Angel of Death: Book One of the Chosen Chronicles

by Karen Dales

  The guard nodded as the order plucked an unknown string in his soul. Placing a thick muscled hand on the large brass door handle, the door opened with a click and a scrape.

  The reception hall was dimly lit to take into account the sensitive eyes of the Chosen. Small lamps illuminated fine art interspersed along walls papered in red velvet patterned into blossoming roses. A large silver candelabrum hung in the middle, alight with more than a dozen fine beeswax candles. If he did not know any better he would have thought he was in the middle of an art gallery.

  The doors closed behind him, shutting out all sound from the outside world and he glanced around the audacious room. Even the large heavy oak doors leading to the theatre were lavish in their workmanship. It was more ostentatious than the last, but then again the last Court hall was devastated by the Fire and he had never set foot in it until it was nothing more than a charred ruin holding the bones and ashes of the Chosen who had hid there.

  His eyes widened in realization of which Court hall he was comparing it to. Had it been that long? He ran his hand through his long thick white hair, pushing back the hood of his cloak. An involuntary shudder ran through him as he remembered the Roman built manse Master Antonius and his Lady Julia used. Visions of mosaic floors crowded by people in togas and the more common dress of the era made him cringe. There had been too many people, too close together.

  He shook himself out of the past and realized he was gratefully alone.

  Along the wall near the front entrance a grandfather clock, standing taller than he, indicated that he was five minutes early. Deciding to look around while he waited, he went from painting to painting, revolted by the gruesomeness of the dark images. It was the large oiled canvass of a demon with burning red eyes subduing and forcing the submission of a fair haired angel with his wings hideously ripped off, that caught and held his attention.

  Master Antonius stood on the dais wearing the finery of a Roman Primus Pilus. The Master gazed angrily at him while Lady Julia, seated in a throne made of gold and draped in a fine white toga laced with gold, covered her horror with the back of her hand.

  “Kill it!” The order issued from the Master of Britain.

  He started at the touch on his arm and gazed down at a waif of a man.

  “It is time, sir.”

  The sound of the servant’s fearful heartbeat rang in his ears. Smoothing his features into a mask of non-expression, he nodded once, steadying himself to enter into the lion’s den.

  The little man turned around, keeping his eyes on the Chosen as long as possible and led the way to the heavy double doors at the end of the hall.

  Notus begged for his life on bended knee, pleading for forgiveness. Seeing his Chooser humiliate himself, he stepped forward only to be surrounded by finely forged steel blades. They did not know what such a weapon could do to him. They could never know. It had taken almost two years to come here, more than a year and a half in Ynis Witrin healing and learning to use his arm again.

  The order that he be stripped came from Lady Julia. He needed to run. Even among the Chosen he was too different.

  “They are ready for you, sir. Can I take your cloak for you?”

  He shook his head, trying to clear his mind of the unwanted memories. Abasement on the servant’s drawn and tired face made him realize he gave the wrong answer. Unhooking the cloak, he folded it and handed it to the man, keeping the clasp to be pocketed. “I’m sorry. I was thinking.”

  “Yes, sir.” He hung the cloak over a thin arm. “You are to go in immediately, sir.” He bowed his bald head and backed away.

  Turning the cool polished brass knob, he entered into the realm of the Court. No seats lined the sloping floor that ended at the stage. A single high backed chair, ornately engraved and upholstered, stood before large drawn red velvet curtains. Those Chosen who had decided to come and pay their respects, or more likely, to watch the show, stood along the walls. Seated in the throne sat the Mistress, flanked by her select few. She did not notice his arrival; her attention was on the dark haired man in lavish attire standing before the stage.

  “Sua puta fodida! You cannot do this to me!” hollered the man. His dark shoulder length hair whipped around in a wavy mass. The accent was unpredictable – Portuguese.

  “Ah, but I have, my dear,” purred the Mistress; her chin resting in her delicately boned hand. Dark long curls framed her pale painted face. “I can do whatever I wish. I can even take all your possessions –”

  “You wouldn’t dare!” roared the man.

