Shadow of Death: Book Two of the Chosen Chronicles

by Karen Dales

  “No. No. No,” Notus shook his head, brushed past Bridget and began to pace. “I won’t allow it.”

  “It’s not for you to decide,” replied the Master, succinctly, bringing Notus to a halt.

  He could not believe what they were asking of his boy. “You’re asking him to place his neck on the chopping block for you.”

  “Not for me.” Fernando frowned, huffing his exasperation. “For the Chosen.”

  “You want him to die.” Notus’ eyes widened further.

  “Never that.” Bridget came to her Chosen’s rescue. “Paul, the Angel can do things we can’t.” She placed her hand on the monk’s rough spun woollen robe. “We need his help.”

  “Let him decide for himself.” Fernando stood, the chair grinding into ancient floorboards. “If he chooses to stay in seclusion, hiding from the world and his responsibilities, then we will leave, but it will be on his head if this war against the Vampires sours terribly and all that remains of the Chosen is left in this cottage.”

  “We are already at a great disadvantage,” continued Bridget. “Though we have halted some of the supply of the spice, it is still being imported across Europe. Chosen are still dying. In some areas there already has been open fighting between Vampires and Chosen, with us losing badly because of their infiltration into our societies.”

  “The Angel and I only took out the head of the snake,” said Fernando. “The rest is still thrashing. We need to kill the rest before more heads grow.”

  Hating the truth of their words, Notus slumped onto the couch and rubbed his face before glancing at Bridget and Fernando in turn. He did not know what his boy could do, but they believed he could help save the Chosen. Maybe it was true. Maybe not. It was the boy’s decision. He nodded his head. “You may ask him.”

  Smiling sadly at the defeat written over Notus’ visage, Bridget asked, “Where is he?”

  “He’s out back.” Notus stared at the flickering fireplace. “He’s training.”

  Confused and intrigued, Fernando walked over to the window and looked out upon a winter wonderland and gasped.

  The snow landed upon the Angel’s bare shoulders as he stood with closed eyes facing the waterfall. Each clump of snow was noted as it touched his silver striped skin. The ice crystals did not hold its integrity for long. His slight body heat was enough to destroy the perfect little stars, forming them into trickles of water that ran down his back, chest and arms. The snow that touched his hair merged and disappeared into the white silk of the strands. If they melted, he took no note.

  Standing statuesque, he slowly inhaled the cold night air, feeling the freshness fill his lungs before he exhaled a gradual cloud warmed by his body. Again and again he did this, taking in the night and releasing it as the sound of the waterfall rushed over him.

  Clad only in black trousers, he felt the cold of the snow under his bare feet and the smooth wood grain of the naginata in his grip. The muscles in his wrists jumped at the painful position and he quelled it with another breath. Standing posed, ready to strike, was excruciating to his healing body, but the physical pain of practice was easier to endure than the tight band forged around his heart.

  He could not stay in their cabin doing nothing while his Chooser dealt with his grief through artistry. The image Notus rendered from paint and brush was too painful a memory of what he had lost, and so he would come outside with bokken or naginata in hand, to force his healing body into exercises that over four months ago would have been child’s play. Now, just holding the naginata his muscles trembled, threatening his body into a seizure that came only when he pushed himself too far.

  Notus had begged for him to take it easy, to let the ravages of Violet’s torture with knife and steel scourge slowly mend, but he could not allow himself the luxury of contemplative penance for failing Jeanie so completely. Instead, each night, he would come out and force his damaged body into relearning what torture had taken away from it. At first holding a weapon was impossible. His hands and fingers convulsed with the simple exertion. In the early days, even that would lead him into paroxysms of pain that would send Notus running to his aid as his body betrayed him with pain-racked spasms. Notus would help him, bringing him in from the cold, to force him to sit before the fire and let its warmth relax muscles twitching in expectation for more agony.

