Angel of Death: Book One of the Chosen Chronicles

by Karen Dales

  "Gustav?" The squeak and the soft sound the two remaining, moved towards the stairs. "Please prepare my entertainment room, and lay out my writing desk. Mr. Vale wishes me to reply and so I will." The menacing smile was evident in her tone.

  "As you desire, ma’am," replied Gustav with a hint of awe as they descended down the stair.

  Silence followed, punctuated only by the occasional voice floating up from the first floor. Bequeathed the second story, the Angel turned the handle and opened the door a crack to see if they were truly alone. No sound of life, or any person appeared to be awaiting them, and he cautiously opened the door and stepped out, slipping the shuriken back into their hiding place.

  Fernando followed, relieved to be free of the small confining space, smoothing down the front of his suit with both hands.

  "What now?" he whispered, his brown brows pulling together.

  It was clear that the Madam was the lady they sought and most likely the head of the conspiracy to eradicate the Chosen. Frowning, the Angel cautiously walked the length of the hall to the door of the Madam's room and entered. Here was an opportunity to learn something about their adversary. If they were lucky she would return alone to the room, but after her statement about going somewhere else, it was highly unlikely they would be able to ambush her here.

  Stepping in close behind the Angel, Fernando quietly shut the door and turned. The room was grander than the one they had initially breached.

  A large oak bed, stained a rich dark brown, pressed against one wall. The gold coverlets and pillows were pristine with nary a wrinkle, appearing as if no one ever slept in the grand bed. The wardrobe, dressers and washstand were of the same dark wood. Silver candelabras decorated the flat surfaces, some still flickering brightly with lit beeswax candles. The dressing table and the small padded chair were the only real evidence that someone used this room on a regular basis. Silver backed brushes and combs were littered among jewellery and cosmetic jars and brushes. The truly strange aspect from the seemingly normal appearing room was the heavy red velvet drapes covering the windows.

  Across the red and gold Persian rug, the Angel nudged one of the drapes away from the window in the hopes to peek if the bodies had been discovered. What he found was a boarded up window. Surprised, he moved to the next one farthest away from the bed and found a board covering only half of the window, leaving the bottom half to a black painted glass.

  Allowing the drape to fall back into place, he turned to the Noble, loath to inform him of what they must do if they were to be successful and be back at the monastery before dawn. Slaughtering every last mortal in the home just to take down Madam Fleur de la Montagne and thus end the threat against the Chosen was a necessary evil. He had done such actions in the past as a matter of course and employment, but to see the Noble's face alight with sadistic pleasure decreased his ability to emotionally detach himself from the task at hand.

  "Just remember, kill with your blades and do not feed on them," concluded the Angel, quietly. "We can guarantee they are tainted."

  "That's obvious," snorted Fernando. Reaching to the sheaths hidden at the small of his back, he pulled out Yin and Yang and held them loosely. With a lopsided malicious grin, he followed the Angel out of the room.

  The slither of steel against wood whispered as the Angel unsheathed his weapon. Grasping the worn hilt in his left, the blade flashed close to his face in expectation of discovery.

  Quietly, they followed the distant voices down stairs that widened out to a grand foyer of white, red and black tiles arranged in large geometric designs. The sconces above the dark stained wainscoting glittered brightly between paintings framed in elaborate gold.

  Alighting from the last step he felt the wrongness of the situation tightening his shoulders. He rolled them, releasing most of the tension, but not the concern. Suddenly, the distant voices cut out and left them in silence. It took all his effort to squash the rising dread at the realization they had most likely walked into a trap. Straining to hear, the sound of anticipatory heart beats and breathing confirmed the fact and he knew they were surrounded. The only recourse was to gain the high ground and he turned to ascend the stairs, halting at the sound of approach.

  Over half a dozen men appeared, armed with rapiers and knives, to stand threateningly at the top of the stairs. Finding the route cut off, the Angel turned to find more men with naked steel filing in from the front door at the same time that others moved in from the south and north wings of the main floor.

