The Soul Collector

Chapter ONE

Autumn

Twenty Years Ago

Within the face of every daemon, there lurks an angel, for every daemon seeks salvation. Bear with me, dear reader, for I shall regale you with a tale of such an unfortunate.

Whenever Lucien traveled, humanity avoided him, often trembling in dread. The sensation would vary by certain degrees, but the results were the same. Encroaching on his personal space was the equivalent to crossing barren tundra in the furthest most regions of the world.

However, the freezing climate lacked any similarity to the sudden and incomprehensible chill assailing any person nearing him.

An unfathomable flow of silent energy radiated from the man’s body. The vibrant source likened to an underlying agitation that dimmed, magnified, and then spilled from his lean length. This impression contained a forcefulness that vibrated in great and unseen waves, similar to an electrical surge of static. The burst would increase tenfold before spiraling up and out, reverberating quietly into the air.

This current of energy wasn’t the only item different about the lone individual.

There was something unspoken and dark about him, perhaps an awareness governed by a more fearful sense. He didn’t have to move aside, since unseen hands seemed to repel human forms from his presence. It was pointless to warn the crowd of their trespasses with even a burning glare, for an untouched space of nearly two feet encircled him.

It was best humanity avoided him as if he were evil personified, he reasoned. He couldn't deny the charges, nor hide from what he truly was, a creation of evil. Whether it was the vileness lurking within his genetic pool, the chill spilling from him, or a sense of impending death, he remained alone. He had long forgotten the simple feel of a human touch and the contact of warm skin.

The lack of human contact tore at him.

Humanity rushed past, year after year, century after century. Forced to endure an existence not of his making, he remained condemned to a life of loneliness and regret. He halted in the middle of the crowded sidewalk. Intentionally, he remained where he stood. Disgruntled figures pushed past, reaching, but never touching. Mortal resentment blazed in the brightness of their eyes, but he avoided them.

Instead, he rolled his shoulders, forcing their negativity to vanish on wordless fingers.

The grinding sound of his own vertebrae echoed in his sensitive ears, and he straightened. He rolled his shoulders again, ignoring the sounds of protest issued, and his tongue flicked over his front teeth. He savored the faint aromas existing beyond of decaying foliage, and the over-perfumed human bodies, or the refuse rotted nearby in over-flowing trash bins.

Secretly, he sought to taste the moisture evident in the mid-autumn air, knowing rain would arrive soon.

He raised his face to the approaching twilight and threw his head back. His nostrils flared and his gaze scanned the weighty under-bellies of the clouds overhead. His eyes narrowed to fine slits, fringed by light-colored lashes, and he sniffed at the air.

His senses tingled, and he inhaled, filling his lungs. His mouth twitched and he quivered with barely constrained exhilaration, the pervasive scent of humanity vanishing. He smirked as a solitary drop of wetness landed on his raised cheek, the single bead as light as a long suppressed teardrop. The diminutive speck trailed past the corner of his lips, then his jaw. There, the drop quivered before flowing into the collar of his dark trench coat.

His tense body relaxed.

The raindrops were soft, trailing over his closed lids, and resting like opalescent pearls on his lashes. Yet another droplet struck, and Lucien’s smile broadened. The warmth displayed in the single action caused many pedestrians to hesitate, marveling at his striking appearance. Another long sigh escaped him, and he remained unaware of the strange image he presented.

His arms flew wide, as if he intended to capture each precious drop. The unaccustomed foreignness of an overjoyed chuckle threatened to erupt from his chest.

It had been so long since he had surrendered to unabashed pleasure, and his throat ached.

The slender column of neck muscles rippled, and a rusty sound flew forth. The low pitch of the chuckle rose, as light as the drops from above, before warming to an all-consuming laugh. The rapture of the moment glowed in his face, and a few people hesitated, staring at him in wonder.

Lean and tall, his height was more at ease with the humans of this century than in the last. There was a distinct haughtiness to his face, defined by slashing cheekbones and an aquiline nose. His jaw was firm, bordering on stubbornness, and his lips were a thin slash of color in an otherwise colorless face.

He knew his appearance was remarkable, but he hid the knowledge within a wall of shame.

