by Karen Dales
Turning off of Fleet and onto the side streets, he followed them down and around until he saw Mrs. Heathrope’s house. It was perfect timing, too, as the sky was shifting to a paler shade of blue, calling to the rising of the sun mere moments away. Notus was sure to be fuming.
Snuggling deeper into his black cloak, he took the handful of stairs up to the door that led to the portion of the building that housed him and Notus. He pulled out his key and halted.
Pale yellow gaslight spilled across his black shoes from a door that stood slightly ajar. Something was wrong. Notus never left the door open like this, unlocked on the occasion, but never open to the street. Maybe he had gone to sleep and left it open in case keys were forgotten, but he knew that never happened.
Closing his eyes, he took a deep steadying breath, and Sent to him, trying to sense if Notus was asleep. Nothing. The absence of any perception of the monk filled him with apprehension. Not even a sense of his connection to Notus was available. It had been centuries since the first and only time that happened and that was because they were separated for almost three decades. This was more complete – shocking.
Placing a shaking hand on the brass doorknob, he pushed the door open.
Ruby eyes widened at the sight of his ransacked home. The living room, usually so neat and tidy, was a travesty of orderliness. Papers and books splayed randomly over the floor and overturned furniture. Notus’ favourite chair sat crumpled on itself, wooden legs ending in ragged spikes. Inks and paints pooled on the monk’s large writing desk, permanently staining in colours that should not exist in wood.
Ducking his head under the lintel, he took a tentative step into his devastated home, his foot meeting the floor with the crunching of broken glass. Numbly gazing down, the remnants of a crystal vase and its red and yellow flowers lay under his feet. Taking in the full extent of the devastation, he could not comprehend how or even why his home would be ransacked this way. Worse yet was why Notus was not there. If it had been thieves, Notus would have easily dealt with them. Something more must have happened.
Again he sent out a silent plea for Notus and was rewarded with nothing, not even a sense of his Chooser. In a dreamlike state he moved about the room, searching for Notus even knowing he would not find him here. He had to do something. Shock faded into panic as each righted piece of furniture or lifted paper refused to relinquish the man who cared for him over the centuries. His hopes of finding the monk dissolved into nothingness when he slammed open Notus’ empty bedroom.
Without the connection with the man who had come to mean more to him than anyone else in the world, he walked numbly into the center of the room and sat down on the couch, elbows on knees and hands rubbing his face as if to wash the sight and reality from his mind. He did not know what to do. He could not do anything. The sun was already up. He groaned at the unbidden thought that came to mind. He could not allow himself to believe Notus was dead.
A soft moan lighted his senses and he stared at the closed door to the kitchen. Hope leapt and he stood. Of course! He had not checked the kitchen. It was possible Notus was there. Swearing himself for a fool, he ran into the dark room.
The door swung closed with a bang and his feet crunched on a floor strewn with broken glass and crockery. He did not need to call out for Notus. He was not there. The source of the cry came from Jeanie’s sprawled form in front of the stove. Whoever had attacked his home had met heavy opposition.
Ignoring the broken shards, he knelt down beside Jeanie’s unconscious form. Even in the pitch blackness of the kitchen, he could see her pale fine skin framed with a mass of long curling copper coloured hair. A long thin gash over her right perfect eyebrow slowly oozed. The smell of her blood impacted him, forcing him to take a steadying breath. Her large emerald coloured eyes remained closed. Knowing that she needed some help, he lifted her into his arms and walked to the living room, where the brocaded chesterfield had already been righted.
Gently placing her on the soft padded seating, he went into the untouched washroom and brought back a dampened cloth. Taking off his cloak, he went to blanket her, and halted. Pinned to her yellow flower patterned blouse was an envelope. Ornately penned it stated simply;
The Angel
Frowning at the note, he carefully removed the message before draping Jeanie’s unconscious form in his cloak. He stood back and tore open the red wax seal, dismissing the large ‘V’ embossed into it and pulled out the yellowed vellum. Hands shaking in growing anger he opened the folded paper, and read the same flourished writing,
Her Majesty,
Lady of Vampires,
Mistress of London,
Ruler of the British,
Demands the audience of the Vampire called
The Angel,
To be held on the eighteenth of October,
In the year eighteen hundred and ninety-eight,
At ten thirty.
Failure to be in attendance will result in the immediate dispatch of
Father Paul Notus’ Immortal life.
Valraven, Advisor to the Lady.
He could not believe what he read and read it again and again until the truth of the words shook him in rage. Crushing the expensive vellum in his white palm, the words disintegrated into a small ball of dead sheep’s skin before he let it fall to the ground. It did not make any sense. Notus was the one who always dealt with the Court, and even though Notus shied away from their new ways, if the demand had come, he would have reluctantly obliged. Now they had his Chooser and they wanted him. They did not have to do this. They did not have to threaten Notus’ life. They could have just asked.
With nothing to be done in the light of day, he resigned himself that tomorrow – the eighteenth – he would go to the despised audience and get Notus back.
