Soulgate

By Don Brooke

Life is hard for seventeen-year-old Deacon Forter. He has no friends and no family. In fact, he's not even human anymore. Deacon is a soulgate; a hunter employed by the Devil himself. Although, it's not all bad considering the incredible powers he was given to complete his duties.
While forever dealing with the tragic loss of his family, strange new abilities and an extra-vigilant police force, Deacon considers himself happy with nocturnal isolation. It's only when he comes across a beautiful and mysterious stranger that Deacon begins to realise he's a part of something much, much bigger.
He's a part of the end of the world as we know it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Don Brooke
• Release date: Mar 12, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311852021

Don Brooke

Don Brooke was born in Darwin, Northern Territory, but grew up in the wine regions of South Australia. With a constant desire for learning and the creative arts, it was only a matter of time until he discovered the joys of writing.Having started many different university degrees (and even completing a Bachelor of Marine Biology), he is finally proud to report he knows where he wants to be in life!While Don remains an avid guitar/piano player and traditional painter/drawer, he will always be a writer at heart.Don currently resides in Adelaide, studying Creative Writing at Flinders University.

Book preview

Prologue

A deep, echoing yell bounced off the walls of the sewers beneath the dark streets of London. The chilled air carried the sound to the world above, and sent neighbourhood dogs barking into awareness. Footsteps then splashed through the unused sewers causing the shallow water to rock with strong disturbance. The pace of the footfalls was ungraceful, yet quickened to a speed beyond anything of human capability. This would have seemed especially unusual to any onlooker who happened to catch a glimpse of the man that was darting round the winding passageways, for he bore no similarities to an athlete.

Long and unkempt hair dangled behind his neck, with the odd grey streak sparkling under the dim overhead lighting. If he were not running for his life, the man’s hair would have covered a majority of his weathered face and perhaps most of the scars that disfigured it. His expression did not show any signs of fear, but instead harsh concentration. Breathing heavily after being winded by his attacker, a dribble of dehydrated saliva whipped down into his inch-long beard, as he searched his mind for an escape plan.

When the next corner approached, the fleeing man was caught completely off-guard by a golden arrow that slammed into his left shoulder blade, knocking him hard against the stone wall. In an instant, his concentrated expression was replaced with one of shock—his eyes wide with panic. The man turned to face around the sharp bend and attempted to remove the projectile with one ferocious yank of his right hand, but a series of jagged barbs prevented the action and cut further into his skin. He grunted with frustration and terror.

Suddenly, a second arrow pierced the same shoulder from the front, slightly beneath his collarbone, followed promptly by another on the opposite side in almost exact symmetry. The heads of the two new arrows had passed right through his body and deep into the stone behind him, impaling him against the wall. His muscles had been punctured and the pain was phenomenal. The man had become a scarecrow; pinned to the same position until someone wanted him down. Escape was certainly out of reach now.

He couldn’t raise his arms to free himself, so he allowed them to relax at his side. Any human in his place would be screaming in agony . . . but this was no human. The man took a few deep breaths and returned his heartbeat to normal.

Warm blood—heated from the recent battle—trickled down to his fingers and dripped into dirty water. He had lost the fight, but was intent on denying his captor any more satisfaction. A low chuckle passed between the man’s lips and gradually turned into a bellowing laugh. He mumbled something to himself in Turkish before speaking loudly in English. ‘You know you cannot stop us. This world is ours.’ He paused, deciding on his next taunt. ‘The end is coming . . . and you chose the wrong side!’ the man boomed and continued to laugh. His husky voice lacked confidence, but that was partly due to losing his breath.

A figure gracefully emerged from the darkness—bow in hand—and smiled. Her voice said calmly, ‘The sides are changing, Drake, and judging by your current position, I’d say it’s you who picked the wrong one.’

Anger flared up on Drake’s face. ‘You call yourself a soulgate?’ he yelled and spat towards the white-clad warrior who continued to approach. Drake knew what was in store for him next. He knew he wouldn’t open his eyes again for a very long time. ‘You’re an abomination . . . ’

The pursuing combatant stopped in front of him and considered his remarks. She pushed a long strand of blonde hair off of her pretty face and smiled. ‘I’d say sweet dreams, Drake . . . but I doubt they will be.’ With that, she delivered a powerful right hook to Drake’s cheek with the knuckle-dusters that formed the grip of her bow. London’s sewers fell silent once again.