His arms fell limply to his sides, but his face remained pointed heavenward. The briefest touch of pain filled his features, and a gentle sigh seeped from the bonds of his still heart. Palms upwards, he lifted his hands and flexed his fingers.

Within seconds, his palms became drenched, the wetness running in thick trails from his fingertips.

He shook the dampness away and ran his hands though his waist length, startling white hair. His fingers parted the sodden strands into deep and marked furrows. He remained oddly detached in the midst of the mêlée while he extracted a fine nest of tangles.

His hands fell free and he lifted them again to the swollen skies. The rain began to fall in earnest, soaking the thick material of his trench coat. Languorously, he inhaled the marked freshness filling the humid evening air.

Underneath the scent of rain and mist, he detected the unmistakable fragrance of night, hauntingly sweet and beckoning. Soon, twilight would bring the shadows haunting him.

Blinded by the deluge of rain, his eyes stinging, he blinked. Drenched, he wiped the rain from his face, the droplets falling from his cheekbones and chin. To a man of weaker constitution, he would have worried about his health as he stood in the torrent, opting to join the multitudes scurrying for shelter.

Not fearing sickness, he remained where he stood, damp strands of hair sticking to his skin. He had forgotten what the infirmity encompassed, for illness was a frailty delicate humans contracted, not one such as him.

He drew in an extra deep and useless breath, wiping the rain from his face with a rough sweep of his hand.

Old habits die hard, and some simply refused to die, much as his own life.

He stifled the urge to voice the bitter words and sunk his teeth into his lower lip, remembering the many human fallacies from which he didn’t suffer. Breathing, speaking, sickness, heartbeat, and the need for human companionship…everything he hadn’t experienced for centuries.

The palm of his left hand ached with the course of his thoughts.

The sting wasn't the normal twinge of a long forgotten scar. Instead, it was the ever-persistent ache of horribly singed flesh, brutally marked with his father's seal. The brand, as painful as the night administered, encompassed the delicate flesh between the base of his fingers and wrist. The symptom of pain was the only sensation he retained, all others reduced to vague memories.

The ache he welcomed, for it reminded him he was still part of the world, albeit neither living, nor breathing.

Normally, he kept the hand gloved. The gruesomeness of the mark one he didn’t wish anyone to glimpse, the sensitive skin puckered into a grisly oval design of lewdly intertwined demons and angels.

Abruptly, his father's coarse words echoed loudly in his ears … I should know my enemies and my friends. You are neither, and you are an abomination to those who dwell in my house!

He curled his fingers into the aching flesh, his nails digging deep. The action wouldn't draw a single crimson drop of precious blood, for the vital liquid hadn’t pulsed through his veins since his transformation. Scars would fail to materialize from the sharp tips, and he carried only the marks inflicted during his human existence.

His suffering and damnation were penalty for his unwanted, supernatural gift.

He unfurled his fingers from his tortured palm and allowed cool rain to pelt the stinging flesh. Ruefully, he acknowledged the brand was a lesser punishment than what he might have suffered. In his youth, his father would have granted a weaker human the torments of fire, the lash, or the terror of being drawn and quartered.

It was enough his sire demanded the brand as adequate recompense, warning him of the identity of his twin sons. Perhaps, though, if D'Angel the Destroyer had been capable of understanding the entirety of the witch’s curse, he would have granted one son a more benevolent fate…death.

Instead, he remained condemned to a world overflowing with spirits.

His thoughts of the past fading, Lucien focused on the humans surrounding him. In a scant matter of seconds, and to his changing vision, the mortals lost any semblance of solidity. The outlines defining each figure wavered and blurred, resembling watercolor forms suffering the force of the rain.

Soon, images far more ethereal would replace the rapidly abating masses. To the ungifted eye, the sepia colored shapes were invisible. The ability to recognize their existence depended on the spectator, but few mortals perceived the images among the living.

In the shadows of the inky evening, he detected the undead. They were the spirits of the damned, the poor wretches everlastingly lost and abandoned, and those condemned to remain earthbound.