  Tonight he held the naginata, all seventy-six inches of it, and his muscles relaxed beneath his measuring breath. Taking the risk, he raised the bladed staff into a defensive block. Holding it there, he panted with exhilaration and opened his eyes.

  The mist on the waters danced like fireflies, flitting around or blinking out as the snow gently descended. The muscles in his left hand twitched, threatening to release the weapon but he stilled it with an exhalation. Closing his eyes once more, he willed his shoulders to relax and decided it was worth the risk.

  Slowly pivoting on his left foot, he began the kata. His muscles twitched at the movements, his fingers and wrists promising the naginata’s release, but he continued the flow, ever mindful of his breathing. He turned and spun, striking an imaginary foe before parrying and blocking. Each movement tortured his left leg and at one point he had to hop to his right, abruptly taking the pressure off that damaged limb lest it crumble beneath him. Hissing, he halted, the bright twenty-one inch blade on the end of the fifty-five inch handle gleamed above his head, holding the naginata straight up.

  A few more regulated breaths quelled the tremors and allowed him to explode into action. This time he did not hold back. He led the deadly dance with the weapon, knowing he would pay dearly for this exertion. He did not care as he flowed from one move to the next, knowing the fluid grace that would normally be present was not evident to his tutored eye. Still he spun and moved each strike, each block, issuing from him an eruptive breath that rang off the cliff face.

  Taken by the trance of the kata, he did not note the sense of awe that flowed towards him until the practice dance was ended and he held the naginata end down in the snow, the blade sparkling in level with his shoulder. Chest heaving in an effort to put down the tiny spasms trying to collate into a paroxysm, he turned to face Bridget and Fernando staring at him through the window.

  He met their surprise with irritation and watched Bridget pull Fernando away from the window. Unable to fathom how they found him, he swept his long stray hairs from his face and sighed. He could feel their need pulsating towards him, beckoning him and he resented, again, this new ability to sense what other Chosen felt and for them to do the same with him. It presented an incredible lack of privacy and it was yet another reason for their retreat from London. No matter how much Bridget worried over him or Fernando’s irritation peaked, seeing his own pain reflected back at him in their faces was unfair to them. His mourning was his own, shared only with his Chooser because they had both loved Jeanie in their own ways.

  Resigned that the Master and Mistress of Britain had discovered him, he knew no other recourse and went to meet them, feeling their need to talk with him.

  The snow crunched under his bare feet as he walked around the cottage to the front door, using the naginata as a walking staff. His leg throbbed as he limped, protesting the abuse he had caused it. Thankful for the tight wrappings around his forearms and wrists, he managed to hold the shaft of the naginata, but his fingers twitched in rebellion for their misuse.

  He opened the weather worn door, and ignoring Fernando’s annoyed expression and Bridget’s smile, he met Notus’ eyes before giving him the weapon.

  Why are they here? he silently queried his Chooser.

  They want you to come back to London to stand before a Grand Council of many of the Mistresses and Masters of Europe, replied Notus. The monk took the naginata, the blade shimmering above his head, and placed it against the wall. Before his son could ask the next obvious question, he replied in the manner that all Choosers and Chosen benefit from. They do not mean to see to your Destruction.

  The idea of a Grand Council terrifie
d him, but he still could not expect reassurances that he would not be taken captive, dismembered and left for the sun. He tried to repress a shudder and failed.

  “No,” he whispered without turning to face the Master and Mistress. Good intentions or not, he refused to go back to London. He stared at the fire, ignoring Bridget’s warning gasp or the flicker of anger the surged through the Noble.

  “No?” replied the Master. “No? I don’t think so.” Fernando grabbed the Angels scarred arm and turned the tall pale Chosen to face him and nearly caught his breath at the fury behind the garnet gaze. “Do you know what’s happening out there? Do you even care?”

  Fernando did not smile at the Angel’s grimace.

  “Leave off, Fernando,” interrupted Bridget. Her blue eyes gazed up at the Angel. “It’s clear that he does not.”

