Angel of Death: Book One of the Chosen Chronicles

by Karen Dales

  The water in the leather skin tasted strange, and despite her great thirst she spat out the mouthful and refused to drink, or to eat. She would not give her captors the pleasure of her co-operation.

  Resolved to the fact that she was most probably here for quite a while, Jeanie just sat and waited, watching the food cool and the candle melt shorter and shorter.

  Thoughts of the Angel rose in her mind and no matter what she did to try and think of something else, his beautiful face returned to haunt her. To her mind she was unnoticeable to the strangely coloured young man the Good Father called son. Forgotten and ignored, she cursed herself a fool for the stunt of the day before. Showing up in his bed uninvited! Her face burned hotly.

  Why could he not see she cared for him? Brushing her cheeks, she was surprised that they were wet. She so desperately wanted to know what was wrong with her that the Angel would want nothing to do with her.

  A sound of clinking keys made her look up. Someone was coming down the steps. It was a solitary man with short dark hair and a fierce expression that forced Jeanie to her feet and back against the stone of the far wall. He looked ready to kill. Absently, she felt along the rough brick hoping to find one loose enough to use as a weapon.

  “I see that our food was not to your liking,” he remarked after a quick glance at the tray. “That snivelling girl will be punished for that.” His dark brown eyes bored into Jeanie.

  Terror and disgust filled her. That shy little girl was to be punished for her not eating. “Why?”

  A malicious smile formed on the man’s face, but did not touch his eyes. “Why what, my dear?”

  “Why are ye gonna punish her?” she stammered.

  “Oh that. I thought you would have asked a more poignant question.” He hitched a broad shoulder. “Because it will be fun.” He ignored her gasp and began to pace before the gaol cell. “I am here to answer some of the questions I am sure you have, but first I will answer the standard questions all my captives ask. It will save time.

  “You are in the basement of a soup kitchen in the south of London. There is no point telling you where exactly, just know that it does not matter. You are here for my amusement and to keep you from ruining our plans. My name is inconsequential, though I know yours, Jean Anne Stuart, daughter of Heather and Charles Stuart – a poor joke on your father’s parents in naming him that. Do not look so surprised. I have my sources.”

  “Ye’re the ones who kidnapped the Good Father,” blurted Jeanie. She glanced at the remains even though she knew them not to be him.

  Her reply was a deep chuckle. “I would never be so bold as that. I am not at all fond of holy men nor their trinkets.”

  “Then why are ye holdin’ me captive? I’ve ne’er been a threat t’ anyone.” She felt her courage returning so long as he remained outside the cage.

  He halted before the door and peered into Jeanie’s eyes, into her soul. “No, you are not a threat. In fact you are inconsequential, and that is why you are here.” With that he turned around to walk back up the stairs.

  “Wait!” she called out, and he halted halfway up. “If I’m so inconsequential why kill me?”

  Pivoting on the stair, Jeanie’s captor grinned manically. “Because it too will be fun.”

  Jeanie watched in dumb horror as he disappeared up the steps, and only when she heard the door close with a click and a tumble of a lock did she collapse onto the straw, crying her fear and desperation.

  Their heels clicked loudly against the stone walk as they wove their way around and through groups of people out for the evening. Most of the passers-by did not notice the two who hurried down the streets. Those that did saw two men, one unusually tall, and his features obscured under a black hood, and the other, short yet stocky and of obvious foreign origin. The shorter of the two looked angry and it was his expression that forced many from their path.

  They walked in silence for the last several blocks. The number of mortals in their midst roused Fernando’s hunger and his anger. He could not believe the Angel to be so naïve as to believe that beautiful stranger. Who cared whether or not Jeanie was alive? Fernando surely did not, and even after the Angel’s short sermon, it seemed ridiculous to sidetrack their quest for one simple mortal girl.