The presence of these unfortunate souls was commonplace among the breathing, their numbers equaling their counterparts. If anyone chose to speak to him, Lucien could testify the spirits lurked everywhere. Bound to an endless purgatory, those souls remained lost in a world that didn't recognize them. Humans suspected, and then disproved their reality, despite evidence otherwise. Left behind, they suffered. Unseen, mortals couldn’t hear their whispers, pleading for salvation.

The memory of Lucien’s heart ached in his chest. The persistent burn in his palm accentuated the sense, while he sympathized with the plight of the unseen hordes. He knew of their suffering, for they suffered much as he, trapped, ensnared evermore in the unseeing universe.

His life, as well as theirs, was an indescribable Hell.

The ghastly images became nearly indistinguishable in the encroaching nightfall, the flickering phantoms made more transparent by the pelting rain. Each smoky soul twisted and contorted, their hollow eye sockets gleaming bright, a sense of the rage threatening to erupt from them.

Daemon's blood.

The harshly accusing words, barely audible to the human ear, resembled a soft whisper of wind. Lucien readily recognized each syllable, as if he were a part of the haunted masses. He shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets and turned away, his bitterness, and grief apparent.

He couldn't fight what he bore witness to, nor disagree with the charges.

Daemon's blood.

The hushed menace behind the baleful words was unmistakable, the phrase issued in a drawn out hiss. He couldn't deny them, for they identified him fittingly. Crafted by the daemon that once ruled St. Lorraine, Lucien D’Angel was of the demon's blood.

His condemned soul sought what he would never find, the answer to the prophetic curse whispered in his youth, his redemption by the blessing of an Angel's Fire.

What the Angel's Fire was, Lucien was uncertain. For more years than he cared to recount, he sought the light of his deliverance. The flame would be the fabled redeeming quality, the salvation of his soul, and he longed for the ever-elusive brilliance promised.

Grimly, he wiped glistening drops of rain from his face. As swiftly as he performed the action, an absolute sense of impenetrable blackness overtook him. In a fleeting moment, he succumbed to his deeper, more volatile sense. His vision grew more finely tuned, resembling that of a hunted animal, forever fleeing the baying hounds nipping at his heels.

He scanned his surroundings, apprehension evident in his stance, before he paused. He wiped a shaking hand across the wetness blinding his darkened eyes, and strove to clear his vision. Stunned, he repeated the action. His nostrils flared and he shook his head, bewildered. Long strands of drenched hair whipped about his shoulders, and his dazed sight, commonly acute, blurred before alighting on the oddity that drew him.

In his refined vision, among the figures of the tortured spirits of the lost, an intensely glowing light blinded him. The brilliance was remarkable and breathtaking, reminding him of starlight.

It took a moment to notice the petite figure in the midst of the blinding luminosity, that of a young child. She sat on a vacant bench of a covered bus stop, the overhanging outline of the structure hardly visible in the pouring rain.

Purposely slowing his steps, intent on not frightening her, Lucien moved forward. He halted, his useless breath quivering from his strangely strangled lungs. A foreign, albeit thunderous, roar flooded his ears.

“Don’t be afraid, child.” His whispered words trembled. The last thing he wanted was for the child to bolt, and take with her this mysterious ray of starlight.

“I'm not afraid of you.”

A profound calmness flowed mistily about him, emanating from the seated child, and bathing him in an unfamiliar glow. Lucien felt unusual, as if he were in the presence of a spirit with the ability to rob him of both thought and his own accursed life source. A peculiarity, if he took the time to consider the petiteness of the individual.

“Do you not fear me?” He felt the essence of his cursed existence drawn into her red-rimmed eyes.

Children, humanity in general, avoided him. This child was different, for she didn't flinch, nor cower. She continued to stare, her brown eyes wide and trusting, and filled with unspoken hurt.

She had been crying---great heartfelt tears he recalled from his own childhood. The girl's eyes dropped and she drew her knees up to her chest, placing her arms about her limbs. He noticed she was careful to avoid the dampened hem of her jeans and wet socks.

The child's lips pulled slightly. It seemed she was carefully considering his words, and her sad gaze swept over him. Silent, she examined him, her thoughts pensive before a shadow darkened her gaze.

