Shadow of Death: Book Two of the Chosen Chronicles

by Karen Dales

  Corbie had fled Europe, taking her, Brian and a few of his coterie to the New World, settling in Canada’s largest city whose inhabitants were ripe for the picking. He had hated his craven retreat, but word spread quickly amongst his kind and no matter where he ran the Angel followed. Each battle line he created, the creature decimated until nothing was left, not even bones. Even when Corbie ordered his coteries and their coteries to use their mortal slaves as a first line assault, it did not deter the Chosen. City after city, country by country, until backed against the Atlantic with nowhere else to go, Corbie had ordered her into the wooden freight and locked her in, doing so with each of his treasured first coterie until he was left. It was he who brought them to the New World, setting the Vampires free to be themselves without the threat of the Angel and his Chosen to descend upon them.

  She did not know the reasons behind the war or why they lost, only that the vile Chosen had discovered that they were not the real Vampires and took out their vengeance upon them. The young ones, born during the war and after knew one thing only – all Chosen must die. It was the precious few who made it to the Americas that held the secret of how it all started and no one was going to say anything to her.

  The line in the sand was made in the depths of the Atlantic and that was good enough for her.

  Through a hidden door at the back of the nightclub that led to a back door exit, Brian paused long enough on the landing for the door to close and then led her down a stairwell painted in black. Black floodlights illuminated their pale flesh and the faint outlines of the rickety old steps leading to the basement. She always hated the sudden reduction of sound and the boom of the solid steel door as it vibrated through her causing a pressure in her ears that quickly disappeared. Her thigh high black stiletto boots clicked against the wood while Brian’s black dress shoes whispered.

  She knew better than to ask Brian why she was being summoned by the Lord of Valraven who was now known as Mr. Vale, owner of the Vampire sex club Beyond the Veil. Brian would ignore her as he always did unless he was ordered to involve himself with her, and then the condemnation and disgust written on his face was always evident. She wondered why Corbie kept him around.

  It did not take long to find themselves at another solid steel door with a punch code security device beside the wall. She knew the combination but let Brian do the honours. The lock gave way with a clunk and Brian pulled it open, standing aside to let her enter. Beaming a smug smile up at Brian’s stoic countenance, she walked past him and entered another world.

  Where the club was dark with splashes of electric light, the lobby was filled with gold reflecting candlelight. Honey sweetened the air, hiding any taint that may have splashed upon the red laminate floor. A gold chandelier and sconces glittered in the brilliance with the assistance of melting beeswax. The walls were decorated with mirrors and paintings, many of them gruesome, depicting horrific images of the human psyche.

  She smiled as she passed Saturn Devouring His Son by Goya. Ah now there was a man who could paint to warm the cold heart of a Vampire.

  It was the door to the left of the painting that she headed towards. She did not need Brian to tell her where to find her Father and Dominus. Opening the dark stained wood, she moved from the past into the future. Here white walls, floors and ceiling made a stark contrast to the previous room. The silvers of steel bordered and delineated the white wood desk. On a white leather chair, Corbie sat, his feet crossed, on the desk next to the white keyboard that sat beside the matching computer monitor. He did not see her as he held the newspaper out in front of him, reading.

  She walked to stand before him, ignoring the two matching steel chairs with white cushions that were placed equidistant from one another. Behind Corbie, an array of twelve monitors lined the wall, each one flickering from scene to scene of the goings on of his nightclub.

  “Go wash your hands,” ordered the Dominus of Vampires. He turned another page, refusing to look at her.

  The door closed behind with a gentle click and Brian came to stand beside the desk, hands behind his back.

  Confusion twisted her features at the strange request and she looked down at her hands. Strong, yet delicate fingers, nails painted crimson, appeared fine until she noticed her other hand. Sucking in her breath at the sight of Terry’s release still on her hand, she turned and all but ran to the bar nestled into the wall opposite to Corbie’s desk. Thankful for the white porcelain basin decorated with steel fixtures, she ran the hot water, scrubbing her hands until they turned slightly rosy.

  Shaking her hands, she turned off the faucet and returned to stand before Corbie, her hands running through her hair to tame some of the curls. “I doubt that you called me here just to have me wash my hands.”

  With a flip of the paper, Corbie folded it. Removing his feet from the pristine desk, he sat straight and laid the newsprint down where his feet had recently rested. His dark eyes came to land on her, a slight smirk pulling the corner of his thin lips.

  Rose sucked in her breath. She did not find her lord and master attractive, but he cut a nice figure in his grey turtleneck sweater and black slacks. His usually unruly black hair was styled back making his Roman features more severe. She hated it when he made her wait upon his pleasure.

  “You know I wouldn’t call you from your enjoyment without good reason,” stated Corbie. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the paper, his eyes penetrating her.

  Resisting a shiver, she shook her head and glanced away, hitching a shoulder with her arms crossed. She knew that at this he was truthful. After all she was his little flower. He had done everything necessary so she could have her own playground. The only thing he would not allow her, the thing that wedged a gap between them, was that he held back his permission for her to form her own coterie. That meant until he did Terry would always be her slave and not her servant, just as she was Corbie’s.

