by Karen Dales
Surprised to hear him groan, Jeanie shot up. “What’s wrong?”
“I should not be here,” he confessed, sitting up. “I should be out there with Fernando. We were supposed to go to the docks. Fernando has the powder and the shipping information. If anything happens to him, and subsequently the powder and the information, I’m back to square one!”
He made a move to leave the bed but was halted by Jeanie’s hand on his pale shoulder.
“Fernando will be fine. He’s a bastard.”
Shocked at her language and the hostile tone, he let Jeanie continue.
“Bastards always come out with clean noses, so dinna fash about him. Let him do the dirty work for a change. If he gets into a bit o’ trouble it’ll be because of his arrogant mouth.”
“Why Jeanie, one would think you do not like the man.” He smiled in silent agreement. Actually he liked the idea of letting the Noble do the dirty work, and he allowed Jeanie to guide him back under the covers.
“I dinna.” Her smile was gloriously mischievous. “After all there canna be too many ways to kill a Chosen if ye are still around after so many years. I can hardly imagine livin’ to fifty!”
“How many ways do you think there are?” he asked in all curiosity.
“I guess the cross isna one since the Good Father wears one. But why the morbid question?”
“I don’t know.” He hitched a pale shoulder, sending white locks spilling. “Maybe because I have always been involved in death.” He ran his index finger down her freckle-splashed nose.
She caught his hand and gazed at the ugly scab on his palm. “I would guess cuts from iron bars?”
He snatched his hand back, and after a quick glance at the wound he balled his right hand into a fist.
“If that’s the case why did ye no want me t’ go and get ye a proper dressin’?”
“Because nobody except Notus knows,” he snapped.
Perplexed, Jeanie asked, “Knows that Chosen can –“
“No!”
Jeanie drew back at the vehemence in his voice.
The precipitance in her face sobered him. “I’m sorry Jeanie.” He shook and lowered his head. Long white hair fell to hide his face.
The fact that Jeanie had found out and even accepted the truth of his nature and quest was one thing, but he never even considered the notion of telling her about the differences between he and other Chosen. Those imperfections that have been incapacitating, even life threatening, of which only Notus had knowledge. Any defect, any sway from the norm, and that Chosen’s sentence was death.
Over the long years there had been three that had been found, that he had heard of. One who could not even go out if the moon was full because of the increased amount of natural light, and two others, Chooser and Chosen, who had taken on lupine qualities. All had died in the proscribed way; dismemberment of limbs and then left for the sun to finish them off. It was bad enough that his colouring marked him different. If others found out the true extent of that difference his fate would be the same as those other three.
Jeanie moved closer, perplexed as to why he had suddenly shut down. Brushing the soft milky hair from his face, she lifted his chin and stared at the worry creasing his brow.
“Tis alright. I forgive ye,” she soothed. “Ye dinna hae t’ tell me if ye dinna wish.”
The injury in her voice brought him to gaze into her summer eyes. The last time he had see such a vibrant green was that spring day so long ago and a new thought entered to mind. It was a decision he hoped never to make, nor ever to regret. “Jeanie, I have trusted you more in the last few hours than I have anyone else in my life, save Notus.” His mouth suddenly dry and he swallowed back the trepidation hammering his heart. “Can I trust you now never to tell anyone, Chosen or mortal, except Notus, what I am about to tell you?”
Jeanie recognized the gravity of the situation and nodded. “Ye told me that I can trust ye with my life and I do. Ye can do the same with me. I give ye my word.”
A sigh of relief escaped from him and the corners of his mouth tugged his lips into a shy smile. Taking her hand in his own, he guided her slender fingers to the long silver scar on his right arm. She questioningly gazed up at him. “Feel it,” he instructed.
She did so, feeling the softer skin that ran from his shoulder to the inside of his elbow, as he explained.