“No,” she answered abruptly. "I'm not afraid of you."

“Why?” Her candor startled him.

“You’re not the bad man.”

Despite the tears hovering beneath the surface, she granted him the sweetness of a trusting smile. Her eyes crinkled before she placed her round chin on her knees.

He wasn’t the bad man…

“How do you know I'm not?” His words quivered and his speech was rusty with disuse. A chill enveloped him and he dropped to his knees, his nocturnal sight ebbing. She remained strangely silent, gazing into the rapidly lightening color of his gaze, appearing to seek the person hidden deep within.

“You just aren't,” she reaffirmed with the saddest of smiles. There was a vacant gap where her front teeth should have been, granting her a youthfulness he envied. The glow radiating about her grew tenfold as she continued to stare his eyes.

“How do you know?” He dared to ask again and she shrugged her shoulders.

“I think there's someone else that looks like you. Reese says,” she huffed for a moment, struggling to recall unfamiliar words. “There’s another man wearing the devil’s coat.”

An uncomfortable sensation of stinging warmth burned his eyes, and he swiped the back of his hands across the offending orbs.

“How can you be so certain?” A thickness assailed his throat, and made speech nearly impossible.

“I see some things,” she whispered.

“You see things?” Lucien felt disconcerted and numbly repeated her.

“Reese says I can see inside you.”

“Ah, my poor little princess,” an unspeakable pain filled him. She would never comprehend what existed within him, or grasp the extent of his damnation.

A slow ache filled his chest and Lucien winced, afraid to shut his eyes as the pain increased. The tip of one fingertip unfurled from about her legs and, without the slightest bit of hesitation, the child reached for his face. He drew forward, unconsciously making himself more accessible.

Timidly, she wiped the saltiness of an unfamiliar teardrop from the deathly coldness of his skin.

He gasped, shuddering, his senses detecting the echo of a strange thudding sound he hadn’t heard for centuries--his beating heart. The organ fluttered painfully before it began to throb, the stinging warmth of heated blood flowing rapidly through the arid expanse of his veins. He stifled a throaty cough, and the peculiarity of long forgotten feelings flooded him.

“I think I know what you are.”

“Princess,” he growled, the throbbing blood painful. “You don’t know what I’ve endured.”

“You don’t want me. There isn't no one who wants me,” her words were gloomy. Absently, she moved a sodden strand of stark whiteness from his suddenly flushed skin.

“Why do you say that, princess?’

She huffed, her breath a bit of fog. “I see things my mommy and daddy don't want like.”

Her words stung and unashamed tears dripped from his aching eyes. The soft pressure of her fingers halted the glistening drops and wiped at the dampness, her expression solemn. The glow about her increased, as if she were absorbing his pain, the salty trickle miraculously disappearing into her fingertips.

“Why are you here?” Lucien whispered, wanting to know what drew the child out into the night, alone and unafraid.

“I'm running away,” she declared with stunning bluntness, her hand falling to her legs. He felt his heart sputter, and the warmth of his blood ebb. He wanted to scream his outrage, longing for her touch, and the forgotten sense of life she granted.

“Why?” He questioned, realizing her sorrow seemed to diminish the radiating brilliance.

“I saw someone today. When I told my mommy, it made her cry. My daddy said I was mean, and he don't like me.” The whispered words quivered.

“Your father loves you, princess,” he soothed, wanting to ease her pain. “You understand most parents love their children.”

“My daddy don't,” she continued, tears streaming down her pale cheeks, her breath trembling. “He don't like me because I'm different.”

“How can you be so different, if I'm like you?” He attempted to inject levity into his words.

“Does your daddy not like you, too?” She asked in her quivering voice. Her dark eyes searched his face and the edge of tears remained heavy in her dulcet tones.

“I frightened him,” he admitted, granting her a reluctant nod. He knew he was the only person ever to strike the unfamiliar chord within his barbarous father.

“I frighten my daddy, and I think mommy is real scared of me, too,” she heaved a heart worn sigh, her shoulders slumping. The glow radiating from her dimmed further and Lucien wanted to cry out in protest. “They don’t want to hear what I say.”

“What do you have to say, little princess?”

