"Focus, Ariel. Don't let the noise overwhelm you."
Malachai's voice anchored me as we sat at a small table in the corner of a crowded bar. Music throbbed through speakers overhead, conversations hummed all around us, aand glasses clinked against wooden surfaces. But those weren't the sounds threatening to drown me.
It was the thoughts. The dark, twisted, secret thoughts from dozens of minds in the room. They crashed against my consciousness like waves, each one carrying fragments of humanity's worst impulses.
*If she doesn't stop talking, I swear to God I'll—*
*Nobody would even notice if I took the wallet. It's practically falling out of his pocket—*
*One more drink and maybe I'll have the courage to—*
"Breathe," Malachai instructed, his dark eyes fixed on mine across the table. "You're trying to hear everything at once. That's not how it works. Think of it like tuning a radio. You need to find the specific frequency you're looking for." Malachai said.
I closed my eyes, gripping my untouched glass of whiskey. "There are too many stations."
"Start with one person. Just one." His voice remained calm, patient. "The bartender. Focus on him." He said.
I opened my eyes, looking toward the bar where a tall man with a meticulously groomed beard mixed drinks. I concentrated, trying to isolate his mental frequency from the cacophony around us.
At first, nothing changed. The noise remained overwhelming, indistinct voices were shouting over each other in my mind. Then, slowly, as I maintained my focus, the other voices began to recede. The bartender's thoughts grew clearer, rising above the mental static.
*Another night of this. Smiling at drunk idiots for tips. At least Rebecca's waiting at home. Two more years and we'll have enough saved to open our own place, somewhere quiet...*
"I don't understand," I murmured, surprised. "His thoughts... they're not dark."
Malachai smiled slightly. "Not everyone carries significant darkness, Ariel. Most humans exist in shades of gray—ordinary thoughts, ordinary sins. Nothing that would interest us."
"Then how do I find the ones who do?"
"You're looking with your mind. Try looking with your eyes instead." He gestured around the room. "What do you see when you look at the people here?"
I scanned through the crowded bar, feeling frustrated. "People were drinking, talking... just normal bar stuff."
"Look deeper," Malachai urged. "Beyond the physical. You have the sight now, whether you've accepted it or not, use it."
I exhaled slowly, forcing myself to relax. My vision had been changing over the past few days. seeming sharper and being able to see in near darkness, catching movements too quick for normal human perception. Now I allowed it to shift further, letting instinct guide me.
The bar seemed to dim around me, colors fading to muted tones. But the people... the people began to glow. Or rather, something around them glowed... auras of varying brightness, each one were unique in its own pattern and color.
Most shimmered with a pearly, translucent light, shot through with occasional darker threads. The ordinary people Malachai had mentioned, their souls neither are particularly virtuous nor corrupt. A few shone brighter, their auras were almost painfully radiant, unmarred by darkness.
"The bright ones," I whispered, unable to look directly at a young woman whose aura blazed like a miniature sun. "Are they... good people?" I asked.
"Good is a simplistic term," Malachai replied, his own aura's invisible to me. "Let's say their souls remain largely untainted by their choices. They're not our concern."
My gaze continued to move across the room until it landed on a man seated alone at the bar. Unlike the others, his aura writhed with shadows, tendrils of darkness coiling and uncoiling like living smoke. The sight of it made my stomach clench with hunger.
"Him," I said, nodding toward the man. "The one in the gray suit."
Malachai followed my gaze. "Very good. What do you see when you look at him?"
"Darkness. So much darkness." The hunger inside me responded to it, reaching out instinctively. "It's like... like ink in water, spreading through him."
"That darkness is what feeds us," Malachai explained quietly. "The corruption humans cultivate through their choices. Their cruelty, their malice, their willingness to harm others for personal gain." He studied the man thoughtfully. "Let's see what secrets Mr. Gray Suit harbors, shall we? Reach out with your mind. Touch his thoughts, but lightly like skimming your fingers across the surface of a pond."
I hesitated. "What if I can't control it?"
"I'm here," Malachai assured me, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. "Nothing will happen that I can't correct."
