The Soul Collector - By Tamela Quijas Page 0,32

a word, Lucien lifted his pale hands, the flesh of nearly colorless palms level. She pulled back, startled by the unexpected action, and powerless to restrain a choking gasp of revulsion.

Resplendent in the glow filling his apartment, her host carried scars more common to a world century’s old. Savagely burnt into his left hand, he wore a circular brand depicting a multitude of angels and demons, eternally intertwined, and cavorting in a lewd dance of death.

As she watched, a yelp of unavoidable fright escaped her bloodless lips.

The scar burned with an intensity only rival to a freshly applied brand. The garish images appeared to absorb all radiant light and illuminated the room with a gleaming display of intense white. The winged angels rose brightly, withdrawing mighty swords that shot minute rays of reddish flame against the abnormal pallor of his skin.

Eva fell back into the sofa as the engraved demons danced wildly against his flesh, their faces twisting into hideous visages of terror and fear.

“I need you.” His plea was heartfelt although his words struck a chord of dread deep within her.

“Why?” The word stuck in her throat as she cringed back into the leather cushions.

“I want to die.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

I shall grace you with what little heart remains, for the rest has been plundered by the darkness of my own damned existence�

Lucien D'Angel was grateful he didn't have a heartbeat.

If he did, the betraying beat of the organ would have prevented him from reaching where he stood.

Instead, he would've reverted to the cowardice of his youth, and remained in his apartment. There, he would be safe from the darkness, and the unsettling image of one mortal woman.

He was elated he didn't need his lungs.

If he’d been able to inhale one semblance of a breath, he knew the trembling air would be strangled. If forced to endure a stuttering heartbeat and unable to capture the most minuscule of breaths, he wouldn't have arrived where he stood.

He chuckled uncomfortably.

Perhaps, facing Julian's wrath would've been far easier.

He looked at the foyer floor of her apartment complex. He, Lucien D'Angel, stood on the threshold of a dwelling in a century old brownstone. The once second in line to the infamous throne of St. Lorraine was hesitant, and despising every damned moment.

His wariness was all due to one female, one he couldn't afford to slip away.

His death depended on her co-operation.

Lucien felt frustrated, the sensation one that hadn’t been part of his chemical make-up for more years than he remembered. He battled spirits on a daily basis, all without a second thought, but she unsettled him with one glance. It took only one doe eyed look from sensual Evangeline Keegan to toss him, headfirst, into a world he never had experienced.

Since their fateful meeting, she shook him to the core of his forgotten humanity. She placed within him an anxiety that didn’t reside in his carefully structured life.

Without knowing why, she had shattered his calm.

The woman had left his apartment in absolute terror a week earlier. He recalled the expression in her horrified eyes, and the memory pained him. He couldn’t blame her for her fear, though. Reese’s spirit had been enough, but his action had driven her over the edge.

Upon reflection, he expected her reaction.

There wasn't a soul who could withstand the horror in the depths of his brutally maltreated hand. He shrugged and considered the thought. The sentiment of repugnance extended to him, and his abhorrence was the reason behind the constant use of leather gloves.

Reconsidering the events of the disastrous evening, Lucien chose to stay away, not wanting to see the disgust he knew would be evident in her dark eyes.

Nevertheless, despite his vow to wait, he had to speak to her. A week was ample for her to gather scattered thoughts and understand the spirit shadowing her.

He lifted a gloved hand and closed his eyes, a disconcerting quiver assail his normally calm nerves. He bit at the sensitive skin of his lower lip, his teeth digging deep into the tender flesh. Evangeline, despite the years spent observing her every move, remained an enigma. He didn't know if she’d grant him audience, and he hoped she’d allow the more journalistic side to overtake any thoughts of self-preservation.

Lucien opened his eyes, the brightness of the hall lights blinding him. He blinked before focusing on the high sheen of the polished brass knocker before him. He glared at his distorted reflection, the outline of the implement brilliant against the dull hue of the crimson