A soft moan escaping from Jeanie’s lips instantly reminded him of why he was holding, in his other hand, a soggy cloth. Kneeling beside the girl who so disarmed him, he gently cleaned away the sweet smelling blood to reveal a small scratch. He had forgotten how bad head wounds could be and watched in rapt attention as her brows creased into a frown, her full red lips pouting as she slowly shook her head in an attempt to fend off a bad dream.
Quite suddenly she sat up, her breath short and fast, her heart fluttering in panic as malachite eyes flickered about the room. Her unexpected arousal surprised him and he dropped the cloth, watching in alarm as her eyes gradually focused on him.
“Where is he?” she demanded, her Highland accent still strong after all these years.
Rising to his feet, he grabbed the blood stained cloth and placed it on the tea table. He could not tell her, and he did not want to lie to her. Instead he chose the only route open to him. His voice low he asked, “What happened?”
She looked up at the tall pale man with beautiful red eyes and sighed, relief flooding her features that he was with her. Tentatively she touched her forehead, finding the source of the pain, and removed her slightly stained fingers. Her head throbbed in time with her pounding heart. She swung her legs around to sit up properly, noticing for the first time his cloak wrapped around her. Without gazing up at its owner, she sighed.
“I’m no’ too sure. One minute I’m cleaning, the Good Father’s at ‘is work, then the next the door’s burst open and three men come flying in. The Good Father tried t’ defend himself. I even tried, but they took him. I thought I was dead when one came after me, but I guess they dinna want me.”
Gazing at the mass destruction still evident from the battle’s remnants her eyes widened. “Och, what a mess!” She groaned as the loudness of her own voice pounded through her ears.
He could see the headache in her eyes and relaxed his harsh tones. “Did they say who they were or why they were here?”
“Nay.” She frowned in concentration, not willing to attempt shaking her head. “Wait. Aye. One of them mentioned something about neglecting the court for too long and that ‘twas time to pay up.”
He sighed and hung his hea
d. It made a sick sort of sense, but he could not fathom their reason for abducting his Chooser.
“Do ye ken where the Good Father was taken?” she asked..
He gazed down at her, soaking in her beautiful green eyes and sadly nodded.
Some positive news at last, she bolted to her feet. “Well, then, let’s go fatch ‘im back.”
It was the wrong thing to do at the wrong time. A wave of nausea knocked her back to the couch. The cloak fell to the richly decorated Oriental rug.
Seeing her sway and heavily sit back down, he found that he wanted to help her, but stayed rooted to his spot, towering over her, afraid that if he did so he would lose his composure.
“No,” he responded, unwilling to provide any explanation.
“Aye. I think ye’re right.” She placed a shaking hand to her head and pulled it away at the painful touch. “I’ll be going nowhere right now. That bugger mus’ have got me good after I flung that dish at him.” She mustered a little laugh and gazed up into worried exotic eyes.
Uncomfortable with the weight of her gaze, he glanced away. “I have to get some rest.”
“What about the Good Father?” she implored.
“I will get him back tonight,” he stated firmly and then softened his voice. “You can stay until you feel better.” He did not know why he said it. She had never stayed the day, or the night for that matter, but he knew he could not send her back to the inn while the effects of her attack were still on her. If he did and Notus found out, the monk would make him wish he had never been Chosen.
Walking over to the door to his bedroom, he stopped before turning the crystal and brass knob on the mahogany door. “You can rest in Notus’ room, if you like.”
“That’s righ’ kind of ye, but what am I t’ wear? All my kit is at my room.” Copper curls flowed down over her shoulder as she cocked her head.
His brows creased in confusion and then smoothed. What does a young lady wear to sleep in this age? Entering into his large bedroom, he walked over to his dresser and pulled out one of his handcrafted tailored white shirts. All his clothes were handmade. Figuring that this would most likely do the job, he hoped, he walked back into the living room and to Jeanie.
“You can wear this, if you like.” He handed her the freshly laundered shirt, refusing to look into her eyes, and vaguely heard her mention her appreciation before he went back into his room, closing the door behind him.
He leaned his head against the dark wood frame, his white hair spilling forward, and breathed a sigh of relief. Never before had he so much contact with her. He always left her alone, even when he walked her home on occasion. Whenever she tried to initiate conversation he would quickly end it. It was not that he did not like her. It was the fact that she evoked feelings he had long since buried and wished not to exhume.
Cufflinks of jet set in silver released at his fumbling. He could not seem to get his shaking under control. Whether it was from the rage of Notus’ abduction or Jeanie’s presence, he could not begin to decipher. Placing the cufflinks down on the silver plate on the mahogany dresser, he sat down on his four-poster, wood canopied bed and unbuttoned his white shirt and black vest. Kicking off his shoes, he stripped out of his clothes and collapsed on the bed made to take into account his unusual height.
Yong Zheng Ru’s lessons and the shock of Notus’ violent removal of their home exhausted him more than he thought. He so wanted to go to Notus’ rescue and the thought of his impotence to do so during the day was frustrating. Every fibre in his being cried out to throw caution to the wind and storm over, but he could not. At least, not yet. Pulling the linen sheets up over his shoulders he rolled to face the door.