  Fernando's exclamatory oath caused several of the men to chuckle in anticipation.

  "I do hope that you have a plan to get us out of this," sneered the Noble, his back pressed against the Angel's, Yin and Yang poised for defence. It had seemed such a simple plan at first - gain entry, find Fleur, kill her, go home. Though he had no doubt he would survive this battle, Fernando disliked the notion that the tables had turned and the playing field was now controlled by outside sources.

  Disinclined to reply, the Angel watched as a slight figure appeared at the top of the stairs. Her thick black hair fell in luxuriant waves over slim shoulders. The claret coloured gown lit up and intensified her piercing blue eyes. Surprise caught him off guard for a fraction of the moment. It was the same woman who had led them into the trap at the soup kitchen. Anger flashed through him at the realization that he and Fernando had been carefully controlled and manipulated with every step by this woman.

  "Ah, how wonderful to finally have you in my home." Her voice purred in pleasure as she descended down a step. "I want the Angel alive," she ordered, coldly. "Kill the other one."

  "Yes ma'am," came the enthusiastic reply of the man to her left.

  Shock showed on both the Chosen’s face, eliciting a pleasurable smirk from the man. Descending down the stairs, sword in hand, was the driver that the Angel had killed.

  "Surprised?" Holding the high ground three steps up, Bob levelled the blade in preparation for an offensive strike. "Good."

  The stance on the stairs and the grip on the blade spoke volumes of the dead man's lack of knowledge, but the Angel never relinquished his cold gaze on those dreary green eyes.

  "You are not Chosen." It was a statement rather than a question. The Angel shifted his position, feeling Fernando do the same at his back.

  "You're quite correct, my dear," replied Violet Flowers. She descended one more step, caressing her flowing locks. "We're oh so much better."

  Robert’s blade came down in a blur of deadly speed, surpassing that of mere mortals, and crashed against the Angel's broadsword in a shower of sparks. Momentarily caught off guard by the swiftness of the attack, the Angel moved, accelerating to flowing preternatural speed.

  Light and sound protracted as his body set into the movements of centuries of practice. Flowing only slightly slower than himself, he caught Fernando peripherally, sweeping and slashing at those who pressed their attack. Some of the men seemed to stand still in the face of severed life. Those he recognized as mortals were easy to cut down. It was those who moved in equal measure to the Noble that were the real threat.

  Feinting a downward slice, he shifted the long blade to deliver a horizontal cut across Robert's exposed abdomen. Blood spewed forth, adding to the increasingly slippery and treacherous footing of downed mortals, and then dried up as the wound closed, sealing itself as if it had never been.

  Wide eyed at the sight, he felt the burning sting of metal against his rib cage as someone else's blade got through his momentarily downed defences. Forced back to the task at hand, he knew he was fighting for his life against the unknown.

  Without any further thought, he abandoned all rationality to the muscle and sensory memory of centuries of battle. He and Fernando would escape or they would die having taken as many of their enemy with them as they could.

  Chapter XXXIV

  Shoulders hunched to her ears and arms across her chest, Jeanie struggled to keep the cool night air from swiping her precious body heat despite the effec
tiveness of her green wool coat. A blast of wind whipped her hair around her face, taunting her until she pulled her hand from her underarm and brushed the offending locks from her eyes.

  The sun had set some time ago, taking with it the Angel and Fernando. She knew she was defying him in following, but she had to help, no matter the cost, even if it meant that he would stop loving her. Her feet tread loudly along the empty gravel road that would take her to the entrance of the villa - a lonesome sound against the creak and groan of trees and shrubs bending to the power of the playful wind.

  In near hysterics, Jeanie had fled into the halls of the monastery dressed only in her shift. She could not believe what he had threatened, what promise he had broken, and her heart ached in loss at the sight of the Angel replacing the man she loved - the man she had believed loved her.

