The Soul Collector - By Tamela Quijas Page 0,6
welcomed, for it reminded him he was still part of the world, albeit neither living, nor breathing.
Normally, he kept the hand gloved. The gruesomeness of the mark one he didn’t wish anyone to glimpse, the sensitive skin puckered into a grisly oval design of lewdly intertwined demons and angels.
Abruptly, his father's coarse words echoed loudly in his ears … I should know my enemies and my friends. You are neither, and you are an abomination to those who dwell in my house!
He curled his fingers into the aching flesh, his nails digging deep. The action wouldn't draw a single crimson drop of precious blood, for the vital liquid hadn’t pulsed through his veins since his transformation. Scars would fail to materialize from the sharp tips, and he carried only the marks inflicted during his human existence.
His suffering and damnation were penalty for his unwanted, supernatural gift.
He unfurled his fingers from his tortured palm and allowed cool rain to pelt the stinging flesh. Ruefully, he acknowledged the brand was a lesser punishment than what he might have suffered. In his youth, his father would have granted a weaker human the torments of fire, the lash, or the terror of being drawn and quartered.
It was enough his sire demanded the brand as adequate recompense, warning him of the identity of his twin sons. Perhaps, though, if D'Angel the Destroyer had been capable of understanding the entirety of the witch’s curse, he would have granted one son a more benevolent fate…death.
Instead, he remained condemned to a world overflowing with spirits.
His thoughts of the past fading, Lucien focused on the humans surrounding him. In a scant matter of seconds, and to his changing vision, the mortals lost any semblance of solidity. The outlines defining each figure wavered and blurred, resembling watercolor forms suffering the force of the rain.
Soon, images far more ethereal would replace the rapidly abating masses. To the ungifted eye, the sepia colored shapes were invisible. The ability to recognize their existence depended on the spectator, but few mortals perceived the images among the living.
In the shadows of the inky evening, he detected the undead. They were the spirits of the damned, the poor wretches everlastingly lost and abandoned, and those condemned to remain earthbound.
The presence of these unfortunate souls was commonplace among the breathing, their numbers equaling their counterparts. If anyone chose to speak to him, Lucien could testify the spirits lurked everywhere. Bound to an endless purgatory, those souls remained lost in a world that didn't recognize them. Humans suspected, and then disproved their reality, despite evidence otherwise. Left behind, they suffered. Unseen, mortals couldn’t hear their whispers, pleading for salvation.
The memory of Lucien’s heart ached in his chest. The persistent burn in his palm accentuated the sense, while he sympathized with the plight of the unseen hordes. He knew of their suffering, for they suffered much as he, trapped, ensnared evermore in the unseeing universe.
His life, as well as theirs, was an indescribable Hell.
The ghastly images became nearly indistinguishable in the encroaching nightfall, the flickering phantoms made more transparent by the pelting rain. Each smoky soul twisted and contorted, their hollow eye sockets gleaming bright, a sense of the rage threatening to erupt from them.
Daemon's blood.
The harshly accusing words, barely audible to the human ear, resembled a soft whisper of wind. Lucien readily recognized each syllable, as if he were a part of the haunted masses. He shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets and turned away, his bitterness, and grief apparent.
He couldn't fight what he bore witness to, nor disagree with the charges.
Daemon's blood.
The hushed menace behind the baleful words was unmistakable, the phrase issued in a drawn out hiss. He couldn't deny them, for they identified him fittingly. Crafted by the daemon that once ruled St. Lorraine, Lucien D’Angel was of the demon's blood.
His condemned soul sought what he would never find, the answer to the prophetic curse whispered in his youth, his redemption by the blessing of an Angel's Fire.
What the Angel's Fire was, Lucien was uncertain. For more years than he cared to recount, he sought the light of his deliverance. The flame would be the fabled redeeming quality, the salvation of his soul, and he longed for the ever-elusive brilliance promised.
Grimly, he wiped glistening drops of rain from his face. As swiftly as he performed the action, an absolute sense of impenetrable blackness overtook him. In a fleeting moment, he succumbed to his deeper, more volatile sense. His vision grew more finely tuned,