Angel of Death: Book One of the Chosen Chronicles

by Karen Dales

  He did not know how long he wandered the hallways of the monastery before the sounds of men in prayer tickled his hearing. Following the soothing sounds that were so similar yet so different than the ones from the East, he found himself standing in the vestibule to the Cathedral. The heavy doors to the outside were closed and barred against the storm and the puddles he had left in his wake had been thoroughly dried. In the Chancel a dozen monks sat in prayer singing Compline.

  Something in the sound, if not the words, drew him to find a seat on the pew furthest away, hidden in shadow. Gently, so as not disturb the chanting with discordance, he laid his sheathed sword along the pew beside him.

  Still wet from the journey he leaned forward, placed his arms on the pew before him and laid his head. It was an awkward position in the cramped confines, but he could not make himself look up at all the brilliant light that sparkled off of votives and altar candles. It was not the brightness that bothered him, but rather what he felt he did not have the rights to.

  Worry squeezed his eyes shut in a vain attempt to keep back the tears. He could not loose Jeanie. It was his self-indulgent thoughtlessness that caused her to be near death. Yet how could he not have reacted the way he did at seeing the manifestation of the demons? A shudder ran through him at the death sentence It had meted out. If only he knew why, maybe he could change it or at least run from it. If only he could run from his dreams.

  Never before had they manifested so concretely and he wondered if either Jeanie or Fernando had seen them. That possibility frightened him even more. Whatever he was being led to, he had an ominous feeling that it was not just to find out who was poisoning the Chosen and to free his Chooser. Something darker was at work and he shuddered to think what that could mean.

  A warm hand lightly rested on his damp shoulder, its heat penetrating the thin cotton of his shirt. Lifting his head, he sat back feeling cold wood and looked up to see Father Theodore’s gentle face.

  The Abbot relinquished his touch and sat down beside him, closed his eyes and bathed in the sounds of prayer.

  Realizing that patience was in order the Angel sat in quiet expectation, waiting for the Abbot to speak.

  “Your Miss Stuart is going to be fine.”

  Father Theodore’s soft voice released the tension he held in an explosive sigh. He closed his eyes as the worry he had held tightly in check bubbled and broke. Swallowing hard, he looked at the Abbot beside him through shimmering eyes.

  Father Theodore patted the Angel’s leg and smiled. “Brother Absolom said that had you waited any longer Miss Stuart would have passed from this world from hypothermia. She owes her life to you.”

  Guilt screwed up his pale features and he turned his head away to stare into the darkness. Hearing confirmation that it was his actions that nearly caused Jeanie to die cut him to the quick. If Fernando had not brought Jeanie’s condition to light they would still be on the road and she would have died. The thought that it was actually the Noble who saved Jeanie’s life wrenched the guilt further.

  “Miss Stuart is more than Father Paul’s housekeeper, isn’t she?” gently ventured the Abbot, seeing the Angel’s reaction. In the year that the strange young man had stayed with the Brothers of St. Martin’s never had Father Theodore seen such emotion on the normally aloof Angel.

  Without glancing back at the Abbot he nodded.

  The Abbot took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh as if coming to an important decision. “If it is something your kind does with mortals, then have Father Paul marry the two of you.”

  Shocked, the Angel turned to face the monk. “How?”

  Unnerved by the garnet coloured eyes boring into him, the Abbot stared at the monks standing up and talking to each other before vacating the Cathedral. He nodded his acknowledgement of the monks as they past, offering “good mornings” and blessings to those who offered greeting. Once the last monk had left he returned his attention to his guest. “I’ll not break the seal of the confessional, but I will say this: I know what you are.” He turned to study the surprised pale face beside him. “I know that you will be respectful and leave my brothers alone as you and Father Paul did in your year here, but the other one, de Sagres, - he is of your kind, isn’t he? ” - The Angel mutely nodded. -“Will he?”

  He could not believe his ears. The Abbot knew and Notus had probably told him during confession. “I’ll tell him that St. Martin’s is under my protection.”