  “Dare?” Her musical voice turned sour. “I’ve done!” She snapped red painted fingers and the man beside her with short black greasy hair produced a folder. She grabbed it out of his hands without so much as a thank you and opened it, showing the contents to the one before her. “Your deeds. Your leases. Your signature!”

  The man made a move to leap up onto the stage, halting as the hiss of metal issued from the sides of the theatre. “If you have everything of mine what do you need me for?” he spat.

  “All in good time. All in good time.” A victorious smile curled her red lips and the Mistress languidly sat back in her throne.

  Ice blue eyes flickered up the carpet to the figure at the back of the theatre. The Mistress bolted upright in surprise.

  His presence acknowledged he stepped down the sloping floor, ignoring the murmurs of shock and surprise. Another throne and another Mistress threatened to superimpose themselves upon this time and he clenched his jaw, trying to force back the memories.

  Clothes ripped from his body. The sound of Notus’ begging in the background. He was forced to his knees. The cold tiles reflected the torchlight as he was made to bend over. His arms yanked up behind his back. The searing touch of sharpened steel on the back of his neck immobilized him.

  “I am so glad you came,” purred the Mistress.

  Forcibly repressing the rising terror he knew was reflected in his eyes, he slipped his cold mask into place, but even as he did so, he felt it slipping. The thin scar at the back of his neck tingled.

  “You did not leave me any choice.” He kept his eyes locked onto the Mistress. Distinctly aware of all the eyes upon him, he was more aware of the measuring gaze of the Portuguese Chosen. Let them stare, he thought.

  Her eyes darkened despite the chiselled smile. “Our kind always has a choice.”

  Your kind. Of course he would not say it. He chose to say nothing.

  Realizing that she was not going to get a response from this near mythological Chosen, the Mistress absently dismissed her irritation with a wave of her hand. She was used to power unquestioned, civilities enacted. Steepling her painted fingers, she relaxed into her throne. “It has been a long time since you have been to Court. In fact, you have refused to attend your Mistress on several occasions.”

  “I am here now.” The theatre now consisted only of him and the Mistress. The others he ignored.

  “Yes. Yes, you are. I had to go to great lengths to set up this audience with the Angel.”

  Now we get to it. He set his jaw and lifted his chin. “Where is Notus?”

  “Here.” She saw the flicker of hope in his ruby eyes. “You will see him soon enough.”

  “I want to see him now.”

  The Mistress sighed in exasperation. “I will permit it if you agree to listen to me.”

  He felt the trap ready to spring. There was only one way out and that was through. He nodded once.

  Pleased with the answer, the Mistress turned to the man on her right, the one with the lanky black hair who had handed her the portfolio. “Valraven, please be a dear and open the curtains,” she ordered.

  “My Lady Katherine, I must protest. What if the rumours about him are true?”

  “Then I will deal with it. Now open the curtains.”

  Valraven bowed and left the stage.

  He watched in silence as the heavy drapes gradually parted. The mask shattered at the sight of his Chooser brutally chained and crucified i
n the middle of the stage, his brown homespun robe torn and bloodied from wounds that had already healed. Automatically he reached out to find Notus unconscious and unresponsive, his blood nearly drained.

  In two strides he leapt up onto the stage, his only thought was to free Notus from the mockery of the Mistress’ grasp. He heard his outcry of defiance mingled with the one Notus had yelled as the axe came crashing down oh so long ago. This time it hit. Instead of the axe slamming down in front of him, the blow from a staff hit him squarely across his back, sending him reeling. He landed heavily, face down on the stage. Reality blinked out.

  The Mistress’ obvious dismissal of his presence infuriated him. Somehow that bitch had changed the deeds and papers so that all his accumulated wealth was transferred to her. As to her reason, he had no clue. All in good time. All in good time. In time she would deeply regret her intrusion and her usurpation of his life and property. He never did like Katherine Dumonte. Now he despised her. Mistress or no, she had no right to mess with Fernando de Sagres.

