Shadow of Death: Book Two of the Chosen Chronicles

by Karen Dales

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice rough.

  Bridget sighed and dropped her hand onto her lap. It was only then that he noticed she wore only a sheet wrapped around her petite form. He averted his gaze.

  “Oh, Gwyn.” Her hand was back, finding his and twined her fingers with his until they held each other firm. Bridget’s hand felt cool against his.

  The touch exacerbated the empathy between them and he failed in his attempt to disentangle them, her hand clenching hard in response to his attempt to pull away. He could feel her desire to comfort and console him, for her to drive away the nightmares that had plagued him since he found himself naked and wounded in Bridget’s bed over a century ago.

  “Bridget, please.” He pleaded, once again attempting to remove his hand from hers. This time he sent back through their connection his desire for her to back away. He did not want her to feel what he felt no matter how often she tried to help him.

  With a sigh, Bridget released their grip. “Notus said you were still having nightmares. He didn’t say how bad they were.”

  The statement surprised him. The fact that the three of them were talking about him behind his back rankled. He never wanted to be the centre of anyone’s attention, except that of Jeanie’s, but that would never ever happen again. He grimaced at the thought.

  Picking wounds he would not let heal; the Angel stood and strode to the other side of the living room in an attempt to find solitude. Bridget’s gaze lingered on him for a moment before she rose to her feet, a determined air surrounding her. He closed his eyes knowing what would be next. It was a dance they had done for decades. It was one of the reasons why he tried to stay away from his friends yet inextricably what pulled him closer.

  He sighed at the touch of her hand on his crossed arms, but he did not open his eyes. He could not bear to see the look on her beautiful face.

  “You can’t keep running, Gwyn.” Bridget gazed up at the Angel. His beautiful face was pinched with pain.

  It was an old argument and his shoulders slumped. “What do you want me to do?”

  “I, no, you, need to let go of Jeanie,” Bridget said softly. It was something she had tried to tell him before, but he would always run away, finding excuses to flee the conversation by the time it got to this point. This time she pulled no punches and went straight for the jugular. Her friend needed it whether he realized it or not. “You need to let go of your guilt. You need to move on with your life.”

  He gasped at the sudden attack, his eyes popping open to look down at his Mistress in horror. He could not – no, he would not – ever let Jeanie’s memory float to the past and nor would he ever forgive himself for getting her killed. His life had stopped that night; giving birth to an existence where he delved so deep into the Angel of Death that if Notus had not been with him he would have truly lost himself and his soul.

  He shook his head. “It’s not possible.”

  “Only because you don’t want to let go,” stated Bridget. She huffed her exasperation. Had anyone told her that the Angel could be like this she would never have allowed Fernando to let the Angel into her home that night so long ago.

  He frowned at her irritation. He was not expecting that and was immediately sorry.

  “Would you just stop that?” snapped Bridget. “No matter how I feel about how you’re acting I still care about you. Fernando still cares about you in his own bizarre way. Hell, Notus loves you and aches that he can do nothing to ease your soul.”

  The admission punched him hard in the gut forcing a grunt. Bridget’s battering against his carefully crafted walls forced him to turn away. He knew how they felt about them. How could he not? If not for the arduous process of learning to shield his new abilities he would know all the time. He did not need to be told. He also knew the secret emotions they held for him, not all of it nice. Awe. Jealousy. Lust. Fear. Only in regards to Notus was Bridget right. Oh sure the Master and Mistress of Britain cared about him, but those feelings were entangled with ones he had grown accustomed to through the ages with everyone he knew – except Jeanie.

  Sitting back down on the couch he raked his hands through his hair, pushing the long white locks from his face. Settling his hands to drape on his knees he caught Bridget’s fuming gaze with his own.

