Eater of Souls

by Erik Lynd

  For now, she snatched the soul out of the girl’s hand, surprising her. The girl let out a small yelp as though it hurt her to take it away. And perhaps it did. Anabelle did not know the details between a soul shaper and the soul it worked with. She just knew what they were capable of doing.

  She held it up and examined it. There was not much to see, just a shimmer of light, like a candle flame flickering in a breeze. It wouldn't go out—souls are immortal—but it wouldn't get stronger or brighter until it could rejoin with the rest of itself.

  And maybe it would. Maybe someday it would be complete again. Or maybe she would just keep it, use it somehow. Either way the Hunter would have to die.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Christopher had forgotten how hard and cold the stone floors of the Library were. He opened his eyes and tried to get them into focus as he slowly got to his feet. His arrivals here were nowhere near as bad as the first time, when his body had felt like it was being broken apart and put back together again with some sort of glue that had come directly from the fires of Hell. But he still felt he could work on an entrance that did not entail him waking up on the floor, feeling like he had one Hell of a hangover.

  Around him the Library stretched off into the darkness. The walls were stone, castle like, and covered by wooden bookshelves, some reaching up into the shadows that obscured the ceiling. Other book shelves, more modest in height, but still much taller than Christopher, filled the large, empty room. He could not see them, but Christopher knew other doorways led to other rooms and hallways also filled with books and scrolls. The Library went on and on, presumably forever. In the limited amount of time he had spent here, Christopher had never seen every room. There was always another door or hallway.

  Some of the books were modern-looking leather bounds or paperbacks, but further into the stacks could be found ancient scrolls and parchment paper written by hand. Once Christopher had found a wall that was covered in artwork and ancient carvings. The Librarian had told him that it may or may not have actually existed in the mortal realm, like everything here it was a metaphor for knowledge, both known and unknown. And the current representation was derived from Christopher's subconscious.

  Which, based on the weird shit he found in here, made him think he was a deeply disturbed individual.

  "Ah, the hero has returned," came a voice from behind him. He jumped and spun around, stumbling against the shelves. It was the Librarian.

  The being that referred to itself as the Librarian towered over him, at least eight feet tall. He was cloaked head to toe in dark robes made of the same shadow essence that Christopher used to form his Hunter uniform. Christopher had never seen the Librarian’s face or hands, not one piece of his actual body had ever appeared from underneath that robe.

  "You need to stop sneaking up on me like that," Christopher said.

  "I did not sneak up on you. You were facing the wrong way," the Librarian replied.

  Christopher wished he could see the being's face. Sometimes he couldn't tell if the Librarian was being sincere or just messing with him.

  "I also don't think belly flopping into the Library is a very dignified entrance for one of your stature," said the Librarian.

  Now Christopher knew he was being messed with. "And what exactly is that stature?" Christopher asked.

  "Keeper of the gates of Hell. Well, at least Keeper of the back door to Hell," said the Librarian.

  Christopher sighed in disappointment. Usually the Librarian had cool, impressive sounding names for what he was. That one just sounded dirty.

  "I was beginning to think you had forgotten about this place. I was getting so lonely, I was considering getting a cat."

  "Look, I know it’s been a while. It’s a lot to take in. I can jump from rooftop to rooftop with almost no effort, I can move faster than humanly possible; and I'm stronger than any man, Hell any ten men. I heal so fast, I’m not sure I can even be killed. I can see and, unfortunately, smell the evil in all men’s souls. I have even killed." Christopher looked down at that last one. A few weeks ago he would have laughed at the idea that he could hurt someone, let alone take a life. He knew that all those he had killed so far were evil and maybe even deserved it, but they were still men and women. Who was he to be the judge?

  "You shouldn't think that way," the Librarian said softly, almost soothingly.

  "I shouldn't?" Christopher said.

  "Of course you can be killed. Come let’s go to the assignment room," said the Librarian. Without waiting for an answer, he turned and headed towards a doorway that may not have been there moments before. Sometimes it seemed as though the structure of the Library would shift and change as needed.

  "Wait. The last thing I need is a new assignment. They seem to be finding me at the moment."

  That made the Librarian pause and turn slightly. "Interesting. All the more reason to visit the assignment room."

  He kept walking and Christopher hurried to catch up. "I just wanted to see if you know anything about hellhounds, or maybe werewolf-hellhounds?"

  The Librarian paused and turned around. "Werewolf-hellhounds?"

  "Yes. We think we might be up against one. But we’re not sure. What can you tell me about them?"

  "You are in luck. I did my doctorate on Werewolf-hellhounds," the Librarian said. "I did my post graduate work studying alternate forms of lycanthropy at Harvard."

  "Really?"

  "No, not really. I am a construct of this library metaphor. Why are humans so gullible? We are here," the Librarian said.

  Christopher was about to defend himself when he noticed the huge black door to the assignment room next to them. Like last time, it instantly made him uncomfortable. It was a deep black, like a starless night, almost sucking light into it. If you looked at it too long, it gave you the feeling that you were falling down a deep hole of nothingness. It was hypnotizing in its complete absence of, well, anything.

