Angel's Fire, Demon's Blood

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 the busy roads of any country, humanity avoided him, often trembling in inexplicable 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 flowing was 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, resembling an electrical surge of static. The burst would increase tenfold before spiraling up and out, reverberating quietly into the air.
However, this current of energy wasn’t the only item different about the man. There was something unspoken and dark about him, perhaps an awareness governed by a more fearful sense. He didn’t have to move aside for free passage, since unseen hands seemed to repel human forms from his presence. It was pointless for him 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 in a world bursting at the proverbial seams.
However, 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 eternally condemned to a life of loneliness and regret. He had long forgotten the simple feel of a human touch and the contact of warm skin. Just as living souls avoided him, it was far better not to know the frailties filling the human heart and mind.
He halted in the middle of the crowded sidewalk. Intentionally, he remained firmly planted where he stood. Disgruntled figures pushed rudely past him, reaching, but never touching. The intensity of 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 faint 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 by his body, and his tongue flicked over the edge of 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 moisture evident in the mid-autumn air.
The rain would arrive soon enough.
He raised his pale face to the speedily approaching darkness and threw his head back. His nostrils flared and his steel-gray gaze scanned the weighty under-bellies of the equally colored 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 deeply, 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 of rain, nearly invisible in its clarity, trailed slowly past the corner of his mouth, then his jaw. There, the drop quivered delicately before flowing into the upturned 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 his skin, and Lucien’s smile broadened. The wealth of warmth displayed in the single action caused many pedestrians to hesitate, marveling at his striking appearance. Another long sigh escaped him, and he remained blissfully unaware of the strange image he presented.
His arms flew wide, as if he intended to capture each precious drop and hoard them to his darkly clad form. 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 long and slender column of muscles in his neck 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. His arms spread wide, and the rapture of the moment glowed in his face, but he remained oblivious of the image he projected. Few in the crowd took a moment to stop, staring at him in wonder.
He was lean and tall, his height more at ease with the humans of this century than in the last. There was a distinct haughtiness to his appearance, 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 his 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 still features, and a gentle sigh seeped from the bonds of his still heart. Blindly, palms upwards, he lifted his hands and flexed his long fingers. Within seconds, his breadth of his palms became drenched, the moisture running in thick trails from his fingertips.
He frowned, lowering his head. He shook the moisture away and ran his hands though the thickness of 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. Languorously, and he inhaled deeply at 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 seductively beckoning. The rain began to fall in earnest, soaking the thick material of his trench coat.
His hands fell and hung limply at his sides, and he forced his eyes open, focusing on the dim outline of buildings. The silken promise of night arrived and there was a difference to the air, a heaviness overlooked by the blissfully ignorant majority.