  The pain flowing from the Angel was tangible, but Bridget would not let it stop her from doing what needed to be done. The Angel had eradicated the Vampire threat in Europe after over a century of slaughter. It did not take a genius to figure out that he had used that quest as a distraction from healing the wounds of his heart. Now that the fighting was over he was affecting the Chosen around him with his melancholy no matter how infrequent he interacted with others of their kind. This time she would not let him run.

  “Did you know that Juliette agreed to be Chosen because she loves you?”

  The admission stunned him to the quick. He knew the girl cared about him, but she would always run from the room when he went over to the House. He also knew that her love was entangled with the myth that was the Angel. Juliette did not know him and he grimaced at the thought that she had agreed to be Chosen because of her puppy love. It was one he could not ever return. And thus the Angel causes more suffering, he thought.

  He did not realize he was shaking his head in denial until Bridget stood before him, her hand cupping his chin, halting the motion.

  Bridget did something very few could do; she gazed directly into the beautiful ruby eyes of the Angel and did not balk. She did not need to see the sadness there. His emotions rolled like thunder into her, through her touch, causing her to catch her breath. She immediately squashed it, but her heart ached to comfort him, as she always did when she saw him this way, in the only way she knew how. Leaning ever so slightly forward and down, Bridget captured the Angel’s lips with her own.

  He had felt her need to help him, but when her lips met his, the Angel’s eyes widened in surprise before closing at the passion she sent towards him. He had always found Bridget beautiful and kind hearted, but he never considered her in this way. They were friends, but her desire flowed into him and, surprisingly, he found himself responding.

  Her lips were soft, made for kissing, and he felt them part as she pressed firmer. It had been so long since he was kissed this way; to be desired and wanted for who he really was. Bridget’s tongue caressed his and he felt his arms go around her petite frame, the sheet falling from her body to leave her gloriously naked between his knees. Her cool white flesh pressed against him with only his cotton shirt and trousers between them. The thought made him harden, as did her tongue to trail down the side of his neck.

  He moaned as her tongue darted between succulent lips to play with his pale skin. He felt her hands roam down his chest and then the angle of the kiss changed. Bridget was now on her knees before him, fumbling with the button of his trousers. His breath caught as the pressure she applied in her attempt to undo the button brushed against him, causing his hardness to leap in anticipation.

  A part of him knew he should stop this, but her desire to consume him had breached a hole in his wall he did not know he still had. It was his need to be needed, loved and cared for that betrayed him. He found her mouth as she undid the button and began to work on the zipper. His hand enclosed around her small breast, the nipple hardening instantly as his thumb brushed against it.

  A flood of anger crashed down on him, slicing his head as if hit with a pickaxe. It was all he could do to remain vertical as he grabbed Bridget and set her back from him, ignoring her shocked expression. Pinching the bridge of his nose he could feel Fernando’s jealousy and hurt under the anger. It was then he realized what he had almost done.

  “Go,” he ordered Bridget as his guilt rose to meet Fernando’s feelings.

  Everything had been going so well. Better, in fact, as she had always wanted to bed the Angel, even from the first time she had met him in her parlour all those decades ago. She had felt his need and desire match hers. Confused at the sudden turn around
, she picked up the fallen sheet and hastily wrapped it around her. “What’s wrong?”

  His breath caught and he shook his head, sending white locks floating. “Fernando.”

  Realization dawned in Bridget’s blue eyes. Fernando was now closed to her since the end of the Vampire threat. It had been the agreement they had originally made so as to make sure each was safe or to offer help if needed, but it was clear that it was not only she who was distinctly aware of the Angel’s feelings.

  “Fernando won’t–” She began to explain that even through her relationship with the Noble, she still worked at her profession and he did not mind. It was her best way to feed herself. She did not understand why it would matter now.

  “He does,” stated the Angel, matter-of-factly. “And I…” His voice trailed off as he broke eye contact to stare at the floor beyond Bridget. Guilt tightened his throat. “I don’t want to hurt my friends. I’ve hurt enough people.”