  Tears streamed down her face, blinding her to the astonished expressions of the monks she ran past. Her bare feet slapped against the cold solidness beneath. Jeanie's only desire was to find a way out, to run away from the pain and heart break, and was stopped by falling unknowingly into a monks soothing embrace.

  With soft words of consolation he steered her towards an office, his arm comforting around her shoulders. Once the oak door closed, he dismissed the shocked clerk with a wave of his hand and deposited Jeanie in the chair before the large desk.

  Still weeping, Jeanie accepted the clean rag without looking up, blew her nose and wiped her face. She regained what little composure she could muster, clutching and twisting the rag. She did not know who the man was, but was grateful for his compassionate silence.

  The chair behind the desk grated against stone and she heard him settle into it.

  "I am Father Theodore, the Abbot of St. Martin's," he stated, kindly. "If there is anything I or the other Brothers can help with, Miss Stuart, please let me know."

  "But I'm no Catholic," replied Jeanie, glumly.

  Father Theodore let out an amused huff. "Yet you serve Father Paul and are here with the Angel."

  Jeanie's eyes went round and she wondered at how much the Abbot truly knew.

  She heard him lean forward, placing his forearms on his desk. "I am known for having two very good ears and a quiet tongue, if that will be of any help."

  The complete sincerity of the offer swept Jeanie's breath away and before she knew what she was doing tears fell from her eyes as she related what had just transpired between she and the Angel. When she had finished she sat glumly, tears spent.

  Father Theodore stood with a sigh, went to his sideboard and poured an amber coloured drink into a small glass. Returning to his desk, he sat on the corner nearest to the young woman and offered the strong drink into her shaking hands.

  "The Angel loves you. Do you believe that?" stated the Abbot.

  Jeanie sipped at the brandy, felt its warmth radiate from her belly outward, and nodded, watching the brown liquid slosh in the glass.

  "Then you must trust his reasons for wanting you here," offered Father Theodore.

  "I do," said Jeanie, weakly, and looked up from her drink. "It's just that I'm afraid."

  "Of what?"

  New tears surfaced to trickle down her face. "That I'll never see him again. That he thinks I dinna love him."

  Realization dawned on the Abbot’s face and he stood, walked to an inner door, opened, and called to the clerk in the other office. "Do you know where the Angel and Mister de Sagres went, Brother Amadieu?"

  "I'm sorry, Father," replied the monk, "I do not."

  "I do." Jeanie's small voice flitted across the room.

  The Abbot turned back to his guest, eyebrows raised.

  "Le Jardin," answered Jeanie, meekly.

  "Brother Amadieu, would you please find Brother Bartholomew," requested the Abbot, frowning as he closed the door.

  It had not taken long for Brother Bartholomew to arrive, repeat yet again what had transpired in the Scriptorium last night, and provide Jeanie the information she needed. Once the old monk had left, the Abbot regained his seat behind the desk and gazed thoughtfully at her.

  "I cannot presume to tell you what you should do, Miss Stuart," he said, "but I must council you to decide carefully what is the correct course of action. It is clear that the Angel wishes you to be safe for he loves you dearly. You must decide whether or not your love for him will include trust.

  "I will have Brother Amadieu escort you back to your room."

  Jeanie had walked in silence beside the clerk very much aware she was underdressed, and appreciated the averted gazes from those they past.

  Within the corridors no sound issued, save for the shuffling of feet, they moved from one section of the abbey to the other. Jeanie's mind raced, filled with conflicting thoughts and emotions.

  Having Father Theodore sit silently, without judgement, as she expressed her anguish and anger alleviated much of the weight that compressed her heart. She could think clearly about the situation for the first time since she woke. Decision made to keep her promise to do whatever she could to help free Father Notus Jeanie closed the door with a muffled thanks to Brother Amadieu and turned to get dressed. The Angel be damned if he was going to stop her from doing her part, and since he was not there to tie her up she was free to follow.

  Righteous anger had fuelled her quick steps as she left the property of the Abbey, Brother Bartholomew's directions still firmly stuck in her mind. It was the cold, the dark, and the realization that she had no plan to speak of that wore down the burning fire of her resolve to cooling embers.

