The Soul Collector - By Tamela Quijas Page 0,35

her full lips.

Eva heaved an exhausted sigh. He watched her as she schooled her features into a relaxed expression, the frustration easing as she rolled her shoulders. Lucien remained as he was, hesitantly scanning the room and covertly admiring the outline of her voluptuous figure. Although his baser sensations and life had vanished, he retained the ability to appreciate the finer things in life, and the finer things stood before him.

She was such a beautiful woman.

Oh, his mind mused in thick tones, there wasn't any denying Evangeline was so much more. She was the essence of softness, ethereal in the shimmering glow of unnatural and illuminating light radiating from her. He knew he might possibly live a thousand years and never tire of gazing at her.

He attempted to shake the sensations of mind numbing need away by walking to the computer. The glow of the screen reflected his features as he eyed the information she had been viewing. To his surprise, Eva followed him, halting at his side.

Lucien drew himself upright, expecting her to suffer the feeling many experienced in his company. She should have trembled with unexplainable fear and suffered a sense of vertigo. She should have gasped for breath and skittered away, seeking safety.

She didn’t and he was at a loss. He felt human warmth flow from her, a heat he hadn’t experienced in ages. Unable to speak, his mind went delightfully blank.

For once, he felt peace.

…about time you cut the hair�

Lucien turned toward the image, aware the normal sepia tones in which he was accustomed, had faded. There was a dim whiteness radiating from the ghost, growing with each passing moment.

“Changing time’s call for adaptation,”� Lucien responded, startling Eva with the words.

�…don't look like a damned hippie, anymore�

“You talk too much.” �

�…sorry, ain't got anything else to do, sort of limited�

“I suggest you follow your sister's advice,” he couldn’t prevent his growl. “Shut up, Keegan.” �

Lucien turned to the computer. His focus remained captured by the details on the screen, his shoulders sagging beneath the heaviness of his trench coat. She frowned, staring at him, her mind whirling.

“I couldn't resist checking out what you told me,”� Eva supplied, still captivated by his profile as a sensation of breathlessness overtook her.

“I had expected as much.” �

“Your D'Angel the Destroyer, the Daemon of St. Lorraine, wasn't a pleasant person.” �

“I think you’ve uttered the understatement of millennium,” disgust flashed in his face. “My sire’s reputation was well earned.” �

“Is it true he razed entire towns?” �

He shook his head, his expression pained. Heaviness settled over him as he recalled the many battles boasted of within the castle walls, the tales of gore, rape, and pillaging recounted. As a child, he’d been sickened by the stories, their boasts haunting him with nightmares.

“He burnt villages to the ground, and murdered every man, woman and child that crossed his path.” �

“Oh.” �

“Four centuries of infamy can never be altered,” he responded morosely.

“It appears he ranks right in there with some of the most reviled despots in the world.” �

She leaned across him and used the tip of an impatient finger to scroll down the computer page. Lucien didn't need to look at the copies of the woodcuttings representing the atrocities D'Angel the Destroyer committed. Eva paused as she arrived at a portrait, commissioned when Lucien had been a child.

“I don't know what to think anymore,” she stared blankly at the screen. Her eyes flicked over the image and the man, standing by her side, was the smaller youngster in the portrait. He appeared to have been a sickly child, far slighter than the brother towering by his side has.

“I do understand my tale’s one you would consider unbelievable,”� he muttered, turning away, and staring blankly at the chestnut highlights of her bound hair. “I imagine your journalistic nature made you seek answers.” �

“The nosey side took over, I’ll admit.” She smoothed her features, blissfully unaware of the chilling coldness seeping from his pale flesh. “Still, I have a lot of unanswered questions.”

“Such as?”

“Who, what, where, when, and why?” �

“I beg your pardon?” �

…you're in for it now�

“I need to know who, what, where, when and why?” She repeated, ticking the words off on her fingertips. “Those are the five words every journalist uses when researching a potential story.” �

…told you�

He nodded, not to anyone in particular, biting back the words threatening to spill from him.

“Besides, I’m curious, and Reese refuses to shut the hell up. He keeps telling me objectivity is my