Taking a deep breath, I focused on the man in the gray suit, reaching out mentally as Malachai had instructed. His thoughts came to me immediately, as if he were broadcasting them directly to me.
*She'll never connect it back to me. Perfect setup. Harrison takes the fall, I take his clients. By this time next week, it'll all be over...*
Surface thoughts, plotting and calculating. Unpleasant, but nothing extraordinary. I pushed a little deeper, curious.
Images flashed through my mind. I saw documents being altered, money changing hands, a rival being framed for financial crimes that would destroy his reputation and livelihood. Deeper still lay satisfaction at the thought of the man's family suffering, his children forced to leave their private schools, his wife humiliated in their social circles.
The cruelty of it, the deliberate malice, made me gasp. But the hunger in me responded to it like a starving animal scenting prey.
I still pushed deeper, wanting to understand the darkness I saw coiling through his aura. Suddenly, I was no longer skimming the surface but plunging into the depths of his mind, past conscious thought into memory and emotion.
A lifetime of small cruelties and large ones. Pleasure derived from others' pain. A coldness at his core where empathy should have existed. Dark satisfaction at manipulations that had ruined rivals, colleagues, even friends...
The man at the bar suddenly stiffened, his drink slipping from his fingers to shatter on the floor. He clutched his head, a low groan escaping him.
"Ariel, stop," Malachai hissed, his hand closing around my wrist. "You're going too deep."
I pulled back immediately, shocked. The man in the gray suit was breathing heavily, looking around in confusion as the bartender hurried over with a towel for the spilled drink.
"What did I do to him?" I whispered, horrified.
"You touched his mind too roughly," Malachai explained, with stern expression. "It's like a psychic paper cut... painful but temporary. He'll be fine, but we need to leave now."
We slipped out of the bar into the cool night air. My head spun with what I'd experience. The auras, the darkness in the man's mind, the hunger that had responded to it so viscerally.
"I hurt him," I said once we were a block away, walking briskly down a quiet street lined with closed shops.
"A momentary discomfort," Malachai dismissed. "But it demonstrates why control is essential. We observe and assess. We do not cause unnecessary pain."
"I thought causing pain was the whole point," I said bitterly.
Malachai stopped walking, turning to face me fully. "Is that what you think we are? Mindless dealers of suffering?" His voice remained even, but I could sense his disappointment. "Our purpose is far more nuanced, Ariel. We remove corruption from those who have embraced it fully, who have allowed it to define them. It's a form of cosmic balance."
"It didn't feel balanced," I admitted. "It felt... predatory."
"That's the hunger speaking. It doesn't distinguish between appropriate targets and inappropriate ones. That's why you need me to teach you to control it, to show you how to feed that hunger without becoming a monster." He gestured for us to continue walking. "Which brings us to the second part of tonight's lesson."
We turned down an alley between two buildings, emerging into a small courtyard hidden from the street. A man waited there, leaning against a brick wall, smoking a cigarette. When he saw Malachai, he straightened, dropping the cigarette and crushing it beneath his boot.
"This is Marcus," Malachai said to me, then addressed the man. "Show her."
Marcus pulled up his sleeve to reveal a tattoo.. a symbol that resembled the markings on my back. Not identical, but clearly related. My skin prickled in recognition.
"Marcus works for me," Malachai explained. "He helps locate appropriate subjects for collection."
"Subjects," I repeated. "You mean victims."
The man named Marcus laughed, a harsh sound in the quiet courtyard. "Lady, the guy we found for you tonight is nobody's victim. He's the one who makes victims."
"What does that mean?" I asked, looking between them.
"It means," Malachai said patiently, "that Marcus has found us someone suitable for a demonstration. Someone whose darkness has progressed to a point where intervention is justified." He turned to Marcus. "Where?"
"Warehouse by the river. The old Kimball shipping facility." Marcus handed Malachai a small key. "Room in the back. He's secured, as requested."
Malachai nodded, dismissing Marcus with a gesture. The man gave me one last curious look before disappearing back down the alley.
"You have people working for you," I said as we began walking again. "Humans."
"I have many resources," Malachai replied vaguely. "Accumulated over centuries. Marcus has his own reasons for assisting our work."
