Chiaro did not have to turn to know the soul was gone. The feeling he had gotten at the presence of the newcomer had not been of a human. But when he lifted Addison’s body and turned, he was not surprised to see no crystal bottle on his desk. His heart was pounding, adrenaline giving him a strength boost. He kicked open the door and tossed Addison onto the sidewalk. A passerby, a young woman with startling silver-blue hair, gasped. “Sir Addison!” She gasped, covering her mouth. “Wh-what?” Her eyes trained on Chiaro.
“Dear, the man reeks of alcohol. He staggered in and started demolishing my irreplaceable books. I would be watchful if I were you.” Chiaro nodded with a sincere look on his face, and closed the door, this time sliding the lock into place.
Returning to his desk, he unclipped his belt and laid it across the papers scattered here and there. He unhooked his soul collector and revealed the syringe. Its blood had already thickened and dried on the needle. As he cleaned it, slowly and carefully with a white rag, he contemplated the odd happenings. It was such a mystery to him how a human could survive such a gruesome wound, with his heart shriveled and dry and his ribs broken. No wonder he coughed, no wonder it took such effort to travel the way he did. But he wished he had the soul; a fallen angel had taken it, Chiaro sensed the presence even after it had gone. The drunkard would go to Hell, and there was nothing he could do. Even an eternity in a little crystal bottle was better than Hell. But Chiaro shook the thought from his head. Ever since his disgrace, he had felt Hell would be a more fitting setting for him.
Still, the soul was not a terrible loss. Not especially valuable, especially in the sorry state its owner had been in. As Chiaro replaced the soul extractor back into its holster, he stood and began roaming the shelves. Surely, he thought, something resided on the shelves that would explain or detail the would he had seen on the man.