The Soul Collector (previously released as Angel's Fire, Demon's Blood)

by Tamela Quijas

  She forced her hands to her sides, rocking side to side on sandaled feet as she recounted the events. She knew sorrow, having seen it in too many eyes on the street, but Luke’s sorrow was different. He gave the impression he was dreadfully alone in the world. Deborah understood heart-wrenching sadness, as well as she related to madness.

  “When he saw me, Luke smiled. I didn't think much of it. He always smiles at me.” She rushed to interject. “It was then a white glow covered his entire body.” �

  “He's rejoined the world of the living?” Gil questioned, a dawning comprehension invading him. His eyes widened and he stepped back from his co-workers, dazed.

  “As well as he can, being what he is.” Nikolai supplied, his attention riveted to his employer. A knowing silence followed, only interrupted by Ethan's amused chuckle.

  “I don't think he'll be too pleased.” �

  “No, I don't.” ��

  Deborah gasped as the lobby doors flew open with a great gust of wind. The blaring sound of car alarms sounded from the parking lot, triggered by the blast of air. The screeches and the howls echoed, mingling with the wind, drowning out all other noise. Vases shuddered on their pedestals, several falling in a great show of splintering glass. A brightly colored shower of flower petals lifted and rose, swirling about on unseen fingers before scattering wildly. The hotel patrons looked about in disbelief, and flinched with amazement.

  The leader of NADGEL's response was far, far different.

  To the critical and observant eyes of the people trained by him, Luke's feet rose off the marbled foyer floor. His reaction resembled a man subjected to the most debilitating of blows delivered to his mid-section, a great whoosh escaping him. His shoulders flew back, and the tails of his trench coat swirled about his legs.

  Before their stunned eyes, he traveled backwards. His chin lifted and he struggled for breath, his sunglasses flying from his face. He gave the impression of being lifted by unseen hands, hovering scant inches above the floor. A long and agonized moan slipped from his pale lips, and he crumbled to the ground.

  A cry of terror flew from Deborah, her fingers rising to her mouth to muffle the sound. The youths sprang into action, knowing their employer's identity was at risk. They raced from the corridor, a blur of motion, Nikolai close at their heels. Brice was immobile and tense, shock filling his features. He laid a restraining hand on Deborah's shoulder, preventing her from flying after their team members.

  Lucien struck the floor, a cry of pain rising as his shoulders. He twisted, sobbing, and rolled into a fetal position. He closed his eyes, willing the pain away, his body throbbing.

  He knew, from the moment of impact, what had surged through him. He was afraid to witness the anger and the power of the entity flying about the sun-brightened foyer.

  Instead, he remained where he had fallen. A series of choking breaths trembled past the blueness of his lips. He didn't rise, and shivered with an intense cold never experienced during his curse.

  Ethan was the first to reach him.

  The youth collapsed on his knees, while Gil effectively blocked the approaching on-duty hotel manager and concerned check-in clerks. Nikolai dropped to his haunches and his expression turned dark as he pressed a heavy hand to his employer's shoulder. Gingerly, he rolled Lucien over.

  “Keep them away!” Nikolai commanded roughly. “Keep everyone away!” �

  The command was unnecessary. Gilbert pushed people back, demanding they give their venerated employer room. Ethan, hearing startled words of concern, smiled benignly up at the gathering crowd.

  “He's prone to seizures.” He made certain his voice carried across the lobby, attempting to make the episode seem minor. There was a sudden flash, and Nikolai growled deep in his throat, realizing a few spectators were taking pictures of the incident.

  “None of that is necessary!” �

  Gilbert, with strength that defied his lanky stature, pushed through the horde. Bodies shifted, people nervously twittered, but his roughness granted the team the space desired. Ethan attempted to force calm on the crowd and shrugged.

  “You don't need pictures, people.” �He commented, his tone resembling that of a serious professor. “Where's your sense of humanity?” �

  “Good.” Nikolai grumbled approvingly. He exhaled a relieved sigh, noticing Luke kept his eyes shut. “Play on it, boys! Play on it!” �

  “Yeah!” Ethan jumped to his feet. He placed a hand on Gilbert's shoulder and shot the boy a meaningful look, a silent message passing between them.

