The Soul Collector - By Tamela Quijas Page 0,25

her words sounding distant.

“You asked a question,” his eyes never left her. “In reality, I avoided providing you with a response.”�

The deep hum became louder and Eva felt strangely lightheaded.

“Do you wish for an answer, Evangeline?” He asked smoothly.

Despite the madness taking over her mind, the insatiable investigative reporter within her rose. She nodded, lowering her hand back to her lap.

“We enter this world with what we consider a conscience,” he began easily. “We presume our conscience is the deciding factor directing our actions in our lives. Do you understand?”

She nodded again, wondering where he was leading.

“Man's conscience has been portrayed as the miniature angel who sits on the right shoulder, while the devil lingers on the left.”�

Faintly, she recalled the old Saturday morning cartoons from her childhood. In those brightly colored cells, there had been the consistent battle portrayed of the human will, as represented through the angel and demon theory.

“My question to you, Evangeline, centers on the conscience,” the briefest flicker of intense pain filled his placid features. Her eyes dropped as his hands lifted, and he used the pressure of one thumb to absently stroke at the palm of the other.

“What?” She asked, thinking he referred to her own guilty conscience.

“Let’s take the subject of twins into consideration. Although raised by the same parents, can humanity explain why one child's choices appear driven by the devil’s whispering?” He asked this in a foreboding tone, one that sent chills rippling down her spine. “While the other sibling's actions border on extreme righteousness.”�

“There's always one bad apple in every family,”� Eva shrugged and repeated the archaic adage, her attention focused on the painful way he ground his thumb into his hand. The limb aggravated him, if his actions were anything to go by.

“That may be the common assumption,” he gazed directly at her and she fidgeted. “Tell me, Evangeline, how could a single child be so corrupt?”�

Eva repeated the shrug, unable to give him an explanation.

“The conscience, in effect, is not merely a device that determines a person's moral sense and scruples. I’ve arrived at the understanding right and wrong is decided by the spirit chosen as guide.”�

“You’re presuming our actions are governed by a spirit guide?” She frowned again and wanted to curse at the action.

“Perhaps I should suggest a soul.” She remained silent, watching him. “If a person wins the proverbial luck of the draw at creation, he’s granted the guiding soul with the wings of an angel.”�

“In other words, if you lose, the soul designated to suffer eternal damnation will cloud and direct your thoughts?” She shook her head in incredulity and began to think the host of Those Among Us was stark raving mad.

“You don’t trust me?”�

“You can assume what you want, Mr. Angeles,” she stated, her lips pursing with the action. “The question I asked was if you had the ability to see ghosts.”�

Lucien's hands returned to the arms of his chair. Although his expression remained calm, there was a slight darkening of his eyes. He stared at her until she squirmed, his thoughts unreadable.

“Are you still wondering if I have the ability?” He asked with deceptive softness, his eyes seeming to darken more.

“Yes, I do.” She responded, unable to prevent herself.

“Let me assure you I do, Evangeline. I’ve born witness to the images of the dead every single day of my life.”�

She couldn't contain her disbelieving snort.

“You asked and, off the record, I’ve provided you the truth,” he shrugged. He didn't appear pleased with her reaction, only resigned. “Whether you believe is of little importance.”�

There wasn't any doubt to it, she thought with exasperation. He was stark raving mad!

Ungraciously, she rose to her feet. Her coat forgotten, she left her nearly untouched coffee behind, and moved toward the door. Her vision blurred as she reached for the knob, desperate to escape the apartment.

Abruptly, she stopped, her fingers lingering on the cold metal. The ever-present hum grew, and she swayed drunkenly where she stood.

The drone dissipated, changing to whispering intonations, and the hazy words became clearer. There was a pronounced heaviness to the fractured phrases, which asked her to stay.

Eva turned to Lucien, who rose noiselessly from his seat. As her eyes swept the living room, he moved to stand before the large mirror. She took a cautious step forward, doubtful. She wanted to extend a hand in his direction, thanking him for tolerating her presence.

The words hung on her lips, unspoken as her attention became riveted to the mirror.

Within the tarnished depths, there