  Le Jardin appeared grandly as she stepped into the break of the eight foot high stone wall that outlined the front of the property. The driveway was long and unencumbered by large trees or bushes that could conceal any of the magnificence of the mansion. The foliage that presented itself seemed only to enhance the regal nature of the place.

  Halting at the sight, Jeanie thought, for the first time, of turning back. With no plan, the only recourse was to walk up and knock on the door, and that reeked of stupidity. What was she to do? Ask if the Angel and the Nobel were there as if she were a child going to a friends house to play? Frustrated and angry at herself, Jeanie knew she should have listened to the Angel and stayed at the Abbey. It was her hurt pride that had whitewashed her ability to think clearly and made her act rashly, as it usually did.

  This time she caught herself before she could do anything utterly stupid. She would trust in the Angel and believe he would return. Shaking her head, Jeanie turned on her heel to begin the trek back down the road and to the Abbey. She would wait for the Angel. When he returned victorious, she would apologise for doubting and mistrusting him.

  Focused and determined, Jeanie did not see the rough hand until it was clamped over her mouth and a strong arm lifted her around the waist until her feet dangled.

  Screaming, Jeanie kicked and tried to thrash, memories of her first night in London flashing to mind.

  "The Mistress will be well pleased." The deep male voice whispered with the promise of violence if unheeded. His fetid breath tickled her ear, sending shivers down her neck as she felt herself being carried to the villa.

  The intoxicating thrill of capturing the Angel dulled as Violet observed the one sided battle turn against her favour. Impotent rage grated her teeth while her eyes grew wide, unable to turn away from the exotic dance of the Angel that felled more and more of her servants. She had never seen the like and her desire to possess him grew with each new fountain of blood.

  She had been delighted to see the shocked expression shattering his usual cool countenance when he realized that Robert was not mortal and that the Angel was surrounded with those of her kind and their servants. The unknown was always an igniter of fear and she needed the Angel to fear. It was the first path to possession and oh how she desired that. To have a Chosen completely hers, especially the Angel, Violet shuddered in anticipation and licked her painted lips.

  A growl rose unbidden deep in her throat, irritated that Robert had bee
n so stupid as to allow the Angel to decapitate him. The stunned expression on the Angel's face turned to realization and then deadly determination when Robert did not rise. Fury sparked when the Angel shouted to de Sagres to acquire a sword and follow his lead.

  The mortals had all fallen and Violet was intelligent enough to know that she and her kind were next.

  Nicolas fell, the shocked expression on his face forever frozen on his rolling disembodied head.

  Violet retreated up a step, eyes glued to the battle between Gilles and the Angel. A wordless exclamation of triumph exploded from her tense body as Gilles blade sliced across the Angel's right breast. A blackened red line appeared on white flesh suddenly exposed and the Angel grunted in pain. A momentary shock of pleasure ran through Violet only to be squashed as Gilles head came within feet of Nicolas'.

  De Sagres dispatched Leroi and Violet took another retreating step. Only a half dozen of her kind kept the Angel and de Sagres busy, meaning she only had moments before she would have to flee.

  A muffled sound entered the fray from the front door and Violet smiled, victory singing through her blood.

  "If you do not wish to be the cause of Miss Stuart's death," shouted Violet, smiling. "You would be smart to surrender now."

  The shocked green gaze from her friend titillated Violet. Gregory had saved them all and though a reward was due to him, Violet would not let him have the girl. Jeanie was hers and Violet wished that it were she who held Jeanie in such an embrace.

  Eyes locked on her friend, Violet could not appreciate the stunned expression wash over the Angel as he lowered his weapon. It was when it clattered to the red soaked floor that she turned her attention back upon her catch.

  "I will not," shouted de Sagres. He raised his borrowed blade to resume his attack on Dartagnan and was halted by the Angel's white hand around his wrist.

  "Please," pleaded the Angel when Jeanie's muffled scream rang through the room.