  He turned around to see who caused the Court to buzz. His dark brown eyes snapped wide at the sight of the tall pale vampire steadily walking towards the stage.

  Merda do Sando Deus. It’s the Angel. It has to be! There was no other that matched the rumoured descriptions. When Bridget and others murmured their fables, he believed them to be such; fables - lies conjured to explain the unknowable. But now he watched the myth walk towards him, and the Mistress.

  I wonder if the other parts of the story are true?

  He stepped out of the tall man’s path. The Angel stood a good head and shoulders taller. Was that fear that lighted the crimson eyes for the briefest of moments? Fernando knew himself to be a fair reader of men. He touched a brawny finger to his lips, trying to read the man before him. It was not easy. The mask slipped into place and he could discern no more. He could not fathom the reason why the Angel would fear the Mistress and her lot.

  Fernando watched the interplay between the Mistress and the Angel. At the mention of Notus’ name Fernando perked up, his attention grabbed. Notus - the Angel’s sire. She had him. The two were legendary. Completely unlike others of their kind, sire and fledgling were still together. Who would have imagined? He had left Bridget long ago.

  The sound of rusty pulleys brought his attention away from the pale vampire to the stage. His eyes darkened at the sight of the crucified vampire on the large T-bar. The sound of the Angel’s cry brought him back to the erupting chaos and he involuntarily winced at the crack resounding off the staff as it crashed across the Angel’s back.

  He felt hands pull him roughly to his knees, his arms drawn up behind his stinging back. The stars quickly cleared from his vision to see the Mistress lording before him. It was like before.

  No, not quite. He would never allow Mistress, Master, or anyone for that matter, to drink from him again. He did not care if she saw the burning hatred in his eyes.

  “That was a very stupid move.” Her hand gently caressed his smooth face, revelling in the surge of control regained. “Of course I can forgive your tiny indiscretion, having never been in my Court, but any more inappropriate behaviour and I may have to do something to your pretty face.”

  Ignoring her threat, he watched as she turned to face her Court. His eyes bored into her back.

  Lady Julia floated down the dais to stand before him. Her finely decorated hand, every finger covered with at least one jewelled ring, cupped his chin, wet with tears of fright, and lifted him to his knees. Cold brown eyes met his and then turned to Antonius. “He is not but a child. A sweet innocent child.”

  She returned her frosty gaze. “Is that what you are?”

  Too frightened, he said nothing.

  The Mistress painfully grasped his chin, forcing their eyes to meet. “I command you. Answer me!”

  “I don’t know?” he nervously blurted.

  Lady Julia released her grip. “Are you not one of the Chosen? Do you call Father Notus a liar?”

  Before he could even think to form a reply, Notus spoke up. “He is Chosen, my Lady. By accident.”

  Her blond brow lifted. “Is that so? But is his blood pure?” Her finger followed the scar on his arm from shoulder to as far as his pinned arms would allow.

  He did not hear if his Chooser made any response before Lady Julia bit deep into his neck.

  “You do not have the authority to hold Father Notus,” he stated flatly. The sting across his face was expected.

  Mistress Katherine’s face was tight with fury. “I am the Mistress. I hold all authority over every Vampire in the United Kingdom. You will do my bidding as I see fit. If not, then he dies!” She swung her arm to point at the tormented priest. “Is that what you want?”

  He set his jaw, tasting blood. “No.”

  “Then what do you want?” she glared at him. Even on his knees he was of a height with her.

  The two holding his arms behind his back gave a sharp tug that threatened to pull his arms from their sockets. He refused to allow the pain to override his response. “I want Notus back.”

  This time her slap was unpredicted. At least she had balanced out the stinging sensation in his face.

  “Wrong. What you want is to serve me. For if you do not he will die. Make certain of it. Now what do you want?”

  He bit his tongue. He had no choice if he had any chance to free Notus. With venom he spat, “I want to serve you.”

  Her mood brightened immediately as if some switch was turned. She waved off the men holding him. “That’s much better.”