  There were more important things than she – even the Angel more or less stated so by declaring over and over that he would have his sire back. But actions spoke louder than words, and the Angel acted as if she were important. How important and in what way, Fernando wanted to know, especially since she had become a liability if she was indeed alive.

  Winding their way closer to Southwark Bridge, they left the company of mortals for a more quiet, deserted lane, one in which not too many would risk taking without being accosted by some of London‘s lowlifes. The Angel walked in silence, vaguely aware of the Noble’s presence. Hope carried his steps. Hope that Jeanie was alive even if she were in some type of trouble. He prayed that the girl in the shawl was telling him the truth. She knew him to be the Angel, yet he vaguely remembered her, from where he could not recall. His reverie was broken when Fernando cleared his throat.

  “Tell me again why we are doing this,” remarked Fernando, without looking up.

  “I did not say,” he replied after a moment of silence. He did not want another confrontation with the Noble.

  “They why don’t you?” Fernando huffed in exasperation. “If I’m going to risk my neck for a mortal girl, I damn well want to know why. And I remind you – if. It may well be that that so-called maid was lying. After all, I don’t know about you but I don’t know many women, maids or whores, who would walk about at night in only a shift and a shawl.”

  “I know.” It did not seem right, or more to the point everything seemed too easy.

  “You know what?” fumed Fernando. “That she was lying? Or do you know what the hell is going on, because if you do pray tell.”

  “It was obvious that she was not who she said she was,” he explained, keeping his attention on where they were heading.

  “I know that,” spat Fernando. “Then why believe what she said?”

  “Because I would rather believe in a half truth than a lie.”

  “Huh?” Now he was confused.

  “She said two men took Jeanie to a soup kitchen. Lily said two men started the fire because a sale of special spices did not go through. We have a bottle of some strange powder that was left at your feet by two men, one driving the carriage and one in the cabin. We are very carefully being led into a trap.”

  “Santo Cristo Foda do Deus!” exclaimed the Noble. “Then why the bloody hell are we going?”

  He stared intently into the night. “Because the only way to find out who laid the trap is to spring it.”

  “That’s the most ludicrous thing I’ve ever heard! We should turn around and –“

  “And what?” he inquired. Cold blood red eyes narrowed at the Noble. “Leave the possibility that Jeanie may indeed be alive and a captive? Leave the possibility of quickly solving this case and being quit of each other?” He came to an abrupt halt, black cloak fluttering against his calves, and stared down at Fernando. “I do not like having my life turned upside down. I want this over, all of it.”

  “I’m hurt,” feigned Fernando. “And after all that we’ve been through. I was beginning to like you,” he mocked and his brown eyes narrowed in anger. “I want this over as well, but, as I told you, I am not going to risk my neck for some mortal girl that you so obviously care about.”

  Taken aback at the Noble’s accusation, he just blinked, allowing the other to continue.

  “Oh don’t give me that. I’ve seen the way you look at her and she, you, and the way you worry over her.” Fernando turned to continue walking, but not before saying in a disgusted tone under his breath, “A vampire in love with a mortal, rai esta parte da minha vida!”

  It took him a moment to register Fernando’s words before he followed. Love? He could not believe it and he shook his head in d
enial. Fernando was just being Fernando – an antagonist trying to rile him up again. Catching up to the Noble, he walked at the slower pace with eyes focused on the path ahead and frowned.

  It had been so long since he allowed himself to feel those feelings, having locked that part of himself away after being so cruelly denied. It was an ancient wound, one long healed over, one in which he would not even scratch at by saying her name – Tarian’s granddaughter.

  She had returned the love and his passion, and even when her father forced her to marry another they still found solace in each other’s arms and bodies. He had done everything for her, except the one thing she needed, for him to live in the day with her.

  Notus had repudiated the existence of his son’s love for Tarian’s granddaughter until it was almost too late. When the Angel had stolen her away to his cave in Wales, intent on Choosing her, he did not count on her husband and his liege following, demanding her return.

  It was too horrible to bear. He could not give up the meaning of his life. She would not go. She did not want to.

