose to be. He was dressed in a tux, by god, a tuxedo, and that should have been so corny and obvious and white bread but it was . . . sweet, yes, I loved looking at him in that tux. This was a fantasy of normal life come true, his gift to me, and I loved it and I loved him.

  He held out a hand, and I took it, and he drew me to him, and we put our arms around each other just like they do in the movies. Somewhere an orchestra played something slow and romantic. And we danced a slow dance.

  I put my head on his chest and felt the slow, steady pulse of his heart, a rhythm that would survive every life. “You’ll not be worryin’ too much,” he whispered, ordering and cajoling.

  “I’ll not be worryin’ too much,” I agreed. “If you’ll hurry back.”

  He laughed. “I will, love.” He kissed me.

  Then he was gone. I sat on the floor beside his body again, smeared with his blood, dazed. Gigi, Sarah and Charles rushed up the loft stairs. They gasped at the bloody carnage of Dante’s and Lindholm’s corpses, then hurried over to me and squatted around me, gazing sadly at me, worrying.

  “I’m so sorry, Livia.” Gigi stroked my arm. “Ian’s gone.”

  I looked at her calmly. “No. Just dead.”

  She searched my face, saw that I really was at peace with Ian’s passage, and smiled through her tears. She, Sarah and Charles hugged me and each other. We managed some kind of laugh. At least, they did. I was a believer now, sure—death is nothing, everyone comes back—but I w
asn’t quite there yet, not enough to laugh about losing Ian’s mortal coil.

  I held his cold hand, and stroked it gently.

  18

  Detective Sam Lee Beaumont didn’t seem to mind the smell of dried blood. Even a haz-mat team couldn’t fix the odor of the old Harken Bible building. The garage door was in shreds, and the downstairs wall on that side needed reinforcing. So I was vacating the Bible shop for now. Too many demon memories and no good memories of Ian there.

  Beaumont stood like a southern-fried Buddha in the middle of my studio’s stained floor, hands on stocky hips. He wore ugly-ass, laced-up, orthopedic shoes with his slacks, dress shirt and striped tie. “My feet hurt,” he said. “I’m not used to these feet yet.” He kept making that kind of odd, off-hand remark.

  I stared at him from my interrogation spot astride a folding chair. He arched a brown brow over his half-Vietnamese eyes. The mountain-man part of him drawled, “You think I’m a lard-ass, don’t you? That my feet wouldn’t hurt if I lost fifty pounds.”

  “Seventy,” I said.

  “Now see here, I’m fixing this mess for you. Calling you the ‘poor little innocent crazy girl’ who was coerced by Lindholm. Putting a smack-down on what happened here. Tweaking the forensics. Who shot who, and why. You’re gonna need me on your side, girl. Not just for this mess but all the other messes you’ll get into next. So don’t you disrespect me. Not much, anyway. I won’t hear it, you hear?”

  “Why are you covering for me? What do you want?”

  “I just want peace and quiet in my city. And a membership at that gym Mr. Fusion left you and that little pink-haired girl. I plan to work out. Get in shape. I don’t like being kicked in the face by girls on their first day of kickboxing class. It’s embarrassing. Don’t kick me in the chops again, White Lightning. All right?”

  I stood slowly. Gigi, who’d been hiding in the bathroom pretending I was being interrogated alone, popped out. Beaumont arched a brow at her. “I knew you were in there. I can always smell that cinnamon potion you wear. I love it, you know.”

  Gigi and I traded a look then stared at him tearfully. “Dante?” Gigi whispered.

  “Daddy?” I asked.

  Our soul-father smiled.

  *

  I buried Lindholm’s body in a suburban Asheville cemetery with the blue mist of distant mountains as guardians and a soaring sky for a cathedral. I buried his body gently, with honor. We had a lot of history, me and that chunk of earthly flesh. Part of Ian was imprinted on him, if nothing but a shadow of the spirit. That body died to protect me.

  I’m not fond of modern cemeteries, the art museum angel said pensively, hovering beside me. No headstones. They seem so lifeless.

  Since she was based on a famous piece of cemetery statuary, maybe she had a bone to pick with the new-fangled ways. She went silent as I wiped my swollen eyes. I knelt by the plain, sodded rectangle, pulled back a small chunk of grass, and dropped a handful of paper ashes underneath.

  A note from me to Lindholm’s body. To the aspect of that body I’d come to love. Personal.

  “Done,” I said gruffly, and got to my feet. I looked up at the angel. Her color cycled from a basic bronze to the light pastels I’d given her in my sketches. I’d offered to paint her in lavender and gold sometime. She said she’d like that.

  Look, she said, and pointed. You have visitors.

  I swiveled worried eyes across a mown green lawn dotted with grave plaques and flower vases. What I saw nearly made my knees shake.

  Greg Lindholm. He stood there, only a couple dozen feet from me. Vivid. Real as real. Gray eyes, clean-shaven, in a Minnesota Vikings football jersey, khakis, and running shoes. And beside him stood his pleasant-looking wife, and between her and him, holding each of their hands, was their cute little boy.

  “I want you to meet my wife and son,” Greg Lindholm said. “I want you to know I didn’t hurt them. I never abused my wife. They died in the highway accident, just like you read on the Internet. I’m sorry I let the demon talk me out of my body. I just wanted to be with my wife and son again. I’m sorry he used my body to hurt you.”