Jeanie was on the other side. The thought kept his eyes open. The image of her wearing his shirt and nothing else made his mouth go dry and he thought about locking his door and realized there was no lock on it. Jeanie had nothing to fear from him and there was nothing she could do to make him fear her.
Rolling onto his back, he dismissed her from his thoughts, bringing them grimly back to the summons. He could not even recall who sat on the throne. It did not matter. They had taken his Chooser. He would go and get Notus back, whether they liked it or not.
Chapter II
Jeanie stared in astonishment as she watched the Angel’s quick retreat into his room. The sound of the door clicking shut made her jump. When she had opened her eyes to see him resplendent in his black trousers, finely made white shirt and black vest, her heart had skipped a beat before realizing why she had been unconscious in the first place. It was the hurt and concern in his ruby eyes that worried her. She had never seen him like that. He was always schooling his features so she could never figure out what he was thinking, but this time, to see such blatant emotion flicker through his mask made her fear that the situation was graver than he led on. If that was the case, she could not understand why he would opt for sleep rather than go and get the Good Father back.
She knew that Father Paul had sworn an oath not to go out in the light of day until His return. He had told her as much in explanation for the strange hours she would work, and after how he found her, she was more than willing to accept his strange ways. What she had difficulty accepting why the Good Father had such a strange person such as the Angel with him.
The Angel, she sighed. She had never seen anyone such as he. She knew his name, or at least the one that Father Paul rarely used when trying to get the Angel’s attention. She would never use it. It would be too much of an imposition, and for some strange reason she did not feel that she had the right to call him by name. To her the Angel was something out of the fairy stories her mam used to tell her when she was just a little lass. Even the softness of his voice when he spoke ran shivers up her spine.
Bringing his white shirt to her face, she breathed deep of his scent and remembered how he was with her and frowned. Och, why dinna ye notice me? She gently placed the shirt beside her and slowly stood up.
A wave of nausea passed over. Placing a hand on her forehead she noticed the bruise on the inside of her wrist. Lowering her arm she studied the blackened spot and for a moment she thought she saw two tiny holes. Dismissing the notion, she surveyed the dishevelled room. She did not want to sleep just yet. She was too riled up from what had happened and decided to do some straightening. Picking up his cloak, she carefully folded it, hugging it to her breast before placing it on the couch to begin the arduous process of cleaning up.
The train station had been crowded as she left its platform for the unknown streets of London. People crushed around her, pushing and shoving to get to unknown destinations. She pushed too, making her way out of the station with the surprise that she still held her meagre belongings.
Christmas Eve was a poor time to travel, but what else was she to do? It was the last day she could use her one-way ticket her father had given her.
She did miss her sire, but not his drunken rages, especially on this night traditionally held for family and good cheer. To her these were fantasies from her distant childhood when her mother was still alive. Jeanie was not surprised to have the ticket thrust into her hand by her strangely sober father. At fourteen she was out on her own to seek her fortune in London. It was that or marry pimply faced, gap toothed, Angus MacGregor. She chose London.
The cobblestones were slick with snow and ice, causing her ill made shoes to squish and slip beneath her. The street lamps illuminated large snowflakes gradually descending from a blackened sky. She shivered beneath her wrap, searching for a room to spend the night. Tomorrow she would begin her search for a job. Maybe Christmas would soften someone’s heart to take on an inexperienced fourteen year old girl from the Highlands.
She walked down streets emptying to the late hour. Her wood handled brocade bag became increasingly heavy in her hands. Each no vacancy was a notch to her increasing worry that she may have to spend the night on the streets. She laughed in spite of her situation.
I bet ‘tis what Mary felt like.
Jeanie looked around. ‘Tis too bad that there be no manger ‘round here.
Cold, wet and tired, Jeanie lugged herself into a crowded pub. The heat from the bodies and the fire in the corner hearth melted away the cold as she trudged up to the bar, dropping her heavy bag with relief. Carefully, she uncurled her stiff and frozen fingers until they were straight enough to rub together and was rewarded with a tingling rush. When the substantial barkeep loomed over her from the other side she meekly ordered a hot tea. She was famished, having eaten nothing since that morning, but she could only afford the beverage, the rest was for a bed.
The plunk of the white and blue chipped teacup brought her mind back to the situation. Wrapping cold hands around the porcelain, she watched the lazy steam drift roof ward, and luxuriated in its warmth. The sounds of the other patrons dwindled into the background at the hot taste. Her whole reality focused on the steaming brown liquid, even to the exclusion of the smiling man who sat down beside her.
“Tea’s nice to warm up with, but I’ve got somethin’ that will take the edge off.”
Placing the teacup onto its equally chipped saucer, Jeanie turned to face the man with the Cockney accent. He was plainly dressed and appeared quite average, even to his unwashed brown hair and missing bottom tooth. She figured that he might have been good looking once had it not been for the bad setting of a broken nose from long ago.