Miraculously, she brightened, gracing Lucien with a broad smile.

“You know, I have the bestest brother in the whole wide world.”

“Ah, brothers that are best friends must be wonderful.” Lucien didn't know how to respond, the subject unfamiliar. “Tell me of your brother.”

“It's a secret,” her melodic tones dropped to a conspiratorial whisper.

“I'm good at keeping secrets.” He assured with absolute sincerity.

She lifted her red-rimmed and angelic gaze to the vacant seat at her side, a dimple appearing in her left cheek. The sense of serenity returned, the calm emanating from her and pulsating with a startling intensity. “My brother's name is Reese.”

His gaze darkened anew. He felt drawn to the shadowy image materializing, the shine about her fluctuating before increasing. Her limpid and trusting eyes stared lovingly up at the misty shape that wavered, glistened, and then solidified at her side.

Incredibly, he realized the child’s luminosity wasn't solely of her making. A large part of the iridescent cloud of brilliant starlight came from young man beside her, as if he were part of her essence.

Lucien's blackened gaze narrowed and he sensed the wealth of calculating thoughts resting in the depths of youthful and insolent eyes. The spirit's attention returned his rapidly darkening regard with one of marked defiance.

Never, in the course of his nearly four hundred years, had he been so carefully examined by a spirit of the other world.

The ghostly shape was of a man only just out of his teens, his features betraying the same youthful softness of the girl. The spirit turned his head, dipping it down until the brim of his military beret shaded his eyes. Lucien did a slow perusal of the battle dress uniform hanging on the youth's sparse frame. Slightly blurred, Lucien knew the attire was of a more recent age. He understood, without a doubt, the young man had recently departed the world of the living.

“Can you see my Reese?” She whispered and turned to examine Lucien's face. A smile remained on her lips, but her eyes glimmered with unvoiced sadness.

“I do, my little princess.” He responded candidly, afraid to move his eyes from the bold specter.

“I'm not sure my brother likes you,” she breathed, the spirit's approval seeming foremost in her innocent mind.

“He tolerates me,” Lucien muttered beneath his breath. “Where was Reese, my princess?”

“He had to go away to some place, it was his job,” she stated simply, the concept of the words not meaning much to her youthful mind. “He said he would come home. See, he's my favorite big brother, and loves me. He promised.”

“When did Reese come home?” Lucien inquired gently, realizing the child was rambling.

“This morning, right after the men with the fancy suits came, and gave mommy some papers. The men made mommy and daddy cry real bad,” she supplied nervously.

Lucien understood the full impact of what she revealed. Fancy suits and papers ... uniformed officers and official documentation…all meant to contact the next of kin.

“Reese says I'm special, and that I’m his little angel.” She continued excitedly. She giggled and Lucien watched in disbelief as the image fluctuated and wavered.

Astonishingly, there was an abrupt change in the ghost. The harsh defiance, the unspoken need to battle, seeped away. The spirit's head dipped toward the child, and a sense of absolute adoration filled the night.

Lucien gave the child a sad smile. “Your brother loves you very much, little princess.”

A thickness tightened his throat. He had forgotten, so many years ago, the feeling of love. The passage of centuries had ripped the experience from him, driving the memory into the darkest recesses of his mind.

Her little face screwed up into a comical expression of adoration. “Reese tells me every time I see him.”

Lucien shook his head, his pained gaze riveted to the young soldier, knowing the passage of time would remove the spectral image from her. Eventually, the boy would become one more lost soul, trailing after the last human being holding his heart.

“You must return home, princess.” He whispered as the spirit turned to glare at him anew. This time, with his soft utterance, Lucien experienced another remarkable change sweep over the phantom. There was an oddly gentle rustling of the wind before the ghost turned, appearing to speak.

For the first time, he was lost, unable to interpret any of the words falling from the spirit's lips.

“Reese says you’re awful smart, and you’re not to run away no more,” she whispered in awe, glancing back at his kneeling form. “He says you need to em bear ace your power.” She paused, her smooth brow creasing. “Em bear ace. That’s a funny word. You know, Reese likes to tell me new words. What does that word mean?”

Embrace the power.

