The Soul Collector - By Tamela Quijas Page 0,4
at the woman's crippled body.
“Ensure she’s burnt beyond recognition, and scatter her ashes to the wind. I won’t have a martyr for the people.”
There was a sudden burst of illuminating flame before the sickly stench of burning meat filled the air. The fiery glow emitted from the woman's corpse brightened the night's sky. Incandescent fingers of orange-red flames leapt hungrily upwards, in silent competition with the ghostly lamentation of the wind.
The hag’s shriveled form burned hastily, and the intense fire consumed what little there was of the ancient seer's tattered remains. To the knights viewing the hungry blaze, her flesh appeared as nothing more than dry autumn leaves, her ashes scattering glowing sparks into the air. Abruptly, a breathless rider rode a breakneck speed into the clearing, a shower of flaming embers dusting his armor.
“I bear magnificent tidings this eve, sire!” The short-winded knight shouted, drawing near. The weary rider struggled for breath while he reined his steed to a ground shuddering halt. The hapless knight inhaled the nauseating odor of crisp flesh and burning clothes. He shuddered beneath the weight of his armor, unaware his liege lord made a mental note of the reaction. “I’ve magnificent tidings, milord!”
“What news do you bring?” D'Angel, the self-appointed ruler of St. Lorraine, postulated glaringly.
“You have been blessed this night with the arrival of a successor, milord,” the rider managed, a forced brightening his sweat-drenched features. “God and your beauteous Queen Anjelie have graced your majesty with a fine pair of healthy sons!”
The monarch blanched, and the muscles in his throat convulsed. He swallowed, and cold sweat touched his brow. Somewhere, the morose cry of wind whispered with the witch's cackling laughter, and a frisson of dread enshrouded the implacable sovereign’s dauntless form.
At the same moment, the final remnants of the old woman's ashes rose, dancing on the wind, and dusted D'Angel's dark armor.
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