“Shortly after I was Chosen, Notus took me to a friendly village that was attacked by brigands. It was the first time I had ever been around so many people. It was the first time I killed in the manner of the Chosen. I managed to kill the raiders, but not before I took that wound.”
He guided her hand to the back of his neck, under the heavy long hair. “Do you feel that?” Jeanie nodded, feeling a thin raised line, running horizontal, in the middle of his neck. “This is from the axe that was held at the back of my neck while the Master of Britain decided if I was of the True Blood. Because of the difference of my appearance, they believed that I should be Destroyed. Luckily my arm had healed sufficiently to appear as if I had received the wound before my Choosing, and the oaf holding the axe never noticed what his blade was doing to me. If he had noticed, it would have marked me different from the rest of the Chosen and that axe would have gone through my neck rather than rested on it. It was Notus’ pleading that this was how he found me that - well, the axe did not fall.”
Jeanie let her hand be guided one final time to the hideous scar that traversed the length of his left thigh. Her face contorted in confusion and at first she did not want to touch it.
“I received this one,” he stated soberly, “when I was sent on a fools errand by Richard Lionheart to kill Saladin several months before the carnage at Acre.”
She pulled her hand away in surprise. “Ye knew King Richard?”
He smiled at her awe. “Yes I did.” He grew sombre as he continued. “He sent me, alone, to assassinate his enemy. I managed to get into the camp, but there were too many people guarding his tent, as if expecting the likes of one such as I. I was surrounded and barely fought my way out. It was only possible with Chosen strength, speed and agility. I managed to mount my horse before a lucky Saracen tossed his javelin. If I had not been wearing my armour it would have gone through my leg, killing my horse to leave me at the mercy of those people. I would have died. Instead, somehow I made it back to camp. I do not remember much of the following year. It took me ten years to recover from that wound and it changed me.”
“What does that have t’ do with your hand?”
“Everything.” He bore into her eyes with his own. “Chosen instantly heal except for burns and dismemberment. I heal quickly from burns except for the burns caused by iron pierced into my flesh. And since my last encounter with iron I am unable to cross water without becoming ill.”
Jeanie blinked in astonishment. Stories and fables from her past floated to mind. “Are ye now saying that ye are one o’ the wee folk?” she chuckled.
Shocked by the question and hurt by Jeanie’s frivolity at his confession, he harshly retorted, “The woman who raised me thought so, having found me as a changeling child. So strong in her conviction, she never named me.”
The playful smile on Jeanie’s face collapsed at this extremely profound admission. “But I hear the Good Father call ye Gwyn. I thought it was yer name.”
He shrugged, uncomfortable with where this was leading. “It is, I guess,” he sighed. “The woman who helped care for me after the first wounding named me so after what all the villagers thought I was.”
“And what’s that?”
Embarrassment gripped him and he scowled. “They believed me to be the Welsh God Gwyn ap Nudd.”
Jeanie’s brows shot up. There was still so much more to him that she did not know. The lover’s mood had evaporated in the seriousness of the conversation. Wishing for its return, she caressed his face along his cheekbone to his ear. “It doesna matter,” she spoke lovingly. “I’ll keep yer secret.”
A wave of relief
washed over him, causing him to slump in the sudden absence of tension. Pulling Jeanie close, he embraced her. Never before had he been so totally accepted and he felt her warm arms encircle him, tenderly stroking his back.
“What about your back?” He heard her say into his neck, her breath titillating.
“After the woman who took me in and raised me was killed and my home destroyed I found a cave to live in. Unfortunately it was already occupied. The hide made a nice bed, but it was nearly I who decorated his abode.” He ran his hand through her cinnamon curls.
They sat quietly for a long time, holding and caressing each other, enjoying the silence and the feel of one another’s bodies. A deep satisfied fatigue rolled over him, and he found it difficult to keep his eyes open. Head lolling to one side, his cheek came to rest on Jeanie’s head. Suddenly, without reason, he jerked himself away. Jeanie beamed up at him, her smile radiant and secretly amused. He questioningly gazed back, curious.