  Father Theodore raised a brow. “Will that be enough, l’Ange?”

  “It should be, Father,” he frowned. He hoped that Fernando would not jeopardise their stay by feasting on one or more of the monks, and that hospitality etiquette would be something that the Noble still held to.

  Standing with groaning effort, the Abbot patted the Angel on the shoulder. “I pray so, my son. In the mean time go and get yourself dry. I know you cannot catch your death, but I don’t appreciate you dripping all over God’s floors.”

  He caught the glint in the monk’s eyes as Father Theodore turned and left the Cathedral. A half smile flitted across his alabaster face and then fell. Gazing at his hands nestled on his soggy lap, he turned them over. Black against white, the scrape on his right hand was red and healing well. He clenched his hands into fists and closed his eyes.

  Father Theodore’s mentioning of marrying Jeanie had surprised him more than the realization that the Abbot knew he was Chosen. It was something he would have loved to propose had he been mortal, but it was not something he could offer her. He did not know if he could watch her grow old and then pass away, yet he knew that he could not live without her.

  The only other option was to make her into one of the Chosen and he knew that Notus would never allow that. It was hard enough to hide his deficient blood from the rest of the Chosen. He could not pass it down to another and have their lives be risked. He could not allow the possibility of having the white-faced demons come to another - especially to one he loved.

  His gaze lifted to the crucifix above the high altar. An image formed in his mind, Notus’ battered and blood drained body over that of the gruesome sight of Jesus’ torture. Dropping his gaze back to his clenched hands, he shuddered.

  He felt assaulted from every direction, threatening to send him into madness. Only in Jeanie’s arms had he found some semblance of peace since this whole travesty began. Eyes lifting, his gaze fell on the statue of the Blessed Virgin and the blazing votives at her feet.

  A tickling of the past remembered pulled at him to peer closer at the loving compassionate features of her face, as it seemed to transform, its deep eyes meeting his gaze. Fear trickled up his spine in expectation of another visit from the white-faced demons.

  No, not them, came a voice of infinite peace.

  He could not believe what he was hearing. The many layered female voice seemed to ring throughout the Cathedral, but he knew that the words were only for him. Shaking his head in denial of the reality he was thrust into, he stood ready in attempt to flee from madness.

  It’s been too long.

  The comforting voice magically sloughed off his fear and he peered closer at the icon of the Blessed Virgin. It appeared to change, transform, to take on the visage of not only one but of three women. He stood fast despite the racing of his heart.

  Remember what you have been taught, to remember who you were supposed to be.

  The mysterious words pulled at him and he stepped closer to the shrine. Staring up at the fluctuating visage he let out a gasp as a wave of peace flowed through him.

  Remember. Speak the long forgotten words.

  Placing his sword at her feet, he knelt on the prieu dieu. He rested his elbows on the small desk and buried his head into his hands. He was not Catholic, no matter how hard Notus had tried before giving up centuries ago. Auntie’s teachings were too strongly ensconced even after all these years. Yet, for the first time in his life he felt pulled to kneel before a shrine.

  With eyes closed, ancient words from his childh
ood rose unbidden in his mind and he spoke the long dead language Auntie had taught him beneath the full moon.

  The words formed easily on his pale lips. The prayer to the Goddess warmed his body and he joyfully felt his mind slip into a peaceful oblivion.

  The Choice has been remade.

  A fierce scream of wind raced through the Cathedral.

  Chapter XXXI

  The monks had more than satisfactorily set up the quaint, yet small, guestroom, having covered and stuffed the small window with blankets until not an inch of light would be seen come the morning. It was not long before the young monk who had seen them first in the courtyard, still drenched through and through, had slogged miserably with their luggage after stabling their horses. With a fire raging in the hearth, Fernando had managed to arrange his possessions on the meagre simple wood furniture to steam in the heat or to drip dry.