“Your brother says to accept the gift I’ve been given.” Lucien supplied softly, stunned by the apparition’s words. He held them close to his still heart, feeling salvation tease at his damnation. Struggling with his inner turmoil, he smiled sadly at her. “Will Reese allow me to return you to your parents?”

“Daddy will be mad at me…”

“I would suggest, princess, you don't speak of your brother,”�Lucien advised.

“But, he’s my brother….” She protested.

“I'm far older than you realize, and I know there's not a person in this world capable of understanding what you see. It would be best if you were to keep your brother close to your heart. The time you spend together must stay a secret.”

“But…?” The girl hung her head, her shoulders returning to the familiar slump. Lucien watched the shadow of a hand caress her shoulder, the contact causing her glow to intensify.

“Keep Reese a secret, my little princess,”�he continued cajolingly. “Please allow me to return you to your parents.”

She eyed the wispy figure before nodding, the stubborn tightening of her jaw evident.

“Okay, I'll go home,” she whispered. “I'll do what Reese and you say.”

Lucien rose to his feet. He straightened his sodden coat and extended his unmarred hand to her. Patiently, he waited for her to reach for him, slipping her fingers into his. She granted him a tentative but trusting smile, abrupt shyness flowing from her.

He felt the breath sucked escape him in a whoosh and his heart leapt to life and thundered anew. The startling glow, which continued to emanate from her, flowed over him. Immediately, he felt absorbed in a shelter filled with warmth and soul-easing comfort. His cursed vision waned, and the numerous spiritual forms sank into the shadows.

“Reese says I'll never be good at knowing where I am. He says mommy just made be pretty, not smart,” she chuckled as a gentle breeze ruffled her hair. To a casual observer, the action would have seemed as nothing more than the wind, but Lucien knew otherwise. “He says it would be nice if you took me home.”

Unable to speak, he lowered his head, his senses whirling. He remained oddly frightened by the power this child held with her innocent touch.

She squeezed his hand, failing to understand every inch of his body was tortuously alive. His thoughts spun madly and he felt drunkenly dazed. Vaguely, a gruff voice pulled at the depths of his mind, tugging at the senses he honed over the years. He recognized the sound of a command, although the words remained indecipherable.

“Oh, right,” she answered, her eyes alight with a hint of laughter and a marked touch of absolute pity. “Reese says you need to help him with me, that I'm a handful. He says,” she paused, her expression intent. “He says that he’ll trust you for now.”

“I’ve been assigned to babysitting?” Lucien attempted to sound outraged, but failed miserably. The girl giggled, self-consciously covering the vacancy between her teeth.

“Yep,” she grinned, her eyes twinkling before growing somber. “My brother says since you aren't the bad one, you can watch over me.”

“What else does your brother say, little princess?” Lucien asked, leading the child from the bus shelter and hailing a nearby taxi with the effective wave of his scarred hand.

“He says you need to stop calling me princess.”

“Princess, I…” the words were difficult. They trod purposely through the pouring rain, a chill enveloping him as the child’s glow grew. He felt captured in the unforgiving waves of a turbulent ocean, and buffeted against unseen cliffs. He was a man drowning; losing himself in the multitude of unfamiliar and mind-numbing sensations flooding him.

“My name isn’t Princess,”�the child corrected stubbornly.

She slipped her fingers from his and slid into the awaiting cab, her shoulders set, and her chin lifted regally into the air. Lucien’s lost spirit brutally crash back to the unforgiving world of the living. He sensed there was something special about this child, an essence he couldn't pinpoint. He sat beside her, his thoughts deep while he slammed the door shut.

“Alas, my dear princess, if I can't call you by what I perceive with my own eyes, then you must tell me your name.” He ordered gruffly, his tone unconsciously more regal than intended.

“My name is Evangeline Keegan,” she supplied with a giggle.

Somewhere within the depths of his stunned mind, each precisely enunciated syllable registered. A low growl of triumph slipped from him, and he gifted the bewildered cab driver with the most glorious of smiles.

Evangeline...Messenger of the angels.

Keegan…Fire.

After nearly four hundred years of unspeakable pain and loneliness, he had located the source of the Angel's Fire, and his redemption.