Chapter One

Their red eyes glowed in the darkness like tiny peepholes into Hell. This wasn’t far from the truth either. They shifted back and forth in slow alteration, watching for any intruders to the entrance of the underground parking lot.

Deacon counted only two pairs of eyes from his position—perched on a gumtree in the parkland across the road—but knew there would be several others inside. He had not been observing them for long, having just ascended the tree with monkey-like ability.

The young hunter sighed softly into the night and imagined what evil acts had been committed here to create such an abundance of the beasts. Murder? Assault? Deacon wondered. Probably both and more, considering the reputation this neighbourhood has. However, Deacon was far from innocent himself. Images of violence and unspeakable events of his past life still played on constant repeat in his mind. He shut his eyes as blood started to boil and rush within him.

The revenge Deacon had performed on the men that killed his family was certainly not as sweet as he’d thought. He had tortured them. He’d made them suffer for their heinous crime, yet he still felt cheated. It was not only his family those men had taken from him . . . it was his innocence. Those men had made him into a killer, too.

Indeed, life had not been kind to Deacon, but that chapter was over now. Since he had died, his afterlife had been pleasantly distracting. These days he had a purpose . . . and it kept his mind well away from the past.

Time to get to work.

With this new thought locked in his mind, he jumped down from the tree, landing in impossible silence with half a smile across his face. Using extraordinary stealth, Deacon crept behind the fence that ran parallel to the building above the underground car park. The bright red tribal tattoos that covered most of his forearms, down to the tops of his hands, blurred his arms a soft red as he ran. The warm night was not entirely dark, and in a moment he would be completely visible. Not ideal for a hunter.

Deacon briskly rounded the fence—about a hundred metres to the building’s south—and broke into a sprint, causing his black jeans to rustle loudly. Fortunately for him, there were no humans on the street to hear this.

He reached the entrance of the parking lot within seconds and stopped where his prey had been keeping sentry. The red eyes were nowhere to be seen now, though Deacon was not surprised. An eerie silence was all that remained as he adjusted the strap of the scabbard that was diagonally slung to his bare back.

He began to walk confidently down the bending slope to the underground complex. The handle of a concealed sword shone in the moonlight, before his entire body was embraced by the darkness.

The whole car park was still and quiet for almost an entire minute.

A single clicking sound—accompanied by a small, blue glow in the centre of the area—finally broke the deathly silence. Deacon’s silhouette stood over the fist-sized device, as it emitted a high-pitched hum. Suddenly, light and electricity exploded outward in a quick flash that lit up the entire facility like daylight.

The layout of the car lot was nothing out of the ordinary. Completely empty of vehicles, the only structures present were wide concrete pillars that held up the roof. A few security cameras placed high in the ceiling corners were shorted out as the massive energy was discharged, fulfilling the electro-magnetic pulse’s purpose. However, the flash of light also revealed five figures surrounding Deacon, who had remained motionless with his eyes closed.

The beasts that had circled him stood an extra three feet above Deacon, who was already a comfortable six-feet tall. In an attempt to ambush the lone intruder, they, too, had closed their glowing eyes.

The demons truly represented creatures of evil. Complete with pairs of curling horns protruding from the sides of their heads—and seemingly at every joint of their bodies—their appearance was nothing less than terrifying. Each was completely black or completely brown . . . with the exception of their razor-sharp, silver claws.

The explosion of light subsided within a second, and was reduced to the initial blue glow in the middle of the car park. Every pair of red eyes slightly opened around Deacon, glaring angrily at him. The low snarls and growls that exited the demons’ mouths through massive, exposed teeth made them seem even more aggravated with the disturbance.

Deacon burst into action, reaching up past his shoulder to withdraw his unique weapon. The single-edged blade was shaped like a supersized kitchen knife and almost reached a metre and a half in length. Its ridiculous size and shape made it look like something out of a video game or farfetched movie. A semi-circle was cut into the wide blade—one foot before the sharp edge reached the handle—allowing for Deacon’s left hand to form a broader grip when necessary. Any other features were masked by fresh blood, which completely soaked the sword.