“Did ye ken yer ears come to a slight tip like the wee folk?” She answered his unspoken question and slid away, her smile wide.
Stunned at the unexpected admission, his hands flew to his ears to feel what Jeanie was talking about and was rewarded with the sound of giggling. Gazing up, he noticed her sitting on the edge of the bed bent over in muffled laughter. She glanced back at the perplexity in his eyes and burst out into a new round. Gradually it donned on him that it was his reaction to her teasing that created her outburst and he realized how ridiculous he had been. A smile pulled at his face.
“Why you…” He made a playful leap to grab her and missed.
With a short exclamation Jeanie shot off the bed, leaving him lying where she had been sitting only a moment ago. She turned and smiled playfully, bidding him to follow as she took a step around the poster.
If this was the game she wanted to play, he was more than willing to oblige. He had never missed a quarry and was not about to do so now. Sliding from the bed, he stood and took a step towards her.
A short half scream half laugh escaped from her and Jeanie ran to the other side of the bed to stop short, the smile gone. Her eyes widened in amazement. She had not seen him even twitch a muscle. Now he stood where she had been running.
“How?” she muttered, dumbstruck.
It was his turn to grin mischievously. “One of the disadvantages of loving a Chosen.” He pulled her close and bent to press his lips against hers.
Wrapping her arms around his neck, Jeanie felt her feet leave the ground, as he stood straight, holding her tightly.
“Oh no, not again,” she feinted.
He smiled, his crimson eyes alighting with passion. Laying her on the bed, he covered her body with his.
“Yes again,” he whispered, huskily. “This time is for you.”
His mouth found hers and in his mind he heard her say, Oh yes!
Chapter XVIII
The stench of brine mixed with bilge and rotting fish pleased Fernando that he did not need to drink water, especially from the Thames. Then again he also did not have to inhale the fumes. Tucking the perfumed cloth back into his pocket, he exhaled in a huff. The slightly warmed moisture hung in his face for a brief moment before evaporating in the breeze.
The quay was deserted, not at all surprising to the Noble, except for the ships from distant ports anchored at the piers. Fernando figured that those who served were either in town sleeping the night away in friendly beds, or those unlucky enough to be alone, in a cold, unforgiving cots. Either was preferable since he really did not want a confrontation. It had been so long since he had Chinese that he did not want to spoil the exotic lingering taste with something so base. It would be like having watered down ale after a sip of vintage wine.
He chuckled at the comparison as he walked along the wooden planks, his dress shoes thunking loudly while looking for the harbourmasters building. He was definitely glad to be alone under the brightness of a clear night sky. Though he would have appreciated it had the Angel acted the full partner he claimed to be instead of letting Fernando do all the work.
Maybe the stunt of leaving the door ajar, allowing that red headed bitch to discover the truth, would be enough to get rid of her and possibly allow the Angel to finally get his perspective back regarding the situation. Then again, if Fernando discovered and stopped whoever was behind the poisoning on his own, he would be considered a hero.
A vision flashed to mind; Sebastian’s severed arm overlaid the image of the pile of ash in the cell. Repressing an involuntary shudder, Fernando knew that if someone could easily kill his grandsire, a Chosen renowned for his ruthlessness and sadism, then it might be better to break with tradition and continue to work with another Chosen. There was power in numbers, a concept long lost amongst the solitary night creatures.
The large sign above the entrance to an old weather beaten building looked as dilapidated, if more so, than the structure. Red paint chips threatened to flake away in the slight breeze. Fernando wondered when the last time this place had seen a paintbrush. A crude kerosene lantern hung high above the left side of the door, casting a sickly yellow glow. If this was a regular practice it was astonishing that the building had survived so long as to become run down. Stepping up to the entrance, Fernando found the door locked, but with a gentle squeeze and a turn the door popped open.
