Angel of Death: Book One of the Chosen Chronicles

by Karen Dales

  Chapter XLIII

  He stood by the entrance to the inner sanctum, listening to the heated conversation between the Mistress of London and Maurice. Maurice seemed to lose heart with every verbal stab of the Mistress’ tongue. The humiliation and fear that rolled off Maurice made the Angel feel almost sorry for the cowardly Chosen. It was the feelings of embarrassment, annoyance and plain disgust from all the other Chosen in the hall that kept the Angel from emotionally siding against Maurice. He scowled at the thought that other Chosen’s emotional states were affecting his, distracting him yet again from what he needed to do - to listen.

  Fernando and Bridget stood off to one side of the doors in expectation for the indication that they should enter. Their own disgruntled natures mingled with the rest of the Chosen as they too listened in, waiting for the cue to throw open the doors and walk down the aisle. The tense minutes crept by, Katherine’s voice rose in annoyance as Maurice’s became mousy. It was shameful to hear a Chosen acting in such a manner.

  “Fine,” the Mistress all but yelled. “You say you have evidence to present as to who is killing off the Chosen after I only sent you out three nights ago, then present it. I seriously doubt that what you have to show us will yield anything. After all, those who I have sent out have not yet returned, and there have been many.”

  This was what they were waiting for, but Katherine’s words made the Angel wonder how many other Chosen she had sent out to be tortured and killed. He felt a hand on his arm and he gazed down at Bridget. Fernando nodded. It was time.

  Allowing the Noble to open the double oak doors, the Angel stepped out of the way, wincing with the movement, to stand on Fernando’s left while Bridget stood on her Chosen’s right. Slowly, they walked down the red-carpeted isle that led to the Mistress sitting in her ornate throne on the stage. The stunned expression on her pale heart shaped face gradually metamorphosed into one of fear born fury.

  It was clear that she had not expected the Angel or the Noble to appear before her ever again and she closed her mouth with an audible click. Maurice’s glib smile was triumphant. He nodded a bow towards the newcomers and backed up towards the sides of the auditorium to join the other Chosen. Some now stood in shock, their seats forgotten, while others sat transfixed upon the show that was about to present itself.

  A cocktail of emotions exploded into the room nearly causing the Angel to stumble. It was so incredibly hard to keep their feelings down to a dull roar. The sound of his pounding headache was enough of a barrier to push the feelings back so he could catch himself before his leg could give out.

  It was painful to be around so many Chosen, but one thing was certain the Vampires outnumbered the Chosen present. It was the only logical assumption he could come up with for those ‘Chosen’ he could not feel. In fact they appeared to be illusionary because he could not sense their emotional presence. His jaw tightened in an effort to control his own rising panic. The odds of them surviving this confrontation were against them.

  They made it to the front and the Angel was grateful for Bridget and Fernando’s slow pace. It made his efforts to hide his limp easier. It was further evidence that they were going to keep his secret.

  Coming full circle to stand before Katherine, he stood with a Chosen he could now contemplate as a friend. Notus’ limp form still hanging on the t-bar behind her, the Angel shifted his stance to a less painful one. He met Katherine’s eyes before she darted them around the room as if seeking someone. Not finding who she was looking for, her gaze landed not on him, but rather, the Noble. It was to him that she addressed herself.

  “I find this quite a surprise, de Sagres.” Her purr trembled. Catching herself, she cleared her throat and continued. “Maurice did not say anything about you and I was under the impression that you and the Angel had fled to the continent.”

  Fernando bristled, but it was Bridget who replied. “The Noble Fernando de Sagres, last Heir to the Fidalgo de Sagres and the Angel did not flee, my Lady, but left to follow a lead. As you can see they have come back.”

  The Mistress sniffed a suppressed laugh, her graceful hand waved dismissingly. “Oh Bridget, you have always been good with words. It is such a shame that you are a whore. You could have made a delicious lawyer.”

  A trickle of laughter sped between the walls only to be quickly quenched.