  Bridget’s harsh tones and hurt feelings discomfited him and he looked away. It was Notus who came to his rescue. “Leave him alone. Hasn’t he suffered enough?”

  It was the wrong question. Fernando’s anger flared. “He’s not the only one who has suffered,” stated the Noble, his sun kissed skin still bronze from his escape from Le Jardin. “Chosen are dying while he hides here, licking his wounds.”

  The venom in the words stabbed at him, but he could not deny the truth of the Noble’s words. Turning back to face the Mistress and Master, he did not endeavour to hide the pain their emotions caused him. “What would you have me do?”

  The three Chosen gasped at the misery he projected and he turned away to stare back into the flames. It was proof enough of why he could not be around other Chosen. His wounds still bled, infecting others.

  He felt a tremulous hand alight on his bandaged wrist and he felt the pity flow from Bridget and hated it. She snapped her hand back.

  “We need you,” she pressed. “The other Masters and Mistresses need someone to guide them in this war.” He shook his head in denial that it could possibly be he. “We don’t know who is or isn’t Chosen. They have so befuddled us that we’re probably killing our own as well as the Vampires.”

  He groaned. Turning around, he sat on the worn couch, his leg throbbing in relief, and buried his face in his hands. He knew their need. He could almost taste their desperation. The Vampires had effectively confounded the Chosen from within, causing distrust as to who is or is not Chosen so as to affect their genocide. Fernando was right. No matter all else, Fernando was right. But could he accept that? He looked up at the three Chosen, his eyes falling upon Fernando’s deep brown. “This Grand Council, who does that entail?”

  Fernando told him the names, leaving Hugo’s for last, and he groaned. Hugo, no doubt, would demand that Fernando and Bridget put him to death. There was no love lost between the new Master of France and the Angel, having had the Angel defeat him in battle and then being kicked off the rooftop. No. Hugo would demand his Destruction.

  Dropping his gaze back to the gloaming hearth, he shook his head. “No.”

  This time he expected the rush of anger directed at him and he closed his eyes in regret, wincing at Fernando’s rant. “You care more for your own blessed secrets than to help those who hold those secrets?”

  Implication’s dart hit true and his head shot up, eyes wide in disbelief of what Fernando was threatening. But it was the Master of Britain who spoke them, glaring down his disgust. It was Fernando and Bridget’s call whether or not he would be Destroyed for his differences. Some part did not believe it, but then again he had never imagined another Chosen, besides Notus, would keep his deadly secrets.

  As Chosen, they had left him a choice: to be Destroyed by their command or to stand before the Master and Mistresses of almost a dozen countries and proclaim his differences so as to possibly help fight this war against the Vampires. He very much doubted that any of the others would grant him clemency, but what choice did he really have? He glanced over to Notus and a wave of despondency overwhelmed him and he knew that the monk could not save him. Notus’ head bowed under the belief that his only son would be Destroyed before his eyes.

  “I will go,” he acquiesced. Refusing to meet Bridget’s relieved smile and Fernando’s smirk of victory, he stood with great difficulty. “I will go and stand before them. I will do all of what is asked of me so long as Notus remains shriven of responsibility for my differences.” Notus’ raised his gaze to meet his son’s, surprise written over his features. “But understand this; I will purge this Vampire threat for you, but they will not see the Angel standing in their midst. They will only see a shadow.”

  Chapter I

  London, England - Christmas

  Sitting at the medieval style kitchen table, he held the thick pencil meant for a five year old and began writing on the lined sheet of paper. He had not intended to stay as long as he had, but Gerry and Donna’s insistence, coupled with their children’s enthusiasm, made it impossible to leave at sunset. Carefully making each stroke of the pencil, the words of gratitude began to take form. After over a century, writing was still one of the greatest difficulties he had to overcome. Thankfully, Rory’s school pencil was laying on the coffee table in the living room.

  Concentrating on forming the words, he only heard Gerry’s approach when the mortal descended from the stairs. He looked up at his friend and noted the tired circles and dishevelled dark hair. The lights from the Christmas decorations and tree were illumination enough, casting the open home in a cheery light, giving Gerry just enough to see where he was going.