  “Come here, Rose. I wish to show you something.”

  The order hardened his voice and brought out an accent she rarely heard and could not place. The commanding tone lent no question of his authority over her, over Brian, and over all other Vampires. It is what forced her to take a shuddering breath, drop her arms and meet his liquid brown eyes. She wondered at the origins of the man who was her father and what he had been before his own Vampiric birth. She would never ask. It was likely he did not remember, just as she could not recall who she might have been before waking in the oppressive womb of her coffin and clawing struggling through the earthen birth canal to the cold night and hot blood. The only hint she had to her own past was her fading Scottish lilt.

  Taking the few steps towards the desk, Corbie leaned back, turning the newspaper around for her inspection. Her eyes landed upon the half page photo, her cinnamon brows furrowing.

  “I don’t think this is a good idea,” muttered Brian.

  Corbie shot the Vampire a look to kill before returning to study his little flower.

  Rose found the photograph pulling at her, tightening a knot in her belly. The image was of three individuals. The tall woman, dressed in what Rose would call corporate Goth, was smiling as she stood before a table with a sword lying propped up in its wooden case. It was the short man beside the glamorous lady that tugged at her, but it was the very tall young man that stood statuesque behind the shorter gentleman that stripped the breath from her body and nearly doubled her up in heart wrenching pain. She had never seen anyone so beautiful. Even Terry’s beauty paled against this man. In that instant Rose knew she had to have him.

  “Who is he?” She glanced up, fevered eyes meeting ones cold as the grave.

  A growl emanated from Brian and it snapped her attention to the normally emotionless man. She wondered what could draw such a vehement reaction.

  “Do you recognize anyone in the photo?” Corbie’s insistent voice drew her back to the photo.

  A part of her wanted to cry out that she knew them but it was impossible. She had never seen them before. She rea
d the bi-line. “Dr. Elizabeth Bowen, curator at the ROM, and visiting Art Director on loan from the British Museum, Mr. Paul Nathaniel, presents new discoveries that will be on display at the Medieval Arts of Britain and Europe Exhibit set to open at the end of the month at the Royal Ontario Museum.”

  There was no mention of the man standing in the back. She shook her fiery mane. “I ken none of them.”

  The sudden thickening of her accent shocked her and widened Corbie’s eyes.

  “I told you it was a bad idea.” Brian’s smug tones tore their gazes to Corbie’s second.

  “I didn’t ask for your opinion, Mr. Haskell.” Corbie’s voice darkened with the threat of violence.

  “No, you didn’t, but you should have.” The blonde Vampire uncrossed his arms and came to stand beside his Dominus. Placing his large hands on the white melamine desk he leaned down to match Corbie’s glare. “Having the Chosen come to our shores is one thing. Having the Angel and his sire publicly declare themselves is another matter.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” spat Corbie, leaning back in his white leather chair. “This is the perfect opportunity to take my revenge.”

  “Don’t you mean ‘our revenge’? We both lost many friends.”

  “Fine. Our revenge.”

  Brian stood straight. “What do you have in mind?”

  Corbie’s dark gaze fell once more on Rose, a malicious smile forming his lips. “The Angel and his sire are outnumbered and are in our territory – a territory they have no knowledge of. We are going to hit him where it hurts.”

  “Lady Bastia tried that and look where it got us,” stated Brian, matter-of-factly.

  Corbie ignored him, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth belied the control over the fury that was bubbling forth. Rose knew that if Brian did not halt his nit picking he would be staked out on the roof to await the sun, no matter the history between the two Vampires.

  “And for that and countless other reasons I want the Angel on his knees, before me, begging for his life as Rose slaughters him.”

  “What?” exclaimed Rose and Brian in unison.

  “It begins with the Angel’s sword.” Corbie tapped the photo, drawing their attention to it again.

  Rose’s eyes did not fall on the blade indicated, but to the one that could only be the Angel. She had wanted to possess him. But if he was truly the one that had decimated her kind in Europe and forced the Vampires to flee, then Corbie was offering her an honour undreamt of.

  A frown pulled her full lips. There had to be a catch. “What do I get out of it?”

  Corbie’s smile blossomed. “Your dream come true, my little flower.”

  “You don’t mean…?” Hope widened her eyes.

  “You will have my blessing to spread your seeds and start your own garden,” nodded Corbie.

  The shout of joy ripped from her throat as she launched around the desk to hug her father.

  “I’ll do it. I’ll make the Angel bleed and wish he was never Chosen,” she whispered into Corbie’s ear, hugging him tight.

  Chapter XI

  Steam billowed, fogging the glass doors of the shower stall and every other surface in the chrome and black tiled master bathroom. He stood there, under the large showerhead that hung from the ceiling, as hot water pelted down on him. The jets that sprayed from the corners of the stall pounded his body, to mingle with the rains from above before swirling down the drain set between his feet. Tilting his head, the flush of heat washed over his face before he bent his head forward to let the water beat down on his neck and shoulders, his long white hair hanging heavy and lank under the barrage. If he opened his eyes he would still be in darkness but it would not be as complete. After an hour of Tai Chi and then another in seated meditation the shower was pure luxury and added to his relaxed sense of being.