As Deacon drew the weapon, the liquid sprayed out of the sheath towards the ceiling, following a curve to the right as he swung at the nearest enemy. The tiniest bit of extra resistance to the swing—and reassuring squelch—confirmed the demon at his front right was cut entirely in two. The sword continued on its circle but found no second target. The remaining monsters had already moved out of its range.

A huge fist suddenly caught Deacon square in the middle of the face, sending him soaring backwards through the air—sword still in hand. He collided hard with a scaly demon behind him, but by kicking his legs up further, he managed to back-flip onto his feet. Now with a large figure spread on the floor in front of him, Deacon reached down to a holster on his upper leg to withdraw—and fire—a custom-designed desert eagle pistol. The bullet passed between the downed demon’s bright red eyes, and ensured they would never open again.

‘Is that the best you’ve got?’ Deacon taunted with a smirk. While he was still outnumbered, Deacon was right to be confident. A soulgate like him could probably handle twice as many demons. This was routine work and Deacon wasn’t the least bit afraid or anxious. In fact, he hadn’t felt fear in a long time.

The beasts charged at him with rage, as if they had understood his words. The first pounced over the recently deceased foe and came at him head on. Deacon turned his back on the attack, rotated a complete circle and slashed his sword from side to side. At the same time, he extended his left arm out sideways to fire another powerful round. Two more demons fell silent at his feet.

Not a second later, Deacon ducked and put his sword back in its holder, as a huge creature toppled over him from behind. He watched as it landed on all fours and spun around towards him. Deacon lunged forward and again withdrew his sword, which was now as bloody as it had begun. The blade entered the demon’s abdomen, and then emerged through the top of the beast’s skull. In one smooth movement, the sword was back in the sheath on Deacon’s back.

Two left, he told himself.

The hunter closed his eyes and raised his pistol directly above him. Sensing something moving on the roof, he fired—one, two, three shots—and the demon fell. With a chilling crash, the bony creature landed dead beside him.

The area around Deacon had calmed, but towards the entrance of the car park heavy footfalls were attempting retreat. The demon was fast, but barely made it halfway out before two bullets exploded through the air. A massive roar of pain was released through its jaws as Deacon slowly approached.

He took his time, allowing the shrill noise of his sword being drawn to compete with the demon’s final cries. While it continued to crawl to the entrance, Deacon moved his face closer and stared curiously at its features. The breath was fouler than most things in the real world, but—with the lack of a nose—this would not have bothered the demon to any extent. Deacon couldn’t see its ear cavities, but he knew they were back there—somewhere behind the horns. It was as if their creator had forgotten to bless them with skin, too, leaving their exterior as a terrifying combination of bone and scales. ‘You guys don’t get any prettier, do you?’ he said comically. Bored with his observations, Deacon sighed and put the wounded creature out of its pain. It had been a successful hunt.

He recovered the electro-magnetic pulse device and walked out of the complex, pausing under the moonlight to look himself over. The bloodied jeans were going to need a wash, as usual, but sustaining no injuries was always a positive result. A crackle of fire made Deacon turn back around. He was grateful that the disfigured demons always began to burn spontaneously after death, as if Hell was reclaiming them. The lumpy silhouettes gradually deteriorated with self-igniting flames, releasing fluttering speckles of carbon into whatever breeze entered the car park. Humans did not have the ability to see the beasts, so there was never any danger of unveiling the truth to them anyway. Deacon smiled a little as he imagined their reaction if they could.

What!

Suddenly, he stood alert once more and placed a hand on the base of his sword. Out of instinct, he bent his knees for balance, ready to defend himself if necessary. Deacon’s eyes darted around the opposite parkland, searching for the stranger he had just felt watching him. It didn’t feel human but it was certainly no demon either.

What was that? Another soulgate maybe? Or did I just imagine it? he wondered, although he knew it was unlikely. A soulgate’s heightened senses were almost flawless. However, if there really was something watching him, he couldn’t feel them now. Deacon looked up at the sky and relaxed his sword hand. It would be morning soon, and he didn’t intend to be anywhere near when the daily commuters found puddles of his blood splashed around their parking lot.