  “I think I shall take that as a compliment, my Lady,” replied Bridget with a graceful incline of her head, her blue eyes never leaving the Mistress.

  Lazily, as if to cover up her discomfort, Katherine leaned back in her throne and crossed her supple legs. The black of her hair seemed to disappear against the dark of the wood. “So tell me what you have found out. I will then decide if it is enough to give you what I promised.”

  “And do you recall what you promised?” demanded Fernando. He ground his walking stick into the plush carpeting.

  Katherine laughed haughtily. “I am the Mistress of London. I rule the Vampires of the British Isles. I know what I promise and I know what I will deliver. Present your findings.”

  Repressing the disgust at her words, the Angel took a quiet breath in and let it out in an effort to stave off his own growing anxiety of what he was about to do. It was his turn and even Bridget and Fernando’s expectation of what was to be disclosed swelled the wave of the Chosens anticipation. Turning his back on Katherine, he addressed those attending the gathering. He knew without looking, which ones were Chosen and it was to these he let his gaze fall. He had never stood before the Chosen and spoken so openly. It went against centuries of experience and his nature to keep isolated. He steeled his voice and pitched it to carry.

  “The Noble Fernando de Sagres and I have followed the signs left by our predecessors of this fools quest. It has taken us to the bowels of a free kitchen here in London -”

  “Don’t address them,” yelled Katherine, clearly unnerved by the Angel’s dismissal of her. “Address me. I am Mistress.”

  The Angel halted his testimony to glance momentarily back at Katherine. His hard, threatening gaze silenced her as she sat back. Was she trembling?

  He returned his attention back to those that mattered. “What we found there shocked us. Four herbs, mixed together, create a spice that is being placed into mortal’s food. The spice itself is disgusting to our sense of smell, but titillates those of mortals. It accentuates the flavours of their food while at the same time it locks their energies into their blood and body. To us, it is like drinking from the dead.”

  Gasps of horror flitted through the room, mingled with a flurry of questions. The bombardment of their fear and their need to know swept away their words as he closed his eyes against the impact of their emotions. Gradually it subsided enough to let one Chosen speak up.

  “Who is doing this to us?” asked a dirty blonde haired woman, her hazel eyes filled with wonder and fear.

  “You get ahead of the story, Georgina,” replied the Noble. “Let the Angel finish.”

  “Your pardon, sir.” Georgina bowed her head solemnly.

  Clear to continue, the Angel took his cue from Fernando’s nod of encouragement. It was still strange to see that on the Noble, but then again it was he, not Fernando who was sticking his neck out at this moment.

  “Taking the shipping information from the barrelled herbs, Fernando was the one who discovered where they were coming from and who was sending them.”

  The Mistress gasped. “That shouldn’t have been possible.”

  Her barely whispered words tickled the Angel’s ears and he chose to ignore the strange statement. “We went to Calais, found the shipping house and managed to glean the information of who was actually in charge of the whole operation.” The nervous whispers, especially from the Vampires grew, forcing him to pitch his voice louder. “We went to Le Jardin, a mansion near Balinghem, and discovered the persons responsible.” The cacophony of emotion and words threatened to knock him to his knees. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and felt Bridget’s soothing han
d on his arm. He opened his eyes to see panic and chaos threatening to break loose. Carefully his chose his next words. “They did not live to see the dawn.”

  “How dare you,” spluttered Katherine, her beautiful face twisted in rage.

  “Who was it?” called out one Chosen.

  “Tell us,” demanded another.

  “Shut up! Shut up!” bellowed a Vampire. “He’s telling lies.”

  “The Angel does not lie,” roared Fernando.

  A quivering silence slammed into the room. The threat of violence was close.

  He scanned the room. No one was seated now, not even Katherine. It was time to disclose the truth and let loose a war that was in the making for a long time.

  “Those whose purpose is to eradicate the Chosen are Vampires.”

  Shocked laughter mixed with disgust murmured off the stone walls. It was Katherine’s mirth that rang the loudest. “Vampires? Vampires you say? We’re all Vampires here.”