  Streams of heat flowed over him, merging with others to form giant rivers only to break apart into waterfalls cascading from his body. Many things had changed in the short time of human progress but this was pure heaven. He thanked the Gods for modern conveniences. When he and Notus returned to London he was insisting on installing one of these magical stalls in their home.

  His hand found the controller and pressed another button, changing the steady streams into rhythmic pounding. The heated water massage forced a sigh and he wondered how much more relaxed he could possibly become.

  Three weeks had passed since their arrival and he still could not believe he had agreed to let Dr. Bowen have his sword for the exhibit. The first few days after the dreaded meeting with the press had left him unable to sleep. He hated to admit it, but having the sword around was a comfort blanket, making him feel secure in his ability to defend himself no matter what may come. Now it was gone, or to be precise, on loan, and he missed its presence and what it represented.

  Notus said that he could have it back whenever he wished it, but he had given his word. It would stay with the exhibit while they were in Toronto. When it was time to return home, or Gods forbid, they were forced to continue onto the next city for the exhibit’s tour, then the sword would return to him.

  In the meantime, he had managed to dodge Dr. Bowen’s prying questions about Geraint’s sword. After the night of the press conference and the car ride with her there and back, she had learned that grilling him for information was just burning her. In the end she apologized and insisted that he call her Elizabeth, just like Notus did. He refused. He preferred not to be around when she was, but this was not always the case.

  Since Notus worked nights, Elizabeth shifted her work schedule a couple of days a week so that their hours overlapped. It meant that when he drove Notus to work on the motorcycle he had delivered four days after their arrival; she was there, getting ready for home. Sometimes she stayed a little longer to work with Notus or to stay and chat.

  He tried to ignore her and leave, but she was Notus’ colleague and that meant she was also the monk’s friend. It even got to the point where on the evenings Elizabeth stayed late Notus insisted on stopping off to pick her up a coffee or some other such beverage. It also meant that for the first couple failed attempts, Notus had to figure out the best way to carry a hot beverage while being a passenger on a very expensive and very fast motorcycle. Those were the evenings where the Angel spent the rest of the night cleaning the spilled drink off the bike and then off him. Notus somehow never got spilled on.

  Once the monk had perfected the skill of carrying a beverage with one hand and holding on with the other, Elizabeth was always thrilled with her evening treats and her partner’s consideration. The way the two talked made the Angel wonder if something more would come from their working relationship, but quickly dismissed it. No matter the times, Notus would always be a monk, even if it was at heart and not in practice. In any case, Elizabeth’s eyes always would alight onto him and follow him around until he left for the evening.

  The worst was when her car broke down and he had to give her a lift home. Riding a motorcycle was not the issue. Elizabeth was excited by the prospect of being on one since the last time was before her daughter was born. It was when he walked her out to where his bike was parked and handed her the helmet that she balked. He had to call for Notus to help cajole her that she was safe with him driving his MTT Turbine SUPERBIKE, most commonly called the Y2K. Being on a jet with two wheels was a bit much for her as he barrelled through traffic. Elizabeth clung onto him with closed eyes. By the third night she was relaxed enough to enjoy the ride, but her hands never let go of their death grip around his waist.

  Despite her every effort to get him to warm to her he still remained remote. It was better this way. Better for him and especially better for her.

  Pressing another button changed the massaging waters back into a steady stream before he found the faucet and turned the handle, cutting off the flow of water. The absence of falling water amplified the sounds of water racing down the drain and the water droplets falling from his body to be swept away in the drain’s whi
rlpool. He stood there for a moment before releasing a sigh, and opening his eyes he slid the shower stall’s door open.

  In the total darkness of the bathroom he could see everything coated in moisture. Condensation formed droplets on the black sink and ran down the tank of the black toilet, creating streaks in the midst of smaller drops that were already coming together for their gravity assisted journey. The wall width mirror over the counter was completely obscured.

  Stepping out onto the cool black floor tiles, he noticed that they were dulled to grey with condensation. He reached to the chrome towel bar and grabbed the white terrycloth towel before wrapping it around his slim waist. Streaks of red, silver and gold ran riot through the black marble countertop as he picked up his hairbrush. He was tempted to turn on the lights just to see if the brilliance would be increased but decided against it. The colours were spectacular enough.

  Pulling the bristles through his hair, he stared at the obscured mirror and stifled the urge to swipe his hand through miniscule beads to reveal the glass below. He knew what he looked like. He did not need a mirror to reflect back at him the differences that had caused so much grief in his lengthy lifetime. He did not want to see the scars that remained of his torture under a Vampire’s hand. It had taken him a long time to be able to brush his own hair without his hands twitching painfully.

  He released his breath in a huff and placed the brush back down. Its wooden handle clicked against the stone. Running his hands through his wet hair, he felt the drape slap against his back and he stiffened. Even after all these decades it was little things like this that could evoke memories he wished would stay buried, and he turned away from the mirror.