"Which are?" I asked, curiously.
"His sister was murdered by a man much like the one waiting for us tonight," Malachai said matter-of-factly. "A man whose soul I collected three years ago. Marcus found a certain... satisfaction in that justice."
We reached the waterfront thirty minutes later, the old industrial district largely abandoned at this hour. The Kimball warehouse loomed dark against the night sky, its windows boarded, its metal doors rusted with age and neglect.
The key Marcus had provided opened a side entrance. Inside, emergency lights cast faint green illumination along corridors piled with forgotten shipping crates. The air smelled of dust and river water.
"Who's here?" I asked, suddenly nervous as we moved deeper into the building. "What exactly are we going to do?"
"We're going to show you what soul collection entails," Malachai answered calmly. "The man waiting for us has committed acts of violence that would turn your stomach. He's been paid to hurt people for most of his adult life, and he takes pride in his efficiency."
"A hitman?" I guessed.
"Among other specialties," Malachai confirmed, stopping before a metal door at the end of a corridor. "He's agreed to this demonstration in exchange for certain arrangements regarding his legal troubles."
"Wait," I said, seeming confused. "He agreed? He knows what's going to happen?"
"Not precisely. He knows I can help him disappear, give him a new identity. He doesn't understand the... metaphysical aspects of our arrangement." Malachai unlocked the door. "But he's here willingly, which makes this easier."
The room beyond was small, once an office perhaps, now empty except for a chair in the center where a man sat. He was heavily muscled, his head shaved, and he has tattoos covering his arms. He looked up as we entered, his expression seeming neutral.
"Took your time," he said to Malachai, then glanced at me with mild interest. "Who's the girl?"
"My associate," Malachai replied smoothly. "She's here to observe."
The man shrugged. "Whatever. We are doing this or what? Cops are looking hard for me after Milwaukee."
I didn't want to know what "Milwaukee" referred to, but my newly enhanced senses gave me the answer anyway. His aura was the darkest I'd seen yet, writhing with shadows that seemed almost solid. When I accidentally brushed against his thoughts, images of violence flashed through my mind. I saw a warehouse and a man begging, a blowtorch...
I recoiled, physically stepping back. "Malachai," I whispered. "He's—"
"I know," Malachai cut me off, keeping his attention on the man. "Richard, I need you to sit still and close your eyes. This won't take long."
The man—Richard complied with surprising docility. Perhaps he was used to following instructions, or perhaps something in Malachai's presence compelled obedience. Either way, he closed his eyes and settled deeper into the chair.
"Watch carefully," Malachai told me softly.
He moved to stand behind Richard, placing his hands on either side of the man's head, not quite touching. For a moment, nothing seemed to happen. Then Malachai's eyes began to change, the dark brown giving way to a deep red glow—the same glow I'd seen in my own eyes.
The air in the room felt suddenly heavier, charged with something I couldn't name. Shadows gathered around Malachai's hands, not cast by the dim light but emerging from nowhere, coalescing into tendrils that reminded me of the darkness I'd seen in Richard's aura.
Slowly, and methodically, Malachai drew these shadow-tendrils out of Richard's head, as if extracting a physical substance. The man's expression remained peaceful, his breathing steady. The darkness gathered between Malachai's hands, a swirling mass of shadow that seemed to pulse with its own heartbeat.
When the last tendril had been extracted, Malachai brought his hands together, enclosing the shadow-mass completely. He closed his eyes, and for a brief moment, his own aura became visible to me... a complex pattern of darkness and light, shifting and reforming as the extracted shadows were absorbed into it.
The entire process took less than a minute. When it was complete, Malachai stepped back, his eyes returning to normal. Richard remained seated, still breathing steadily, his expression unchanged.
"Is he... okay?" I asked hesitantly.
"See for yourself," Malachai replied, gesturing toward the man.
I looked at Richard again, this time using my enhanced vision. His aura had transformed completely. Where before there had been writhing darkness, now there was mostly light, pale and ordinary, with only the faintest traces of shadow. No more than I'd seen in the average person at the bar.
"The darkness," I said in wonder. "It's gone."