  Fernando closed the door behind him, leaving the blissful heat of his room to the cooler domains of the monastery’s corridors. His fresh clothing clung damply on his body, a testament that even his expensive luggage could not keep out such a downpour, but at least it was better than walking the halls drenched.

  The door to the other guestroom opened and Brother Absolom started at the sight of the Noble dressed in shirt and trousers standing before him. The monk queryingly glanced down each end of the hallway. “Where’s the Angel?”

  The question should not have surprised Fernando, but he found it odd that the Angel was not with Jeanie and shrugged. “You’re guess is as good as mine, Father.”

  A bushy grey brow rose. “I’m not a priest, just a humble monk.”

  Rebuke accepted, Fernando flashed a grin and turned to go down the hall.

  “Are you not going to inquire as to how the young lady is doing?” asked the monk.

  Turning on his heel, Fernando halted. “I figured that had she died you would have told me and you wouldn’t have asked where the Angel was as he would be with her. As it is, I’m sure she will be just fine.”

  Surprised at the young man’s obvious disregard for his travelling companion’s fate, Brother Absolom shook his head in disbelief, sending wispy grey hairs flying, and decided to take the opposite way down the hall.

  Fernando chuckled as he walked down the darkened corridor. He had no doubt that the Scot’s girl would be just fine, she was too annoying to roll over and die, but he had to admire her determination and her ability to hold her own. Despite her naïveté, innocence and her utter lack of forethought that nearly killed the Angel, Fernando was starting to like her fire and loved to needle her just to see her rise to the bait. It was too easy.

  A frown flitted across his face. It was too much like having an annoying younger sister.

  Shaking off that notion, Fernando set back his shoulders determined to make the best of the situation. If they could not get to Balinghem tonight to find the records of where Le Jardin was, then maybe someone here would be able to lead him to the answers.

  Torchlight flickered in their sconces, creating yellow pools of light far enough apart from each other that they formed an archipelago in the darkness. His frown deepened as he realized that at this time of night most, if not all, of the Brothers would be abed and that he should have asked Brother Absolom when he had the chance.

  Rounding a corner he collided with the young monk who had brought in his bag.

  Still soaked to the skin the monk ricocheted onto the floor with a wet smack. His fatigued glazed eyes blinked upwards to see the monastery’s guest standing before him.

  Fernando sighed in annoyance that his nearly dry clothing now clung soggily. He should have heard the mortal sloshing down the hall and damned himself for his sloppiness before he realized his luck.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” stammered the young monk. Wet black wool smacked against stone as he attempted to untangle himself and stand.

  “My fault,” offered the Noble, recognizing the truth of his words. He held out his hand and hoisted the monk to his feet.

  Under the pungent scent of wet wool floated the promise of revitalizing blood. His eyes held the young man’s, feeling the throbbing pulse in their united hands. It would be oh so easy to sup and wipe away the memory of it ever happening.

  Shaking off the clasp, Fernando backed away, damning the protocols of etiquette that demanded that any Chosen housed or guesting under a mortal roof would be forbidden to partake of that mortal’s blood.

  “Are you alright, sir?” queried the monk, witnessing the Noble’s sudden anger.

  “Fine, just fine,” scowled Fernando. “Maybe you can help me.”

  “I’ll try,” said the monk, diminutively.

  Fernando peered closer at the young man. “You haven’t been a monk long, have you?”

  The monk lowered his eyes. “No. I took my vows last year.”

  That explains it, sighed Fernando.

  “I’m looking for a villa – an estate – in these parts. It’s called Le Jardin. Do you know it?”

  The monk chewed on his lower lip. “I don’t think so.” He looked up with a hopeful expression. “But you can check the library.”

  Pleased for the lead, Fernando pressed, “And where can I find that?”

  The young monk told him and without so much as a thank you Fernando turned around and headed back the way he had come.

  The creek of hinges exploded into the deserted hall as Fernando pulled the ancient wooden door open. He hoped that this was the place having found the maze of corridors confusing. A rush of cooler moist air pulled at his clothing, encouraging him to enter the extremely large room. Not one to ignore an invitation, Fernando stepped into the dark and closed the door with a boom that resonated off the ceiling high bookcases filled with tomes and scrolls.