  Wooden chair sliding against the tiled floor, he stood at his friend’s approach, letter forgotten. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I did not mean to wake you.”

  Gerry covered his yawn with the back of his hand and waved dismissively with the other before walking to the kitchen counter to pour himself a stale cup of coffee. He pulled out a second mug and lifted it in offering.

  Recognizing the offer, he smiled, shook his head and sat. It was nice to be himself with Gerry and his family. He had forgotten what that was like. Amongst the Chosen he was on guard, defending his emotions from leaking to others or shielding against them. Here, with Gerry, he could relax. It had been so long since he opened up like this to a mortal, despite Gerry not knowing his true nature.

  He had met Gerry six years ago, several years after returning to London. It was Bridget’s insistence that he find something to do. Since he could not properly use his sword because it was not light enough for his damaged wrists to manage, he knew she was right. Geraint’s sword was relegated to being a wall decoration while he honed his skills with lighter eastern weapons. It was in search of a smith to fix some of time’s damage to Geraint’s sword that he met Gerry.

  He had liked Gerry instantly and it was the man’s curiosity as well as his enthusiasm that suggested that the ways of the forge might be of interest. It had been centuries since he had taken up learning anything new and Gerry’s authentic friendliness and willingness was enough. He became Gerry’s apprentice and friend, ever keeping his Chosen nature away from the mortal. It was enough that his appearance marked him different, he would not bring a mortal into the world of the Chosen ever again. He would not risk it.

  Gerry sat down across from him and sipped the bitter liquid that steamed before his face. “You’re heading out already?” His grey eyes landed on the long wooden box bisecting the oblong table.

  Both knew that his Masters’ piece was in there. He opened up the metal latches with two successive clicks and lifted the lid. “I was supposed to be home this morning.”

  “May I?” asked Gerry. Placing his mug down, he picked up the hilt of the sword; its silver pommel and guard plain against the ebony grip. Four feet of finely honed steel flashed red in the gleaming decorations as Gerry lifted it to his face and whistled. “She’s a beaut and the balance is perfect. You did a brilliant job. I don’t think I could have done any better,” he offered, placing the sword back into the case.

  Embarrassed by the praise, he closed the lid, locking it into place.

&
nbsp; “So,” continued Gerry, renewing his interest in the contents of his mug. “Are you going to come by before you and Paul head across the Pond, or is Donna going to have to drag you back by your ear for one last visit?”

  The image of Donna doing so lit a grin to his face and he shook his head, sending long white locks swinging. “I will come by for a visit.”

  “Before the kids go to bed,” interjected Gerry, matching his smile.

  Standing, he lifted the box as he turned towards the front door. “I promise.”

  Gerry followed him, mug in hand, and handed the leather coat from the coat rack to him. “Rory and Jenna will miss your stories.”

  Slipping into the coat, careful not to get the black braces on his wrists stuck in the sleeves, he shrugged into its weight. A century ago he would not have endured the pressure against his back for even a minute. It is said that time heals all wounds. That was mostly right.

  “I will miss them too.” He had not expected to fall in love with Rory and Jenna, but their childish wonder and acceptance drew him into their trusting world. For the short hour between his arrivals to their bed time he had unwittingly became part of their night time routine and thus their lives. He had never been called Uncle before and knew he would miss it when he left. “I will send letters.”

  Gerry lifted the long wooden box by its leather strap and handed it to him. “We’d all love to hear them.”

  Slinging it over a shoulder, the sword case settled against his back and he smiled. “Thank you for everything, Gerry.”

  Dismissing the appreciation with another wave of his hand, Gerry blew through his pursed lips and shook his head. “Thank you. It’s been a long time since I had such a talented or enthusiastic apprentice. And since I still have to be Santa Claus and get the rest of the presents from the back of the closet before the kids wake, I suggest you’d get going.”