  “Yeah!” Gil repeated, his eyes darting from Nikolai's bent figure, then to their employer, then to Ethan. “The Boss is prone to seizures, and it’s kind of inhuman to take pictures of a man down.” �

  “We should call an ambulance,” the executive interrupted, his expression worried, his staff busy shooing away the spectators.

  “No!” They shouted the word in unison

  The manager flinched at the suddenness of the sound, as did many others.

  “It’s under control,” Nikolai growled, his words hanging. His hand remained on the fallen man's shoulder, effectively forcing him to remain prone. His large body concealed the pale, pain-filled features from the dispersing crowd. “This is nothing we aren't accustomed to dealing with, when it comes to our Mr. Angeles.” �

  “Our hotel can't be blamed…”� the manager interposed raggedly, the fear of a potential lawsuit foremost in his mind.

  “It happens all the time.” Gil interjected complacently, shrugging with the explanation. “It's nothing to worry about, trust me.” �

  “The seizures are stuff you don't see on the show,” Ethan added, keeping his expression sincere.

  “Nikolai?” Lucien uttered the name in a low voice, the quivers ebbing. His eyes remained closed and he lifted the heavy weight of a gloved hand from his side. The appendage hovered in the air for a long moment before settling lightly on the Russian's hand.

  “Don't open your eyes,” Nikolai ordered gruffly. His employer wasn't one to accept physical contact, nor was it something given. “There are still too many people around.” �

  “Too many…”��

  “You can't risk opening your eyes.” �

  “You know?” �

  The question escaped Lucien in a low whisper, the disbelief obvious.

  “We’ve always known.” Nikolai supplied as another low groan slipped from the pained man.

  “How?” �

  Ethan fell to his knees. He hadn’t missed the low-voiced exchange and couldn’t prevent a wicked grin.

  “You insisted on infrared cameras.” He interjected lightly, although the words trembled. He wiped the panicked beads of sweat from his brow before he placed his hand on the man's shoulder.

  Lucien groaned, and the unfamiliar rush of hot and cold chills flooded him.

  “My downfall was caused by infrared cameras?” He managed, releasing Nikolai's hand as the Russian moved to assist him to his feet.

  “You got some funny eyes, dude.” Gil admitted.

  “When we're working and using those cameras, everyone else's eyes look like…well, eyes. You look at a camera and,” � Ethan shrugged, his smile vanishing. He struggled for the proper words and resigned himself to the inability. “Your eyes are like WOW, dude!” �

  Lucien rose to his feet, his eyes still shut and his complexion paler than normal. He wavered for a moment, his footing uncertain, and his expression troubled. He kept his eyes closed, unprepared for the feel of Brice's hand as it pressed his sunglasses into his palm.

  He detected the sound of Gil moving across the lobby, pulling the last of the spectators and the hotel staff after him. He heard Deborah's sandals clicking on the foyer floor as she neared, and smelled the pipe tobacco lingering on Brice's coat. Nikolai's hand remained on his shoulder, steadying him.

  Hesitantly, Lucien placed the lenses over his eyes and focused on the group. They stared back, varying degrees of concern in their ex
pressions, and he felt humbled.

  “You can touch me?” �

  They nodded in unison.

  “Birdie says you glow.” Ethan whispered in awe.

  “When did this miracle occur?” �

  “This morning,”� Deborah chirped with a shy smile. “I knew we could touch you when your aura began to glow.”

  “Infrared cameras and an aura?” Lucien released a tight breath, feeling his heart flutter in his chest. He rolled his shoulders, attempted to ease the pain filling him, and winced.

  “Nope,” Nikolai managed in his gravelly voice. “I would say a woman led to your downfall.”

  Sometime, during the hours he had spent in Evangeline's embrace, his world had changed.

  “Do you know what I am?” �

  They nodded somberly.

  “We were never the ones to judge you, Luke.” � Nikolai growled.