  "Hunter? Are you well?" the Librarian asked.

  Christopher shook himself, the Librarian’s voice pulled him from the depths of the door. Hesitantly, like it was going to shock him, although he knew it wouldn't, he pushed on it. For anyone else, including the Librarian, the door would not open. But for him, it swung open almost effortlessly. Beyond was the assignment room.

  It was a large room in the shape of a circle and against the walls giant, curved shelves held large, two-inch-thick books. In the center was a single stone pedestal upon which rested the current Hunter’s journal. The books that surrounded them were past journals that noted all the dark souls that had escaped from Hell and how they were returned by the Beast, his predecessor. Although he now had one entry, his first prey, Rath. He had dispatched him to Hell a few weeks ago.

  The journal was supposed to give him clues to help defeat these dark souls, some information about who they had been in life before descending to Hell. But for some reason, the book had never revealed his first target’s past. He had been forced to wing-it with Rath, and he had almost died. The Librarian had assured him that was the first time he had ever seen the book fail the Hunter. The Beast had always had the information he needed. It appeared that for some reason, Christopher was not worthy.

  Christopher approached the book with a sense of dread. He had no idea who wrote the entries into the book. Was it God? More likely the Devil, given his current occupation. Wasn't he supposed to be part of the Devil now? That’s what he had been told, some sort of avatar. He didn't like that, it made him think that he was some sort of servant.

  He had to look at the book though, there was really no choice. He had this whole Library of infinite knowledge, he supposed he should use as much of it as he was able. He reached the pedestal and looked down.

  On the page the name Ammit was printed above a crude drawing. Rough though it was, it was obviously the creature that he had fought yesterday. Same large, hulking form covered in a mixture of hair and toughened skin, the outline of a muzzle with over-sized teeth, and wicked looking cl
aws extending from its hands.

  Once again there was no picture or information on what this thing was, or who it had been. He saw a detailed account of his ass-kicking by the thing of course, but no clues as to what or who it once was.

  "I just fought this thing. It was why I was asking if you knew anything about hellhounds."

  "If it is in there, then he is a dark soul. Hellhounds have no soul. It couldn't possibly be a hound. But may I ask why you thought it was?" The Librarian asked.

  "The demon possessing the girl that lives with me said she recognized it."

  "Demon girl... lives with you... I think you have some stuff to fill me in on," the Librarian said.

  Christopher took a little joy in the fact that the Librarian seemed surprised and maybe a little flustered. The day was looking up. He went through the events of the last few days, getting the Librarian up to speed. At times it seemed like the Librarian was up to date on what was going on out in the real world, but at others he seemed to be completely ignorant. Holding this knowledge over the Librarian, who had access to such an immense source of knowledge and wisdom, made putting up with his incessant smugness and sarcasm worth it.

  "Well, I can tell you if the name appears in this book, it is a dark soul, once human, that has escaped from Hell. It could not be a hellhound. At least not a true hellhound," the Librarian said.

  "What do you mean by not a true hellhound?"

  "To escape Hell is no easy thing. These books might make it seem like a lot have escaped, but when you realize they go back to the beginning of time, you can understand it is but a drop in the ocean of damned souls still in Hell. To get out of Hell, many of these dark souls will do anything to escape, sometimes they have to get creative. One might have found a way of combining itself with a hound."

  "How would that help him escape?"

  "It wouldn't, not directly. But the combination of a dark soul with hellhound would make a very powerful opponent. If a dark soul was to strike a bargain with a being either in Hell or in your mortal world—get some help as it were—the person who helped the dark soul would have a very powerful ally."

  "So a dark soul merged with a hellhound? That might explain why it resembled a werewolf. Only I guess this would be called a werehound. You're saying he fused himself with a hellhound to make himself into a more valuable bargaining chip?" Christopher asked.

  "Maybe. Or maybe something did it to the dark soul with or without its consent and then helped it escape."

  Christopher looked back down at the book on the pedestal. He noticed that there was something around its neck. It looked like it could be a collar. As Christopher stared at it, he noticed there was a faint line coming from it. It was like it was just fading into existence, but it was still incredibly faint. It could simply have been a mistake of the artist, the pencil dragging across the pad. Except this artist didn't make mistakes.

  The thin line went to the edge of the page. Christopher turned it. On the other side was a small drawing of a beautiful woman. Dark hair, striking eyes. It was just a drawing, but she seemed to reach out and grab him. In the flesh such a woman must be stunning.

  It took him a good thirty seconds before he realized the line continued onto this page from the other. It ended at her hands. Above the drawing was the name Anabelle.

  "I think I’ve found his friend. Someone named Anabelle holds his leash," Christopher said.

  "This is not good."

  The even more somber than usual tone of the Librarian made Christopher look up at him. But he could see nothing in the blackness of his hood.

  "No shit. Now I’m dealing with two this time."

  "No, Hunter. That is not what I mean. Never that I know of have dark souls worked together, at least not in so obvious a partnership. By their nature they are a selfish and suspicious group. They could never trust one another long enough to form any sort of bond. If they somehow start working together, well, not even the Beast had to contend with a threat that dire. If they unify, even a little bit, you are doomed."