  And then in came Notus, who talked of rationalities. Of what it would do to take her out of the sun, to take her from her family, to take her from her husband, to Choose her for his own passions and desires. Notus refused to understand.

  He had wept and so had she. They had wanted to be together, they loved each other and then Notus told him to listen, to truly listen to her heart, to her body. And he did. He heard her beating heart pounding in vibrant emotion and then the smaller, faster one and he knew. Notus was right. He could not take her from the light when she carried the unborn child to her husband.

  Crushed and sobbing, he gave her over to Notus who took her love, passions and caring for his son from her memories and her life, and reinstated her as wife to her husband before bloodshed could occur.

  He had locked away his heart that night. The pain had been too terrible to bear. He could never allow himself to go through that again. The pain of love was a wound even iron dimmed in comparison, and now Fernando was saying he was in love with Jeanie?

  He stared at the cobbles as they passed underfoot. What he did know was that he felt strongly for Jeanie and it terrified him. He could face an army, iron weapons abound, and feel totally at ease and calm, but it was one beautiful fiery young woman that made him flee in confusion and terror. Yet he wanted, no needed, her safe and happy no matter the cost. Was he in love with Jeanie?

  Oh Gods, I hope not, he prayed, and shuddered at the possibility. I can’t go through it again.

  They continued to walk in silence, neither of them had anything to say to each other, and if one did it was highly unlikely that the other would listen, or hear, for that matter.

  Homeless huddled together in dark shadows, hiding from unwanted prying eyes. To the eyes of an immortal they were grubby with dark sunken eyes and grim features. Some that they passed begged for anything, others hung their jaws in astonishment, while others whispered. To the ears of the Chosen the words were equal to their shocked expressions. Most recognized the Angel while a few wondered where the Good Father was and who was with the Angel. Fernando’s face twisted with disgust at the comments not meant for his ears.

  The Thames was nearby, and so was Southwark Bridge. They did not need to see the river. The increasing smell of bilge, sewage and waste was proof enough. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. The smell was common to most cities. Fernando, on the other hand, spat and pulled out a perfumed handkerchief, holding it to his face in a poor attempt to filter the smell. At least the wind was not blowing from the south.

  The sight of a black clad figure up ahead, on the small street, made Fernando look up. It was a man, similarly cloaked yet obviously in an embrace with someone, or something.

  A smile tugged at the Noble’s lips in recognition. Lengthening his stride to keep pace with Fernando’s hurried steps, the Angel broke the silence. “Who is it?”

  Lips broadening into a grin, Fernando replied, “An old acquaintance of mine and a somewhat of an admirer of yours.”

  “What? An admirer?” It was preposterous.

  “Rupert Randell,” explained the Noble, “Made a little over two hundred years ago, was a solicitor who lost everything in the Great Fire and was helped by one Father Notus and his Angel.”

  He snapped his head around to stare at the man in a new light, disbelief reflected in his crimson eyes.

  As if in response to his unspoken thoughts, Fernando explained, “I know his sire is neither you nor the monk, and no, he isn’t mine. He’s one of Barclay’s. You may remember him, he was the last Master before Katherine took over.”

  He shook his head. He did not know Barclay, and never went to his court. Then again Barclay was one of the few Masters that respected the privacy and wishes of those around him.

  “To hear it from Rupert,” continued the Noble, “without your help he would have killed himself in desperation. Oi! Randell!”

  The figure not more than fifteen paces away turned to greet the two, allowing the limp body of a homeless drunk to collapse in a heap. His dark eyes brightened with surprise at the sight of his friend and the Angel, and immediately vanished into a look of pain as he took a step that could not be completed.

  A flash of realization passed between the Noble and the Angel and they both rushed to the fallen Chosen who lay face up, eyes unfocused and shivering violently. Concern filled the two as they watched helplessly the effects of what they knew to be the poison. There was nothing either of them could do except to make Rupert as comfortable as possible.