  It was the opening he was expecting. Swivelling on his good leg, he positioned himself to face Katherine. “No we are not. The Chosen have been led to believe we are Vampires by Vampires in an effort to lead us into complacency. It is easy to affect genocide on a race of beings when they are unaware of an enemy who are set out to destroy them from the inside out. Subvert them, confound them, warp them with your cruel definitions and then destroy them. Take out the strongest one by one in a way that conceals the greater purpose - to destroy the Chosen so that the Vampires will rule, as they have ruled over the Chosen with our permission.”

  “That’s - that’s preposterous,” came Katherine’s weak reply.

  “Is it, Bastia?” hissed the Angel and enjoyed watching her eyes widen.

  “What did you call me?” Katherine could not hide her shock.

  “Bastia. It is your real name. Your little Flower told me much before she died.” He did not lie, but rather grossly truncated the truth to let the Vampiress believe the opposite had actually occurred.

  “Holy shit,” exclaimed Fernando. Comprehension blossomed on his face. The Angel had carefully edited the words, but the Noble knew enough of what happened to fill in the spaces. Violet had divulged everything to the Angel in the belief he would never be released from his torture. Fernando wondered what else the Angel had suffered at her hands to glean this information.

  Bridget’s widened eyes flitted between her Chosen and the Angel, wishing for someone to fill her in.

  The Angel refused to look at his friends. The wash of stunned sympathy from the Noble took him off guard. He directed his words to the Chosen in the theatre without releasing his gaze off of Bastia, the Vampire who styled herself Mistress of the Chosen of London. “Katherine is an alias, isn’t it, Bastia? A Vampire, you forcibly took over the Mastership of Britain from a good Chosen who was tired of being Master. It was the first step in your plan for genocide.”

  “B- But the Chosen are Vampires,” stammered Maurice.

  “Never say that,” snarled the Angel. He was shocked at his own vehemence and endeavoured to soften his tones. Even though his answer was to Maurice, his words were for Bastia/Katherine. “The Chosen are not the same as Vampires. We are as different from them as humans are to apes.”

  It was the final straw snapping Bastia’s resolve into blind fury. Screaming her rage at being discovered and thwarted, she all but flew herself at the Angel - the one who should have died in Violet’s clutches regardless of what Thanatos wanted. With nothing left but to deal with the exposure, she would be the one to finish what Violet had failed to do. Her actions sprung her Vampires into open battle against the stunned Chosen. No longer behind the veil of deception the Vampires were now at open war with the Chosen and she would be victorious.

  It was the last thing he expected as violence slammed into him the same instant that Bastia flew at him. He had a moment to register the pure hatred maligning her beauty before she was on him, falling upon him with a force that was too much for his slowly healing leg. Collapsing under her slight weight lights popped in his vision as he landed agonizingly on his back. He could hear her screams of frustration swirling in the midst of the battle beyond.

  It was a surprise when the long dagger flourished in her hand. Panic riveted him. He did not know how much more the effects of an iron weapon would create in him this time, but the idea of discovering it the hard way made bring up his left arm in an attempt to block the descending blade over and over as he strove with this right to find something to end this fight. Each time he felt his flesh part to the cauterizing blade, the greater the difficulty it was to keep the black spots from joining in his vision.

  The more he deflected her feeble attempts the greater her fury. He needed to get her off of him. He needed to get off his back, but his body did not seem to respond. Centuries of training and practice fell to nothing as he felt his back begin to tighten in prelude to another seizure. He knew if that happened she would kill him.

  The sound of Bastia’s throne shattering beside them was barely enough time for him to cover his face from the flying bits of wood. It was a moment’s reprieve as Bastia had done the same, but she quickly brought her attention back to the task of destroying the Angel. His forearm cut into ribbons, his left hand found what he hoped would work, if the stories about Vampires were true.

  Fear and the desperate need to end this fight made his fingers work. Grasping the shattered leg of what was once a beautiful piece of woodworking; he lifted it, turned the pointed end towards Bastia and drove it deep into her heart as she raised her arm in attempt to decapitate him.