Deacon quickly jumped the fence and retrieved his discarded jacket from behind the tree where he’d left it and began the long, cautious walk away from the city of Adelaide. His eyes constantly strayed over his shoulder, as if he expected someone to be following. He made his way west, towards the seaside, where the darkness of the beaches would hide him from early morning workers. Deacon loved Australia’s beaches. A subsequent smile appeared on his face when the sound of crashing waves reached his ears. Silhouettes of the Norfolk Island Pine trees that lined the borders of sand and roads now soared past him, as he ran along the coast. Even the washed-up seaweed gave off the smell of safety and generated a thankful grin on Deacon’s face.

He still felt slightly paranoid about the unwanted company, and walked a few extra blocks to ensure he was not being followed. Deacon finally circled back to his long-wheel-base sprinter van and let go of the feeling of being watched.

The outside appearance of his vehicle was deliberately inconspicuous, complete with the insignia of a made-up courier company. The inside, however, did not fit that of a van at all.

Deacon opened the sliding door and shuffled past the double bed, which almost took up the entire width of the vehicle. He threw his jacket on top of a cluster of small cabinets—the bedroom equivalent—and marvelled at the remainder of the van. He’d installed roof-mounted compartments of clothes and bathroom necessities himself, and even a kitchen bench and small bar fridge.

Deacon couldn’t help sniggering with pride as he glimpsed over the features. The van had been with him right across Australia. On the odd occasion that he took a flight to a demon hotspot, he would always feel uneasy about leaving it behind. He didn’t have much to his name in this world—Deacon’s unique perspective meant he cared little for material possessions—but this van was his home.

He lifted an unnoticeable handle on the corner of the bed to hinge up the mattress and its wooden bottom. He then unhooked his sword and gun, placing them in the obvious cavities where they belonged. Before doing anything else, Deacon climbed out of the van and ran the fifty metres down to the ocean.

He hit the water at a steady pace, raising his knees over a few waves before diving beneath the next wall of water. Deacon exhaled the air from his body and remained underwater for some time, allowing the swell to move him back and forth below the waves. The ocean always comforted him, though he could never work out why that was. Even the sand scraping against his back did little to thwart his relaxation. With eyes open, he watched the turbulent water pass overhead with clockwork timing. Many common things were now simple pleasures to Deacon. He had been through a great deal to give him such an insight.

Sometimes he would let himself daydream about what could have been; about what career he would have pursued after high school, or what his own wife and kids might have looked like . . . but Deacon knew he had blown his chance. That life was over. All of his family was gone and all of his aspirations were only daydreams.

Still, he was happy enough. His new existence was a privilege, and even though it was not the most fulfilling life . . . it was a life. He knew better than to take it for granted.

When his lungs began to ache, Deacon surfaced and pushed his short, black hair up off his forehead. He splashed the salty water under his arms and scrubbed away. When his hands shifted to his chest, his fingers delicately brushed over three old bullet wounds that shined white against his tanned skin. He shuddered as a painful memory harassed his brain. Regret surged through him, and he ducked under the water again until the feeling was replaced.

Deacon relaxed in the ocean longer than most other nights . . . right up until he could see the beginning of the sunrise over the small houses dotting the shoreline. Although the year was well into autumn, the water remained comfortably warm from a late summer heatwave. If early morning walkers were to pass by, they might still consider him odd for swimming in jeans and an old pair of converse shoes.

Eventually Deacon emerged from the sea and jogged slowly back to the van. He promised himself that he’d return in a few hours to soak up some sunshine. He felt like the day was going to be too perfect to miss.

When he entered the vehicle again, Deacon reopened the storage under the bed. He removed a large, unique bag connected to a short cord and put the bed back in place. He then inserted the needle end of the cord into his arm and lay down to wait for the bag to fill with his blood. It had been a good day.

Deacon awoke to the sound of waves and cheerful laughter. He couldn’t remember drifting off to sleep, which usually meant he had needed it. Removing the uncomfortable needle from his vein, he stood up and gently placed the full bag into the fridge beneath the sink, ready for the next hunt. Still yawning, Deacon moved towards the tinted side window and peered out to see a few kids playing in the sand.