  "Wow, you are just awesome at those inspirational pep talks."

  He looked down at the book again and flipped between the two pages. He had barely defeated his first dark soul a few weeks ago and had almost been killed by only the second one he had ever encountered. Now how was he supposed to defeat two at the same time?

  "There is something however," The Librarian said, "but I am not exactly sure how we can use it to your advantage."

  "At this point I can use any help I can get."

  "Yes, well, hellhounds are under the dominion of the Beast, the Hunter of Lost Souls. They are the hunting dogs, so to speak, to complement the Hunter. Their original purpose was to assist the Beast in hunting down and dragging souls back to Hell. Their job was to consume the soul and bring it back to him."

  "So these hounds are supposed to do as I say?"

  "To some extent, but they have not roamed the mortal plane in a long time. And I don't know if a werehound falls under the dominion of the Hunter," the Librarian said.

  "How did he control these things? Because the one I just fought didn’t seem inclined to follow my direction. Unless it was to tear me apart."

  "I do not know how he controlled them. Maybe it was some sort of innate gift. I don't know how to recreate it in you. Like I said before, no mortal has ever taken up the duties of the Beast."

  "Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm the first of my kind and I have to learn as I go."

  "Good thing it did not eat you though. It would have consumed your soul, and you might have been at the mercy of the dark soul that holds its leash."

  "What if it just took a bite out of me?" Christopher asked.

  The Librarian hesitated a moment. "Well, I don't know, but I would think that it would not be good. I suggest you avoid it."

  "Too late," Christopher said and flexed his shoulder. It was still sore.

  "Oh that's a pity. I suppose I will have to go through all this again with some other mortal after you die."

  "I mean it. Inspirational speaker. You could make a lot of money," Christopher said.

  "Your mortality is a problem, but there might be a more immediate concern," said the Librarian.

  "Great, because I don't have enough to deal with at the moment," said Christopher.

  "I don't know a lot about hellhounds, but I do know that similar to an earthly canine, if a hellhound were to get the scent or especially a taste of a soul, it would be able to track it just about anywhere."

  "So you’re saying that thing could track me down at any time?"

  "I believe so, yes. One’s soul leaves a sort of psychic residue, I think you used it to track Rath. The longer you stay somewhere the stronger the residue. And the easier you are to find."

  "So you are saying that hiding out, say at my home, is not really a good idea?" Christopher did not like where this was going.

  "Exactly. If you are at your home back in the mortal world, you would be easy for this creature to find any time it wishes. And that could be at any moment."

  Christopher started towards the door. "That means both Hamlin and Eris are in danger too. I don't think that thing will ignore them."

  "I agree you need to leave, but what of your dilemma? You have not learned how to stop this thing."

  Christopher paused. "I can't take the time right now. I have to get back and warn them. We need to get out of that house. I’m a sitting duck, and my friends aren't much better off. Besides, you said yourself he didn't leave an instruction book lying around."

  "No, he didn't. But we have the narrative of his life," the Librarian said, and with one robed arm, gestured to the walls of books filled with hunting journals, each one detailing the Beast’s hunts from the beginning of time.

  The Librarian was right. The answer might very well be in this encyclopedia of killing. He walked over to the wall, pulled down a journal, and flipped through it. There was a wealth of information in each of these books, not just for his immediate problem, but t
o learn the full extent of his power and maybe a way to control it so that he wouldn't lose his mind the next time he wielded the Weapon.

  But not today. He put the journal back on the shelf. "It might all be here, but I don't have the time. I need to get back and get the Hell out of my house."

  "Maybe I can help? If you allow me to stay for a little while, I can do some research. Perhaps I can uncover something about the hellhounds or the Beast's past that would help."

  "I thought only I could enter this room," Christopher said.

  "Yes, but we are already here. If you allow it, I could stay," the Librarian said. "At least I should be able to for a while. This is, after all, a construct of a library created by the power of the divine for your interpretation. You have some measure of control here. Maybe not for a long period, as we are both at the whim of your subconscious and how it interacts with the chaos of Hell, but perhaps long enough to find something."

  Christopher nodded, it was worth a shot. He couldn't stay anyway. "I will return as soon as we are all somewhere safe."

  He could read nothing on the Librarian, the hood too dark to read any facial expression, and he stood straight as ever, body language was out. There was a part of Christopher that worried giving this thing access to a forbidden room might be a mistake. This thing was a servant of Hell, after all. But he had no option. He needed to get back, but he needed answers just as much. He couldn't be two places at once.

  He stepped out into the hall. In front of him was another door, not at all like the inky black one that led to the assignment room. Intuitively, he knew it was the door out. He looked back at the motionless Librarian one last time. Then he stepped through the door.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Anabelle was still admiring the soul shard trapped in the crystal vial when the intercom—her only other nod to the modern in the old basement—buzzed.

  "Ma'am, there is a gentleman by the name of Golyat at the door asking for you. Actually, it appears he has just walked in. He does not seem happy, ma'am," Martin, her butler, said through the intercom. His voice was unsteady. Martin had seen many things in her service, things no mortal should see, still an angry Golyat would be intimidating.