  I took a few seconds to wrap my mind around all that. What could I say in front of his wife? That Ian had redeemed Lindholm’s body and then some? The angel leaned close. A simple ‘Thank you’ will do, she whispered.

  “I’m glad to meet you,” I told Lindholm sincerely. “Do you like where I buried your corpse?”

  Shit. I had no social skills.

  Greg Lindholm smiled and shrugged. “Sure. It’s just a body. I don’t miss it. Well, I’d better say goodbye now. My family and I have a new life to start.”

  As he, his wife and son began to fade, I called out, “Where are you going? Any idea?”

  The wife smiled. “Florida. I’m tired of Minnesota. Too much snow and ice on the highways.”

  And then they were gone.

  A little shaken, I looked up at the angel. “I’m glad to find out he’s a nice guy.” She nodded. I studied Lindholm’s grave with a new sense of peace. “I hope Ian knows about this.”

  My left wrist began to feel warm. The sensation was startling, not painful, but weird. A band of heat stretched around my wrist, following the symbols tattooed there, the mysterious line of hieroglyphs from the Talking Rock. They glowed. I hyperventilated a little, holding my arm out from me as if it might catch fire and take the rest of me up in flames with it.

  Golden light gushed from the tattoo. I shielded my eyes. The glow vanished, my arm cooled to normal, and I stared at my wrist.

  The old tattoo was gone. In its place was the new line of symbols. I felt dizzy. “Does this mean I’ve graduated from ‘Gandalf the Grey’ to ‘Gandalf the White?’”

  Yes, the angel said, putting a bronze hand on my shoulder. Congratulations, Soul Catcher.

  *

  Gigi and I ran Dante’s nightclub together, and we moved into the gallery to be near Sarah and Charles. A family. Beaumont visited a lot, though he always called it official business. He was losing weight, shaping up. He took kickboxing classes at the gym.

  Gigi and I renovated the attic, turning it into a multi-room apartment for us to share. We hung the big scrying mirror on a wall but saw nothing in it but ourselves. Dolly and Amabeth had moved on. A good sign, I thought. Sarah, Gigi and Charles felt they were at peace now. Maybe all our past selves had scored a big win when Ian and I offed Pig Face.

  I hoped. At least for now.

  I dreamed of Ian, ordinary dreams, nothing that hinted he was really there, psychically touching me with his lips and hands and cock. I was disappointed in the lack of contact. I mourned for him. I missed him. I was pissed at him. I talked to him out loud all the time, but heard nothing in response. Sarah told me souls can’t always stay in touch. It’s not like they have a wireless connection.

  “His soul is interviewing other souls who want to vacate their living bodies’ premises,” she said casually, like it was no big deal, as we hung new landscapes of mine in the gallery. “It takes time. I’m sure he wants to pick a body that you’ll be really hot for.”

  “One that’s breathing and has all its teeth will do,” I grunted. A lie. I was nervous about the body issue. I’m a one-body kind of woman.

  I stayed busy, painting. My mountain scenes were more mysterious than ever. There were places near the Talking Rock I’d never seen except in visions. I think the rock, that being of white light, was sending me messages. More to do, more to learn, more to overcome. See Rock City.

  Not until I get Ian back, I told Her Rockness. I was dealing, bartering. No Ian backee, no soul catchee.

  But I lied.

  I chewed my Spam-on-healthy-whole-grain-bread as I watched a little blonde boy sidle up to the chain link gate on a day care’s playground in west Asheville. The gate wasn’t locked right. Across the street was an open manhole cover.

  The child fiddled with the gate’s fastener. He flipped it open. In five minutes the kids would come outside to play. One
or two would find the unlocked gate, and beyond it, when they fell into the manhole, they’d find the city sewer waiting for them—and worse—in the stinking darkness below ground.

  I tossed the crusts of my sandwich bread to the pigeons, then ambled over to blondie, waiting with my hands in the front pockets of my low-rider camos. It was a hot August day. The little boy looked up at me, startled, realized what I was, and froze.

  His sweaty blonde hair became a mat of putrid coils. The sweet eyes turned red. The blushing face and pink mouth grew fur and extra nose holes.

  Just visiting the children,” the bane grunted. “Planning to play hide and seek. No harm intended.”

  I bent down to him. “Peek a fucking boo,” I said.

  He exploded.

  All in a day’s work, now.

  *

  As autumn arrived I grew so lonely for Ian I couldn’t be still. I roamed the streets constantly. I spent my time banishing banes and meeting more of the local boons—who treated me like a swell new sheriff who’d come to clean up the territory. I stepped inside many dark, uncertain doors to introduce myself to curious pogs.

  Word spread. I was the real deal. A Soul Catcher beyond Fearless.

  Unforgiving.

  The city resonated with souls of many kinds, some living inside flesh, some inside steel, wood, rock or thin air, greedy for sex, power, money, fame; good and bad, fighting for dominance of our world.

  Me? And Ian? We would always be stationed at the edge of this spiritual frontier, trying to keep the peace. Our legend was now established.

  We knew the enemy. And the enemy knew us.

  Bring it on, hellions.

  *

  Ian had been gone for over five months now. I ached for his touch, his voice. October clouded the air with frost and early sunsets. Something began to whisper to me. Portents, energies, time to get back in the groove, demons might start prowling. “They’re like tomcats,” Charles told me. “Always looking to stake their claim on unguarded territory.”