  He came to his feet, causing Bridget to stumble back, and walked to the other side of the room, his back to her. “Go back to Fernando, Bridget. He loves you. I never want to be the cause of any harm between the two of you.”

  Bridget wanted to touch him, to let him know he could never do that to her, but she knew that the Angel was right about Fernando. She lowered the hand she had inadvertently outstretched towards the Angel and turned to go back up to the Angel’s bedroom where Fernando waited.

  She halted before she took the first step. “No matter what happens, Gwyn, we still love and care for you.”

  He pinched his eyes closed and hugged himself as he heard her ascend the stairs. A door opened and then closed, releasing a wash of relief that he matched with his own.

  Alone, he walked over to the window and opened the drape. True dawn had occurred hours ago, but pregnant clouds kept the world in darkness, leaving a thick blanket of beauty in its wake. Staring at the intricate patterns of frost on the window he took a deep shuddering breath as he contemplated what would happen when the clouds separated.

  Chapter VII

  Toronto, Canada – April 3rd

  “Well that went better than I expected.” Notus hoisted the brown leather valise to hang by its strap over his shoulder as he settled the matching suitcase onto the floor next to him. Pressing the button, he extended the hidden handle that allowed for the case to easily be guided along the ground. The weight of the luggage would be of no hindrance to the ancient immortal but even Chosen had only two hands.

  The Angel watched the metallic conveyor belt slowly move luggage around the baggage collection as more decorative and drab suitcases slid down the chute to land unceremoniously next to the ones waiting for someone to claim them. He already had his suitcase but he was still waiting for the most precious item he possessed – Geraint’s sword. Nervous butterflies flitted in his stomach at the thought that the airline had lost it.

  No matter Notus’ excitement of their first transatlantic flight, it was one the Angel was not looking forward to repeating, even if it would take him home. In some ways he would rather spend a couple months on a ship. There at least the sensations would remain the same. But no, that was not the case with flying. Over land he was fine and thrilled at the sights of city lights beneath him lighting up the earth more spectacularly than all the stars in the sky. Witnessing clouds floating nonchalantly beside and below excited him. It had been so incredibly long since he had such a new experience move him. It was when the plane abruptly left land to fly over water that everything plummeted downwards to misery.

  It was not long after takeoff from Heathrow that the bottom fell out of his stomach, sending his head spinning. When he thought he was going to pass out the sensations abruptly ceased. At first he and Notus thought he was growing accustomed to flight when, without warning, he passed out. It was only when they flew over Greenland that he woke, feeling fine, realizing that his sudden reaction was due to the fact that they had left Ireland for the deep waters of the Atlantic.

  Watching the digital image of the plane inch forward on the GPS monitor hanging from the ceiling of the plane, his fingers made dents into his armrest. A groan escaped him as he passed out again. The last image was of the plane once again heading for open water.

  That had not been the worst. It was when they reached Canada that the torment truly began. Who would have thought that land could hold so many bodies of water? It had given the Angel a deep appreciation of what it would be like to ride a roller coaster for hours at a time. Never was there a body of water they flew over that was big enough or deep enough to cause him to pass out, but there was enough to keep his stomach roiling and his head spinning.

  It was only when they landed at Toronto Pearson International Airport did he finally breathe a sigh of relief. Their steward was happy to see his flight sick attendee pull himself off the plane. Notus’ face, pinched with worry, had eased into a grateful smile. Never before had the Angel wanted to kiss the ground when they exited the plane for the boarding ramp.

  His eyes widened as the long black case slid down to join the increasingly empty baggage conveyor. He stepped around a couple of backpackers as they hoisted their burdens, and ignoring their gasps at his sudden appearance he grabbed the strap of his case. It swung high, narrowly missing the girl before he settled it on his shoulder.

  Her mouth dropped in indignation, ready to rip a strip off of him, but then she noticed his height and his looks and closed her jaw with a click. Barking an order at her male travelling partner they turned to leave.