  “Never the ones,” � Deborah chirped again, shaking her head, and tears filled her eyes as she recalled her past. “You saved us, when our world was at its worst.” �

  “Yep,”� Ethan echoed the sentiment. “So the boss man’s is a little different? We're all weird, in our own way.” �

  “We owe you,” � Brice's words didn't register as a renewed keening burst of wind filled the lobby. The sound rose high, resembling an outrage screech of pain, before dropping off into a weighty silence.

  “What the hell was that?” Ethan questioned, watching the lobby chandelier swing in a wide arc above their heads.

  Lucien's head cocked to the side and he listened to the whispering tones of a desperate voice. He pulled in a trembling breath, the exhalation leaving him in short gasps of disbelief.

  His attention became riveted on a spot past his team members. The entity that had made such an entrance into the hotel, the shadow wreaking havoc, stood defiantly before him. Lucien's mouth tightened into a grim line and intense anger flushed his face crimson.

  Despite the human essence flooding him, the coursing blood, the beating heart, or the breath trembling past his lips, he retained the part of him linked to the other world.

  ….and Reese was screaming his name.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  �There is the horror of confrontation, when this fragile essence we shall call life, hangs by a delicate thread�

  Eva struggled to her knees, her eyes closed. The deed was tediously executed, and a gasp escaped her. Her hands slipped to her ribcage and she winced.

  She ached with every breath. Kneeling, she gagged at the sharp and bitter taste rising in her throat.

  She swallowed, scowling as the sourness took its precious time to settle into the region of her gut. She inhaled a trembling breath, the pain ebbing. Eva remained on her knees and shuddered, wondering where she was, the last few hours dim.

  Wherever she was, it stunk far worse than the man who held her captive. Not by much, she admitted, but enough.

  She opened her eyes. She shivered again, feeling the intense cold seeping from the hard stone floor. A long and quivering sigh fell from her, and much-needed moisture rose to her pained eyes. Salty tears streamed from the corners, wetting her face, before dripping off her chin.

  Angrily, she swiped her hand across her eyes. She wanted to curse, but she didn't know if Julian lurked nearby, determined not to show him any weakness.

  She wouldn't reveal the coiling fear rolling through her, knowing he would savor her terror. He would do that insane little dance of joy that was such a part of his character, leaping and bouncing in a macabre pirouette of madness.

  Of course, he would be near. He would be waiting for someone far more important than a frightened investigative reporter.

  He would be waiting for his brother.

  Eva strained to focus on her surroundings, her aching eyes unable to distinguish much beyond her. The darkness was too dense, and chilling, and she felt dropped into a nightmare.

  Mist, as thick as a down filled blanket, shrouded her. The murkiness was alight with a dull and greenish white glow; the waves undulated.

  She trailed her hands across the hard ground beneath her. A stench of decomposition swirled in the air, instead of the moistness that so often accompanied fog. The nauseating odor she could only accredit to one thing… evil.

  The stones were slick with dampness. The slime of moss made the limestone glossy, and Eva struggled to rise. Her actions were slow, every bone protesting, and bit her lips to muffle her whimper. Flashes of moments lost flittered through her mind, fleeting images of a barren landscape, void of any visible life and shrouded in snow. Vaguely, she remembered a spire, raised high into the grayness of the winter sky. She recalled peering at the turret and thinking how sad it looked, a lone sentinel in the wasteland.

  She shivered, pushing the fanciful image from her mind. Crumbling rocks and lone spires were the things of fairy tales, or horror movies, not factors in her life.

  Lately, her life hadn’t been exactly normal.

  Her teeth chattered, clicking uncomfortably. She tried to still the action, grinding her jaw closed. The chattering continued, and refused to abate as the cold rose through the bare skin of her feet.

  “You could have let me bring my shoes, you dumb ass!” She shouted, the words echoing and bouncing from a ceiling high above. Immediately, she wished she could retract the statement, not wanting to hear Julian's cackling laughter.

  Her eyes darted about, and she sighed with hopelessness. She wouldn't have been capable of seeing him if he would have stood three feet in front of her, smiling with frightening yellowed grin.