Laughter had turned to cries, as a young boy’s sister demolished a large sand castle. While calling for his mother, the boy began to beat his older sibling with a spade, resulting in the both of them in tears.

A young woman approached the children and began to sort the conflict. ‘Lauren, you’re eight years old, you should be looking after your little brother,’ she said in a sweet voice that made Deacon feel strangely comfortable inside. She turned to her other child saying, ‘And Deacon, such a sweet boy shouldn’t hit girls. Come on now, let’s all rebuild your castle together.’

Then the woman turned and stared straight through the van’s window, deep into Deacon’s eyes. Suddenly, she wasn’t cheerful anymore. She was upset and it showed, as tears welled up in her eyes.

Chills crawled up Deacon’s spine as he froze with fear. Can she see me!

‘DEACON! RUN!’ she yelled before screaming in agony at the top of her lungs.

Deacon involuntarily jumped backwards, crashing into the corner of the bed and falling flat on his backside. Pouncing up again and wide-awake now, he searched out through the window once more. What the hell!

The woman was nowhere to be seen. The two children next to the completed sandcastle now had different faces and were dancing around it with joy.

Deacon moved back to the sink and thoroughly washed his face, while his heart rate returned to normal once again.

As if the constant nightmares aren’t enough, I’m daydreaming now, as well? Feeling defeated, he slumped back onto his bed and searched the blank ceiling for an answer. I thought those memories would go away . . . not happen more often.

The mood did not seem right for lying in the last of the day’s sunlight as he had promised himself. Deacon’s mind was lost in the past once again, and for the most part . . . it was okay.

He’d had a happy childhood; parents who loved him, friends who laughed with him, and a sister—Lauren—who would always be there for him. For the times that he wasn’t sending evil beasts to Hell, Deacon was always trying to remember the better parts of his life. The trick was being able to stop the memories before they became full of horrors and bloodshed. Right now, his laptop was looking like the perfect distraction.

Deacon snatched the computer off the top of a cupboard and sat on the bed. An instant messenger program started up before he had a chance to do anything, and alerted him to a new email. Mail was a scarce occurrence for a dead person, so Deacon knew who had sent it. Upon opening the file, he was faced with a document that stretched over a hundred and fifty pages, confirming his presumption. Lilith.

He wasn’t expected to read it all, of course—the message was hidden within the text. Deacon scrolled down and found a word that contained a bolded letter. He quickly wrote down the word and began to search for another. On the next page, he found another bold character and wrote down the word that concealed it. Deacon continued to do this, presenting an unpunctuated message. It wasn’t a difficult task, and he constantly thought it was too simple for someone to work out.

When he reached the end of the document, Deacon read the page in front of him:

I have not heard from you in a while I hope the new device is working effectively I sent a spare and charger in addition to your usual supply to the same address as previous in the chance you have any troubles but the reason I mail you now is to warn you contact has been lost with Drake in London if he was killed we would know about it and he would have been reborn I sent Oliver to the scene to investigate the matter so expect more information soon until then demonstrate extreme caution

Shit. Another soulgate gone missing? How many is that now? Four? Deacon thought to himself, So much for being invincible. He glanced over the last few words. Extreme caution? Deacon instinctively remembered the strange feeling of being watched the previous night. He feared the trouble in London had somehow made its way to Australia. If that was the case, the hunter was in danger of being hunted.

Although he didn’t know it yet, Deacon’s life was about to change more drastically than ever before.

Chapter Two

Detective Sergeant Scott Fields stood near the upwards-sloping ramp of the car park with his hands on his head. The scene before him was frustratingly familiar.

Scott had begun investigating these strange occurrences two years ago, back in his coastal hometown of Cottesloe, Western Australia. He was only a young man of twenty-four years, but had excelled through the police ranks with perseverance and the influence of his father—who’d recently retired from the service. However, after six years in the job, the young sergeant had reached a hurdle he just couldn’t get over. By his own choice, Scott had signed up to lead a national task force in pursuit of a peculiar fugitive.

