LUCIAN THE PURIFIER

They came at Lucian suddenly of shadow, thrusting at him with deficient claws and old, rusted edges. They moved quick… yet he was quicker.

He moved like an artist, turning and turning, ever moving, the relic guns in his grasp illuminating the spoiling inside of the hotel with their bursting, esoteric light.

Lucian’s long calfskin coat and firmly bound locks whipped around him as he moved, easily dodging the excited assaults coming at him from each heading. Each shot he discharged copied with the force of the sun, banishing one of the shrieking spirits, sending them reeling once again into shapeless haziness.

He appreciated this obligation. Not any longer. All the light in his reality had been snuffed out when she had been taken.

Dull claws raked across one of Lucian’s lower arms, making him murmur in torment. Reviling himself for being quickly diverted, he wrecked the culpable soul with an impact of light to its head, and centered upon the job that needs to be done. Standing firm in the focal point of the motel, he gunned down the tide of otherworldly structures hurrying at him, each shot illuminating the murkiness.

Finally he was distant from everyone else, arms spread wide, weapons pointed in inverse bearings, their stone tips despite everything sparkling.

He looked left and right, anticipating another assault. The fire in the hotel’s hearth appeared to consume all the more brilliantly, banishing the more profound shadows, and the cold chill withdrew.

Unexpectedly tired, Lucian corrected a fallen seat and sat with a moan. He put his guns upon the table, at that point directed his concentration toward his injury.

Flinching, he slid the long, dark glove from his left hand. The calfskin was plain, yet the substance of his lower arm was darkened where spooky claws had cut him—practically like frostbite.

He got a glint of development toward the edge of his eye, and Lucian was immediately on his feet, the two guns focused on… a dim haired young lady, scarcely into her high school years, who had risen up out of her concealing spot in a back storeroom.

She solidified, gazing up at him, eyes wide and unblinking.

“Please,” she murmured. “Don’t.”

“Shouldn’t sneak up on individuals,” Lucian stated, bringing down his weapons.

He made to dismiss, yet got a sad remnant of development reflected in the young lady’s eyes.

He spun, swinging his weapons around, however this time he was not quick enough.

An apparition lurched from the subsiding unhappiness—a skinny, inadequate animal, wrapped in covers. Pale, blue-green light spilled from its eye attachments and expanding mouth, and it lashed at him with claws the length of knifes.

Lucian was flung in reverse by the power of the blow, flying over the bar, approximately fifteen feet removed. He pummeled into the divider, breaking many void alcohol restrains lined on the racks, and tumbled to the floor in a shower of broken glass. His chest consumed where the apparition had struck him, and a cold chill grasped at his heart, making him wheeze for each breath.

He looked hysterically for his weapons. He spied one, lying on the lopsided floor ten paces to one side. Excessively far. The other had spun over the wood planks, before stopping at the young lady’s feet.

She got the antiquated weapon and pointed it at the phantom, grasping it with shaking hands as the thing lurched towards her, its mouth opening outlandishly wide.

“It won’t fire!” she moaned, stepping back. “There’s no trigger!”

A reverberation of memory rose in Lucian’s psyche, as abrupt as a blade strike.

“In any case, how would you shoot it?” Lucian stated, peering down at the flawlessly created weapon, a look of puzzlement all over. “There’s no trigger.”

“It needn’t bother with a trigger, my adoration,” said Senna, her eyes flickering with entertainment. She contacted him softly in favor of his head. “The trigger is in here.”

“I don’t comprehend,” said Lucian.

Senna pointed her own weapon—a more rich form of the one he held—at the objective twenty feet away. Her demeanor solidified, her eyes narrowing. “You need to will it to fire,” she stated, and the objective detonated in a singing impact of yellow fire.

“Right. Will it to discharge,” said Lucian, leveling his gun at the following objective. Nothing occurred. He shook the gun, and grunted, halfway in dissatisfaction, and somewhat in bewilderment.

“It requires control,” said Senna. “It requires center. You have to will it to fire with each fiber of your being.”

Lucian chuckled and went to Senna, one eyebrow raised. “Each fiber of my being?”

“Attempt it!” she asked.

He did, yet couldn’t shield a grin from twisting at the edges of his mouth. “I surrender,” he murmured. He stepped in near Senna, and brought her into a grasp. “How would you anticipate that me should zero in on something else when you are close?”

Senna drove him away, snickering.

“You’re not escaping this that effectively,” she said. “Once more. Furthermore, really attempt this time.”

The young lady was upheld in a bad position now, the thin relic firearm—Senna’s weapon—a pointless load in her grasp.

“Toss it to me!” Lucian yapped, dashing forward.

The young lady screamed as the soul flew toward her, and flung the firearm toward Lucian. It spun end-over-end through the air, going straight through the phantom. Lucian deftly got it in mid-run, at the same time dropping to one knee and sliding over the wood planks to gather up his other weapon. He stood up with the two guns prepared, and opened up.

The phantom shouted and attempted urgently to evade, looping and turning through the air away from him, yet Lucian was tenacious. He ran sideways, keeping up his barraging downpour of fire. The blasting light tore through the appalling ghost, and its cry got melancholy as its dull structure dispersed, similar to fog underneath the rising sun.

Lucian stopped, however he kept the guns raised. Everything was quiet again.

“Is… it gone?” the young lady said.

He didn’t answer quickly, his limited eyes filtering the room. Finally, he holstered the two weapons. “It’s gone. You are protected.”

“I… I was unable to make it fire,” the young lady stated, gazing at the haziness. “I thought I planned to pass on. Like the others.”

Lucian recalled his own trouble with the weapon—it felt such a long time ago at this point.

It requires control. It requires center.

“I positively have concentrate now, my affection,” Lucian mumbled, faintly.

“Did you say something?” asked the young lady.

“No,” Lucian answered. He positioned his head. The sound of shaking chains was originating from some place close by. “Do you hear that?”

The young lady shook her head. “I don’t hear anything.”

Lucian grimaced, eyes thin. “He insults me, still… “

He went to leave the hotel, reviled to follow that inaccessible, torturing sound.

“Jolt the entryway,” he requested. “Furthermore, appeal to God for first light.”