  To her relief, there wasn't any response.

  She was alone, for now.

  Eva shuddered and moved her hands over her forearms, attempting to rub warmth into her body.

  Shoes would have been nice, she mused, and a jacket.

  She expelled a weary, fog-shrouded breath and her hands shook as she lifted the cloud of tangled hair from her dirty face. She strained to peer into the inky darkness of her surroundings, attempting to recall Brice's words from the other night.

  “It's just the dark, nothing else.” She repeated the words whispering in her mind. Eva recalled Lucien’s instructions, fortifying herself with a pain-filled breath.

  Despite the lack of light, the shadows radiated with an unnatural and eerie glow. At first, she assumed she was in a cavern, the walls echoing with the slow drip of water and the screech of animals.

  After careful consideration, she knew she was wrong.

  She scanned the carved and fitted stone. Despite the darkness, with only the unusual glow to benefit her vision, she realized she was in the remnants of an ancient building.

  Her lips tightened as she considered the possibilities of the location. This wasn't just any building, knowing the structure held particular significance to the D’Angel brothers.

  She was in the bowels of an ancient castle. From the darkness and sounds permeating the thick mist, she was below ground, invisible to the outside world. Perhaps she was in a dungeon, the remains of St. Lorraine’s once beautiful stronghold.

  Eva collapsed into a sitting position, her legs weak. She placed her forehead on her bent knees, frustrated tears well in her eyes

  “Evangeline?” �

  The whisper of her name brought her head upright. She rubbed at her eyes, wiping the stinging drops away, and peered into the darkness. Eva sniffled, childishly swiping the cuff of her sweater across her face.

  She didn't answer, afraid it was the other man calling her name, seeking her. She wouldn't put it past him, to use his brother's voice to confuse her into a sense of complacency.

  “Evangeline?” �

  The mist swirled about her in wild waves. For a moment, the denseness of the all-encompassing fog seemed stimulated by unseen hands, before going still. The cottony matter ebbed and pulled away from her, forming an ever-widening path. From the deepest depths of the darkness, as if magically summoned by her imaginings, a lone figure approached.

&nbs
p; At first, the entity was a wavering image, the thick mist pulling from him. As he neared, the long tails of an ever-familiar coat swirled about his lean legs, the material fluttering and snapping.

  The stagnant smell of rot evaporated with every step, the mist diminishing into nothingness. A more earthy fragrance, rich and profound as freshly turned earth on a spring morning, replaced the stench. The aroma was full of life and promise, everything the dungeon lacked.

  Lucien had arrived.

  She wanted to cry his name aloud, earnest tears of relief filling her eyes. He had come to rescue her from this hellish world buried so far beneath the ground. A sob tore from her as she saw the beauty of his glowing skin. He was a bright beacon of alabaster, the color made more intense by the spectral image of the man at his side.

  “Lucien!” �

  The relieved issuance of his name slipped from her, more sob than word. Fresh tears began anew when he scanned her scraped features. A long-suffering breath fell from him and he lifted his hands, pale and gloveless, to her wan face.

  “Darling angel,” he whispered lovingly. His hands, normally so cold, were warm. He let the seeping wetness flow before pressing the comforting pressure of his mouth to her trembling lips. Pulling away, he stroked the tangled hair from her face. “We don’t have time, my love.” �

  …no time�

  Her chilled fingers traced his warm features. “Please, take me home.” �

  Lucien rose to his feet. He lifted her after him, his newly beating heart threatening to break as Eva cried out in pain. He murmured soft words of apology at the agony shooting through her, the bare skin of her feet afire, and her ribs aching with every breath.

  “I’ll keep you safe.” He crooned before gathering her close to his chest.

  …bastard hurt�

  “Julian hurt you.” �

  It wasn't a question, for he knew the answer. Of course, his brother would harm her. Pain was something familiar to his twin, as was death and despair.

  “I don't remember.” Eva slipped her trembling hands up and under the hem of his heavy sweater, the new feel of the warm flesh beneath, comforting. He quivered and flinched with the coldness of her touch, her fingers splaying wide against his back.