  The Angel sighed before a small smile lifted his lips. He knew he was an intimidating sight dressed in black jeans and his favourite motorcycle boots. The white dress shirt open at the top to show the white t-shirt underneath was innocuous enough, but add that to the black leather vest and leather vambraces that covered his hands in an imitation to the braces he usually wore, he knew that he appeared menacing. He was also grateful for the dark wraparound sunglasses he wore. Had they seen his true eye colour the situation could have been worse.

  Returning to Notus he shrugged nonchalantly as his Chooser just shook his head with a smile. He too wore dark sunglasses. They both needed them in this overly lit place. Having shucked off the trappings of a cloistered monk, Notus wore dark beige cargo pants and a blue and white striped dress shirt. He also wore his most comfortable shoes – a pair of brown loafers that had seen better days. Modern times meant it was difficult for Notus to continue as a Priest when such things could be easily checked upon.

  Turning from the conveyor belt and the people still waiting to retrieve their personal belongings two Chosen headed towards the exit’s sliding doors all the while ignoring the stares and comments from mortals around them. No matter where they went the Angel always attracted undue attention.

  The Chosen had come to Canada.

  Dr. Elizabeth Bowen stood nervously outside the exit for the international flights in Terminal 1 of Toronto Pearson International Airport, waiting for the man renowned for medieval religious art history and restoration to meet her for the first time. Soft light fell from fluorescents anchored in the ceiling two stories above. The open concept of the airport, with its art deco designs of spirals hanging from the same ceiling set a welcoming tone. People, even at this late hour, went from one destination to the next ignoring her as she stood in front of the cafe offering late night java to those who still had further legs of their journey.

  Taking a last sip of tea from the brown paper cup, she walked over to the recycling bin and tossed it out, all the while keeping her eyes on the large sliding frosted doors that would open for each traveller as they entered Canada. When she was informed that Dr. Preston had an accident, making it impossible for him to join the collection Elizabeth was heartbroken. After all their emails and telephone conversations Elizabeth felt sure that they would work well together and to throw a new person into the mix this late in the arrangements would only make things worse. It was when she heard that Paul Nathaniel would be accompanying the collectio
n that all her worries fled. She had heard of Mr. Nathaniel and seen his astounding works on the reproduction and restorations of ancient manuscripts and paintings. When the British Museum informed her that it was he who was taking Dr. Preston’s place with the project Elizabeth did not know whether to jump for joy or become nervously giddy like a teen expecting a celebrity to visit.

  Glancing at her watch she stifled a yawn. It was late. Mr. Nathaniel’s flight landed fourty-five minutes ago and she was wondering what was taking so long. Normally she was tucked in her bed, fast asleep at one in the morning, not cavorting around the Greater Toronto Area. She contemplated calling home to see if her daughter, Vivianne, was fine, but dismissed the idea. She did not want to wake her sixteen year old, if in fact the girl was in bed and not watching horror movies.

  The sound of the sliding doors snapped her attention back to excitement, but at the sight of two backpackers walking out and down the left ramp Elizabeth’s shoulders slumped. She was starting to wonder if he had made the flight.

  The doors opened again, admitting two men walking side by side. They were as different as night to day in their appearance. The older gentleman, who appeared to be about her age, had a relaxed and peaceful air about him. His dark brown hair was peppered with silver and pulled back into a short tail, and his smile softened his smooth features. Handsome in a classical way Elizabeth had to note that he was short, probably not standing more than five and a half feet, but up against his partner he appeared tiny.

  Her eyes widened at the man’s travelling partner. She had never seen anyone like him before. Tall, even taller than her own five foot ten, she was sure that he was at least a head taller than her, but it was not just his height that pulled her attention, it was his perfectly beautiful pale face and his long white hair, also pulled back into a tail. If she had been up on her runway models Elizabeth would probably recognize the man, as it was, even with the sunglasses and his obvious youth, he was the most beautiful man she had ever seen.