Despite the outward appearance, the inside of the building was impeccable. Whoever was in charge definitely knew how to run an ordered office. Even the papers on the counter were neatly stacked in priority. It would be easy to find the information he required.
Closing the door, Fernando pulled out the copy of the purchase order from his inside jacket pocket and sat down at the harbourmasters desk. Flattening the crinkled paper, he read in the darkness,
“V. Corneilli & Sons
Shipping & Receiving
Calais, Madrid, London
Quantity Item Cost
10 Oriental Herbs L1050
Deliver to London Free Kitchens Inc., London, England.”
The stamp indicating which customs office spelled out the office he now sat in. The fact that the barrels had to go through customs even though the shipper and receiver was the same meant that the order had to have come from either Calais or Madrid. The only way to find out was to find the ship that brought the spices and that meant searching through the files.
Fernando’s shoulders drooped at the prospect of the monstrous search through the filing cabinets, only to perk up at the sight that each drawer was labelled. Fernando was instantly grateful to the harbourmaster, and had the man walked in at that moment he would have offered to Choose him. Finding the file was easier than breaking into the building.
Leafing through the papers, he quickly found a copy of the one he had but attached to it was the ship’s manifest with the name of the ship, its port of origin, Calais, and the date of the ship’s arrival. Fernando quickly pocketed the papers and discovered at the back of the file, a set of similar papers was stamped with yesterday’s date. The only difference was the name of the ship.
Fernando closed the file, placed it back in the cabinet, and looked at the blackboard where all the ships were listed at the different piers. Running his eyes down the list, he found the Papillon. It was anchored at the other end of the dock. Deciding to follow his hunch, Fernando left the building.
Crates and barrels stacked neatly on the quay made a perfect hiding spot. Of course, Fernando would not have needed it if there were no activity on the pier and on the Papillon. Crouched beside a crate, he watched as the same four men walked to the ship carrying barrels similar to those in the soup kitchen. The men worked silently as they strode to and fro along the gangboard, stocking the ship with the barrels from the dock. Soon Fernando would have to give up his hiding spot, lest he be discovered.
He was certain that these barrels contained the deadly herbs but he needed to know where they were from and where they were going. Fernando decided that when the workers returned to the hold of the ship he
would check out the invoice attached to one of the barrels. He perked up as he watched the four men return up the gangboard and found it strange that the last one up, one he thought he recognized, a heavy set man, halted way to sniff the breeze a moment before continuing on.
Out of sight, this was Fernando’s chance. Moving with preternatural speed, he stood over the spice barrels. The invoices were nearly identical to the ones he had safely in his inner breast pocket. The only difference was that this ship came from Calais, France and was now onto LaCoruna, Spain and other distant ports.
This was better than he had hoped. Now he had the next piece of the puzzle. Maybe if he was feeling magnanimous he would allow the Angel to come along if only to show him how this investigation is to be done right. A smile crossed his lips and then a crushing pain. Stars littered the blackness behind his eyelids.
Fernando fell unconscious onto the dock.
The heavyset man stood over the supine form of the Noble, bloodied crowbar still poised to give another skull crushing blow. Reluctantly, he lowered the makeshift weapon as his companions approached to stand impassively around the body.
“I see you got him,” commented the man across from the heavy set one.
“You did nail him good,” added another, smaller than the two.
“How long will he be out?” asked the fourth.
“I don’t know,” replied the heavyset man. “I crushed his skull.”
The others nodded thoughtfully.
The fourth man bent down to gaze on the near shattered face. “Isn’t he one of the two sent out after us?”
“I believe he is,” replied the second man. “She will be pleased to hear of this, but what should we do with him.”
They all looked at the fifth, the one Fernando had not seen, the one who gave the orders. “Let’s make her happier, shall we? Dawn’s only a few hours away; throw him into the Thames and let the sun finish what Mr. Haskel started.”