  Gazing around, he let out a whistle. Never before had he seen such wealth. He could see why Notus stayed here for a year. Manoeuvring around the desks set up for scribing and others for study, he came to stand before one of the bookcases and gazed up to its heights before bringing his eyes back down to rest on the ancient leather covered tomes before him. Gold flakes of remnant lettering were the only clues to what was held between the covers. Laying his hand on the cool leather, Fernando began to walk the length of the Library, his fingers bouncing from one book to the next and huffed in annoyance. It would take years to find the answer to where Le Jardin could be found.

  Turning at the sound of the door opening, Fernando stood silently in the darkness as at first the flickering yellow flames of a trifurcated candelabrum entered followed by the elderly monk who had first met them. Fernando smiled as he felt his luck increasing and he took a step towards Brother Bartholomew.

  “Wha –? Who’s there?” The monk squinted his rheumy eyes in an attempt to see past the pool of candlelight.

  “Just one of your newly arrived guests, Brother.” Fernando graciously smiled, stepping into the light.

  The elderly monk’s eyes widened in surprise and then squinted in suspicion. “Couldn’t sleep, eh?” He moved past Fernando and set the candelabra on the closest desk and placed an old worn book beside it.

  “I’m not one for sleeping at night,” offered the Noble, coming to stand next to his quarry. He leaned against the desk almost sitting on it, causing it to creak as his weight shifted it minutely along the floor.

  Brother Bartholomew harrumphed and studied the monastery’s guest. “And I take it that you found yourself wandering our peaceful halls, finally ending up alone in the dark in the Scriptorium?”

  “Actually, I was hoping to get in some research before bed.” Fernando casually turned and ran a finger down the front cover of the book, enjoying the texture. The topic matter did not interest him, but rather the monetary value of such a text. “I have to admit that I was surprised to find another so disinclined to sleep.”

  “I’m old, but not a fool.” Brother Bartholomew picked up the book as if the Noble’s touch was befouling its sacredness, and hugged it to his chest. “I also find that my nee
ds for sleep have diminished greatly in my advanced years. The solitude of quiet study, alone with God, at night is something I have come to appreciate.”

  Fernando inclined his head and picked up the candelabra. Following the monk to the other side of the Library, Brother Bartholomew expertly placed the book into the toothless gap awaiting it amongst its brethren.

  “Now what is it that you are researching?” The monk turned around to face the Noble. “Bear in mind that I do find it quite odd that you were without light.”

  Smiling at his good fortune, Fernando pretended to study the book spines. “I was looking for a candle or a lamp,” he lied.

  “Ah well,” accepted Brother Bartholomew. “And your research?”

  “I’m looking for an estate in these parts named Le Jardin.” He turned to study the old monk. “Have you heard of it?”

  The monk stuck out his lower lip in thought as he ran his mottled pale hand through the remnants of his white hair. “I don’t believe I do.”

  A frown pulled down Fernando’s face and he sighed, his luck running out.

  “Just because I haven’t heard of the place doesn’t mean we can’t find it?” offered the monk with a smile. “Come with me.”

  Fernando followed the brother towards the far back wall where a wide simple oak cabinet ran almost its length and ran almost a yard deep.

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve had the pleasure of a good archive search, especially of the secular books.”

  With a groan and the creaking of bone against bone, Brother Bartholomew crouched down, slid the cabinet door wide and began to shuffle through the large books laying flat one on top of the other. “Bring the light down here, my son, my eyes are not what they used to be.”

  Kneeling down on one leg, Fernando held the light for the monk who muttered and groaned as he shifted books that were at least a yard in height. The Noble ignored the hot candle drippings falling on his wrist and intently watched as the man who was well past his prime slide out a book that was half as wide as it was tall. Its thickness bespoke of many pages.