  “De Sagres?” stammered Rupert, his body shaking so badly that his hand had to be caught by the Noble.

  “I’m here,” responded Fernando, his voice tight, without emotion.

  “I – I’m so c-c-cold. What’s ha-happening t - to me?” His body arched in a painful convulsion and he cried out.

  Taking the opportunity to slip under Rupert’s blonde head, his lap acted as a support for the dying Chosen and a length of white hair fell forward to brush the man’s face.

  The convulsion passed back into the bone racking shivers.

  Fernando looked up at the Angel. It was obvious that he had no experience in dealing with this type of situation, and seemed ready to bolt. He looked to the Angel to take over.

  He sighed at the realization that he would have to become the Angel again, but this time for a Chosen. It was a first and the realization twisted his gut that Katherine was right. “Shhh,” he said calmly, “try not to worry. It will be over soon.”

  “I-I can’t s-s-see,” stammered Rupert. “Whose…whose th-there?”

  “The Angel,” he replied, gently. “Be calm, everything will be alright.”

  At the sound of the title Rupert’s body somewhat relaxed for an instant before another scream rendering convulsion racked his body. “T-the Angel?” he managed a moment after the spasm receded once again. “Oh G-God, I’m d-dying.” Another vicious betrayal of his body arched him, but this time for longer.

  There was nothing either he or Fernando could say in response as the length and the violence of the convulsions continued to increase. With little time between death throws, he tried to sooth the man by telling him about all the good things he could expect. All Rupert could do was sob over and over that he did not want to die, until the last convulsion left him lifelessly limp with blood running from mouth, nose and ears. Shaken at the violence of the poison, he glanced at the Noble who extricated his crushed hand from Rupert’s grasp.

  “Is he dead?” inquired the Noble, obviously rattled, but more by the possibility that it could have been him.

  “I don’t know.” He gazed down at the slack pale face. Checking for a pulse was useless, as was checking for breath. How did one check to see if a Chosen still lived? “Give me your knife.”

  Brows furrowed. “What for?” demanded the Noble, reaching for the hidden sheaths at the small of his back.

  “We need to find out if he still lives.” He took the dagg
er by the hilt. The pommel had a white swirled teardrop inlaid on it with a tiny black dot in the centre. It was a finely crafted instrument. It did not matter where he made the cut. The slice on Rupert’s neck welled with blood but did not close. Wiping the blade on Rupert’s cloak, he handed it back to Fernando, mindful of its razor sharp edges. “He is dead.”

  “Merda!” hissed Fernando. Sheathing the dagger, he stood in time to see two Bobbies running towards them, obviously drawn by Rupert’s screams. They came to an abrupt halt as the Angel stood, gently laying Rupert’s head down on the stone.

  “Is there a problem officer?” inquired Fernando, innocently.

  The shorter of the two nervously licked his lips. It was obvious that he was new to his line of work. The older, and more rotund Bobbie, hitched his thumbs in the pockets of his uniform jacket. There was a definite air of superiority exuding from this man that made Fernando scowl.

  “We ‘eard someone screamin’ an’ come t’ check it out and we see two bodies on the ground and you two stand’ o’er them. Would you like to be explainin’ what the ‘ell is goin’ on or shall we go t’ the precinct?” said the older officer and made a move to grab Fernando’s arm.

  The Noble knocked the rude hand away, his eyes narrowing at the presumption and locked onto the Bobbies’ grey eyes. “No. I don’t think so. There are no bodies here. My friend and I were just out for some night air. Do you understand?”

  The older officer stood, his eyes wide and pupils dilated. “Yes sir. Just out for some night air,” he slowly replied.

  The younger officer glanced nervously from his superior to the Noble and then back again. “Frank, what are you saying?”

  Frank turned to face his partner, still under the spell. “Time t’ go, John. Nothin’ ‘appenin’ ‘ere.”

  “But the bodies!” protested John.

  “There ain’t no bodies.”