  Slowly he regained his feet, rubbing back the feeling into his shoulders. Following her motion to get off the stage, he jumped down to stand beside the richly dressed man. He ignored the appraising gaze, keeping his attention on the Mistress.

  “Now that I have your attention.” She went to stand before her throne. “I will tell you both why I went to such great lengths to force your attendance.” She snapped her fingers and continued. “We British Vampires have a problem. Somehow we are being poisoned to death. Or more to the point, our food source is becoming tainted.”

  Two others he had not seen before dragged a thin, ragged man out of stage left. The man, weeping with his head down, did not struggle; his scuffed and worn shoes scraped the wooden stage. Following behind, a woman carried a double edged dagger in one hand and a large ornately decorated gold chalice in the other.

  “To illustrate my point I had this street urchin delivered so that you will see that I do not lie.” The Mistress took the proffered blade from the woman who then curtsied to her Mistress and moved off to the side.

  The mortal was made to stand before the Mistress and she grabbed a handful of dirty mousy brown hair, lifting the weeping man to face the Court.

  A flicker of recognition passed on the Angel’s face. Peter!

  The look on the man’s face turned into one of hope. “Angel, please save me from these crazed pe–” His pleading was cut short by a hand at his throat.

  Standing rigid, he controlled himself as the Mistress grabbed Peter’s arm and cut deep lengthwise along the long blue vein at the wrist to the sound of his thin scream.

  The smell of hot pungent blood swept into the air even before the first rushes of scarlet liquid were caught up in the chalice. He could do nothing to save the man that had called to him for help. All he could do was watch impotently as Peter’s life filled and then spilled over the chalice.

  The Mistress released her grip on the now flaccid arm and allowed the men to release their hold on the corpse. It hit the stage with a loud splat as it landed in its own cooling blood. Lifting the chalice, it ran red with blood at her movement.

  “Angel? Strange that it would pray to an angel in such a manner. Unless it was expecting that you would save it,” she taunted.

  Carefully she kept the chalice at arm’s length so as not to soil her fine attire. “Somehow I cannot imagine Fernando saving anyone, not even a puppy. But you I can imagine doing such a thi
ng. Now why is it that you are called the Angel? I can see you being called a demon, a devil, yes. Tell me so that my curiosity is satiated. Speak!”

  He loosened his jaw to answer. “It is a name. Nothing more.”

  “Is that all?” she probed.

  He refused to say anymore.

  Dismissing the subject with a shrug, the Mistress said absentmindedly, “Now where was I?”

  “You were about to illustrate your point, my Lady,” offered Valraven who came to stand beside her.

  “Yes. Now I remember.” She startled as if waking from a dream. “Valraven, would you be a dear and take this to Fernando and the Angel?”

  The Mistress’ assistant took the heavily filled chalice, ignoring the wash of blood streaming over his hand, bowed and moved off into the wing only to re-emerge onto the spectators’ level only a moment later. He offered it first to Fernando, who eyed Valraven and the chalice with extreme prejudice.

  “Take a sip,” ordered the Mistress, seeing his reluctance.

  Fernando flashed an angry glare. Unaccustomed to receiving orders he stiffly pulled out a finely tailored white handkerchief bordered with lace from an inner pocket of his tailed jacket. Flicked out to full size, Fernando used it as a barrier to keep his hands clean as he took the chalice, careful not to spill any blood. Mocking a salute by slightly raising the cup, he did as ordered and gave it back to Valraven, soiled rag and all.

  The Mistress’ assistant ignored the handkerchief and hesitantly went to stand before the tall pale vampire. Valraven did not look up to meet the angry red glare and instead chose to stare at the black lapelled suit jacket that fit perfectly across the muscular chest.

  Carefully, taking the cup from Valraven, he soiled his hands as the blood soaked through the kerchief. This was all that remained of Peter, a homeless nobody who never did anyone harm, one of the countless many who received what little help they could from a priest wise in the world of suffering. He did not salute the Mistress. He just took a slight sip and passed back the chalice. At first he could not bring himself to swallow, but hunger won out but not before he noticed the subtle, almost nonexistent, sickly sweet taste.