  Shock was the first expression that widened her eyes as she gazed down at the long piece of oak sticking into her chest. The knife dropped to the ground beside him an instant before her body slid from his, convulsing in its death throes. It was what Jeanie had told him about Vampires. It was enough to kill the Mistress of London.

  Groaning in agony, he managed to push her off and roll over onto his knees. He tried to support himself on his hands but they were now useless, so he rested on his aching and burning forearms as he tried to catch his breath. The sounds of battle seemed distant but he could feel the Chosen’s rising concerns that the Vampires were winning.

  Crawling a little ways away from Bastia’s decaying body, he rested his forehead against the plush carpeting in the hopes that the room would cease to spin. There was no choice if the Chosen were to win. He worded the ancient spell of summoning.

  The mist rose steadily from the ground, unnoticed by those who still fought. When it was of a height with him he could see the thickening of the vapours until one of the demons flowed towards him.

  What is your bidding, Sire? Its words throbbed through his head. Its desires were as obvious as its gruesomeness.

  Without a thought the words came to him in the ancient language Auntie taught him when he was a boy. It was the same language They and the Ladies used. “Take the Vampires. Do not touch or harm the Chosen.”

  As you so order, Sire, so shall it be done. It flowed back into the rising fog.

  Surprise and panic gave way as the Chosen and Vampire realized what was ascending from the floor. Fernando swore, immediately recognizing the threat, and grabbed Bridget, hugging her in an effort to seem small against the rising demons. Soon the whole theatre was swirling with the thick white mist and what it held in its vapours.

  Mayhem commenced.

  Screams and shrieks of terror seemed far off through the mists. Those Vampires who managed to move seemed to stomp heavily in an effort to flee only to have their cries and footpads cut off. The sounds continued on for an insufferable amount of time as the swirling mists and its denizens continued to follow the orders of the Angel. When the last cry was uttered, the mists dissipated.

  Breathing heavily as if he had run for miles as a mortal, the Angel watched the dark spots in his field of vision connect until all was blackness.

  “Get up.” The words and the sense of urgency pounded between his ears, yanking him from the
grove and the delicious spring water it held.

  “Dammit Gwyn, get up!”

  The use of the name shocked him awake with a gasp and he realized he lay face down on the red carpet. He was so incredibly tired that all he wanted to do was lay there, close his eyes and slip back to the sacred grove.

  “Come on. Get up.”

  Rough hands grabbed at him, hauling him bodily to his feet. Swaying, he blinked down at Fernando’s dishevelled form. It was obvious that the Noble had taken a few cuts from some of the rips and slashes in his once expensive tuxedo. Bridget was beside him. Her long golden hair no longer sported the perfect style but rather gave testimony to the brawling and cat fighting she had done. Gone was her fox fur wrap and one of the shoulders of her dress was ripped. Beside the damage done to their clothing they appeared perfectly healthy. He doubted the same could be said for himself.

  “We managed to get Notus down, but he’s not waking,” said Bridget. Her eyes flickered over to where the old Chosen lay on the stage surrounded by a handful of Chosen in equal physical disarray.

  His heart lurched at the sight and he carefully hobbled to the stairs leading up to his Chooser. He accepted Bridget’s strong support as he winced with every step despite the fact that the surviving Chosen stared openly at him. It was clear that the questions of what the Angel truly was would spin around, spawning dangerous speculation. He wondered how many saw the blackened and bleeding knife wounds along his forearm.

  Once on the stage he was better able to survey the damage to the Chosen and the Vampires. Only a few decapitated bodies lay on the floor. They belonged to the Chosen. Nothing remained of the Vampires taken by the mists.

  In the middle of the red carpet the Vampire Mistress of the London lay sprawled and shrivelled with a large piece of wood sticking up out of her chest. He scowled at the corpse and shook his head at the incalculable damage she and her kind had wrought upon the Chosen. Turning his face from the scene, he brought his attention to Notus’ unconscious form.