"Not gone," Malachai corrected. "Transferred. Collected. The corruption that had taken root in his soul over decades of violence and cruelty has been removed."
As if on cue, Richard opened his eyes. He blinked several times, looking around the room in confusion.
"What happened?" he asked, his voice somehow different... lighter, less harsh. "Did you..." He trailed off, staring at his hands as if he'd never seen them before. "Something's different. I feel..." He looked up at Malachai, bewildered. "What did you do to me?"
"Exactly what I promised," Malachai replied. "I've given you a fresh start. The paperwork for your new identity is in the envelope by the door. The address of your new residence is inside. I suggest you leave the country within 48 hours."
Richard nodded slowly, still looking dazed. He stood, moving toward the envelope like a sleepwalker. After examining its contents briefly, he left without another word, not even glancing in my direction.
When the door closed behind him, I turned to Malachai. "What happens to him now?"
"He'll start a new life, likely a better one," Malachai said, adjusting his cuffs as if we'd just concluded a business meeting rather than a supernatural procedure. "Without the darkness that drove him to violence, he may become quite ordinary. Some former subjects become productive members of society. Others simply exist quietly, their capacity for extreme harm neutralized."
"And the darkness you took? Where does it go?"
Malachai smiled slightly. "It sustains us. Fuels our abilities. Feeds the hunger that would otherwise consume us from within."
I thought of the swirling shadow-mass he had absorbed, the way it had merged with his aura. "You... ate his evil?"
"Crudely put, but essentially correct." He studied my face carefully. "Are you horrified or fascinated, Ariel? I see both in your expression."
"Both," I admitted. "It was..." I struggled to find the right words. "Beautiful and terrible at the same time."
"It's a kind of spiritual surgery, removing diseased parts that threaten the whole."
I thought of Richard's expression when he'd awakened—the confusion, the strange lightness in his voice. "He didn't seem to remember who he was."
"He remembers his skills, his knowledge, his experiences," Malachai explained as we left the room, making our way back through the warehouse. "But the emotional connections to his worst actions are severed. The pleasure he took in causing pain, the pride in his efficiency as a killer—those aspects are gone."
***
Outside, the night air felt clean against my skin. I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly chilled despite the mild temperature.
"Could I do that?" I asked quietly. "What you just did?"
"Eventually," Malachai replied. "With practice and acceptance of your nature. The ability already exists within you, dormant but growing stronger as your transformation progresses."
We walked in silence for several minutes, the implications of everything I'd witnessed sinking in. Part of me remained horrified at the otherworldly nature of what I'd seen, at the idea of becoming something capable of such acts. But another part, a growing part recognized the strange justice in it, the balance Malachai had mentioned.
"The hunger," I said suddenly, realizing something. "It's quieter now. After watching you..." I searched for the right word, "...feed?"
"Proximity to a collection can temporarily sate it," Malachai confirmed. "Though nothing will truly quiet it except your own participation."
We reached a main street, where taxis occasionally passed despite the late hour. Malachai raised his hand, and one immediately pulled to the curb.
"Consider what you've learned tonight," he said as he opened the taxi door for me. "Rest. When you're ready for the next lesson, you know how to reach me."
"I didn't agree to a next lesson," I pointed out, though my protest felt hollow even to my own ears.
Malachai smiled, the same patient expression he'd worn all evening. "You will."
As the taxi pulled away, I leaned my head against the cool glass of the window, watching the city lights. The memory of Richard's transformation played in my mind... the extraction of darkness, the visible lightening of his soul, the confusion and wonder on his face afterward.
Most disturbing of all was my own reaction to it. The hunger in me had responded to the process with recognition, with yearning. Some part of me understood exactly what Malachai had done because some part of me was designed to do the same thing.
Twenty souls, I thought, remembering the text I'd found. Twenty collections before my own transformation would be complete, before I would fully become whatever Malachai already was.
The question was no longer whether I could stop the process. It was whether I wanted to... Perhaps there's something Malachai isn't telling me regarding this soul collection. how could one souls be collected with the person not being harmed...? and a demon? when it's their specialty... the joy of killing people.
****