The Soul Collector - By Tamela Quijas Page 0,5
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