He’d lost count of the number of scenes visited that were almost exactly like this one. Blood was sprayed about the place, with the odd bloodstained bullet casing scattered on the floor. If the police were lucky, a discarded magazine could present partial fingerprints, though every lead they chased resulted in a dead end . . . literally.

Forensics always traced the DNA and fingerprints to a teenager that had been killed over five years ago. The grandparents of the young adult had been harassed about it enough for the authorities to sympathetically leave them out of the investigation. Scott knew first hand that the teen was indeed deceased and—unlike some of the other officers—he refused to let himself think otherwise. The case had been a grim one, and he shuddered as he began to picture it. He knew just about every detail of the events leading to the death of Deacon Forter, and he was intimately connected to them. It was the reason he had chosen to lead the investigation in the first place.

Scott closed his eyes and let his mind drift off into the past.

A routine call-out came across the police radio, while Scott Fields and his senior officer—Lee George—sat in their patrol car. Scott was still a probationary constable, although he was nearing the completion of his first fifteen months in the service. He’d seen his fair share of violence, but nothing was going to prepare him for what he would encounter that afternoon.

Scott was trying to work out why Lee was acting reclusive and annoyingly short to any questions he’d asked when the report came through. Something was wrong with Lee today. It was the type of behaviour one showed after having just received dreadfully bad news.

They sped to the destination while the radio continued to crackle with details pouring through the speakers. ‘One officer down, one pinned down under gunfire. Suspect is a seventeen year old, Caucasian male. Deacon Forter.’

Scott gulped as the words seemed to echo over and over. Seventeen and shooting at cops?

Scott had hardly even touched his gun outside of the academy. He wasn’t sure if he could shoot someone . . . even if it was in self-defence.

The story unravelled further as they neared the address. A teenager had apparently found the group of men that had murdered his family the week before, and was torturing them sadistically. There was talk around the station about the family’s murder—no known motive, nothing stolen, and nothing to go on. It seemed that this Deacon was more than a few steps ahead of them on the case.

The patrol car skidded sideways to a stop on the gravel surrounding an abandoned old warehouse. Within a second, Lee and Scott were on their feet, running towards the building. Another police car was parked closer to the warehouse, but no officers were to be seen. Scott’s heartbeat quickened when he heard shots sound from inside.

Lee drew his firearm and signalled for Scott to do the same. With a wave of his hand, Lee then instructed Scott to head around to the right, in attempt to flank the area and remove any chance of escape.

The young constable was already sweating with nervousness by the time he got to the solitary door.

Locked.

It took Scott three powerful front-kicks to break through. He sighed with relief when he realised the office was completely empty. Keeping his gun shakily aimed ahead of each corner, he worked his way through to the main production room. It hadn’t yet occurred to him that the loud shots had ceased since he’d entered. Every large object looked like a threat. His palms were already wet and slippery around the heavy firearm. He knew that each step could be his last. Moving quickly through the last office, Scott crouched down at the final door.

Why has the shooting stopped? Is it over? he racked his brain.

Scott carefully opened the door and silently took in the setting ahead of him.

He was surprised at how dark the area was, considering the positioning of the windows. Disturbed dust and smoke blurred the air, which contributed to the ambiguity of the scene. The gunfight was clearly over now, and another officer was standing over one of his fallen comrades. The suspect was down and Scott exhaled with relief. He stood and slowly walked in to investigate, keeping his weapon ready just in case.

Four stretcher beds crowded the centre of the room, each holding up what appeared to be some sort of raw meat. Between them lay the limp body of a teenage boy, not much younger than Scott. His chest was perforated with bullet wounds and he would surely not be a threat anymore.

Realising that he wouldn’t be using his firearm today, Scott holstered the gun and tried to forget the feel of its bulky grip. He continued scanning the surrounds for his partner, until his vision fell on a figure sitting near the main entrance. Scott’s heart sank. He rushed over to Lee who appeared seriously injured.

‘Hey! We need some help over here!’ Scott cried to the other officer. He began to scrutinize the bullet wounds, praying they were not as fatal as they looked.

Lee acknowledged Scott’s presence with a slight smile and pulled him close by the scruff of his shirt. ‘Bit late