Angel of Death: Book One of the Chosen Chronicles (23 page)

Crushed and sobbing, he gave her over to Notus who took her love, passions and caring for his son from her memories and her life, and reinstated her as wife to her husband before bloodshed could occur.

He had locked away his heart that night. The pain had been too terrible to bear. He could
never
allow himself to go through that again. The pain of love was a wound even iron dimmed in comparison, and now Fernando was saying he was in love with Jeanie?

He stared at the cobbles as they passed underfoot. What he did know was that he felt strongly for Jeanie and it terrified him. He could face an army, iron weapons abound, and feel totally at ease and calm, but it was one beautiful fiery young woman that made him flee in confusion and terror. Yet he wanted, no needed, her safe and happy no matter the cost. Was he in love with Jeanie?

Oh Gods, I hope not,
he prayed, and shuddered at the possibility.
I can’t go through it again.

They continued to walk in silence, neither of them had anything to say to each other, and if one did it was highly unlikely that the other would listen, or hear, for that matter.

Homeless huddled together in dark shadows, hiding from unwanted prying eyes. To the eyes of an immortal they were grubby with dark sunken eyes and grim features. Some that they passed begged for anything, others hung their jaws in astonishment, while others whispered. To the ears of the Chosen the words were equal to their shocked expressions. Most recognized the Angel while a few wondered where the Good Father was and who was with the Angel. Fernando’s face twisted with disgust at the comments not meant for his ears.

The Thames was nearby, and so was Southwark Bridge. They did not need to see the river. The increasing smell of bilge, sewage and waste was proof enough. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. The smell was common to most cities. Fernando, on the other hand, spat and pulled out a perfumed handkerchief, holding it to his face in a poor attempt to filter the smell. At least the wind was not blowing from the south.

The sight of a black clad figure up ahead, on the small street, made Fernando look up. It was a man, similarly cloaked yet obviously in an embrace with someone, or something.

A smile tugged at the Noble’s lips in recognition. Lengthening his stride to keep pace with Fernando’s hurried steps, the Angel broke the silence. “Who is it?”

Lips broadening into a grin, Fernando replied, “An old acquaintance of mine and a somewhat of an admirer of yours.”

“What? An admirer?” It was preposterous.

“Rupert Randell,” explained the Noble, “Made a little over two hundred years ago, was a solicitor who lost everything in the Great Fire and was helped by one Father Notus and his Angel.”

He snapped his head around to stare at the man in a new light, disbelief reflected in his crimson eyes.

As if in response to his unspoken thoughts, Fernando explained, “I know his sire is neither you nor the monk, and no, he isn’t mine. He’s one of Barclay’s. You may remember him, he was the last Master before Katherine took over.”

He shook his head. He did not know Barclay, and never went to his court. Then again Barclay was one of the few Masters that respected the privacy and wishes of those around him.

“To hear it from Rupert,” continued the Noble, “without your help he would have killed himself in desperation.
Oi
! Randell!”

The figure not more than fifteen paces away turned to greet the two, allowing the limp body of a homeless drunk to collapse in a heap. His dark eyes brightened with surprise at the sight of his friend and the Angel, and immediately vanished into a look of pain as he took a step that could not be completed.

A flash of realization passed between the Noble and the Angel and they both rushed to the fallen Chosen who lay face up, eyes unfocused and shivering violently. Concern filled the two as they watched helplessly the effects of what they knew to be the poison. There was nothing either of them could do except to make Rupert as comfortable as possible.

“De Sagres?” stammered Rupert, his body shaking so badly that his hand had to be caught by the Noble.

“I’m here,” responded Fernando, his voice tight, without emotion.

“I – I’m so c-c-cold. What’s ha-happening t - to me?” His body arched in a painful convulsion and he cried out.

Taking the opportunity to slip under Rupert’s blonde head, his lap acted as a support for the dying Chosen and a length of white hair fell forward to brush the man’s face.

The convulsion passed back into the bone racking shivers.

Fernando looked up at the Angel. It was obvious that he had no experience in dealing with this type of situation, and seemed ready to bolt. He looked to the Angel to take over.

He sighed at the realization that he would have to become the Angel again, but this time for a Chosen. It was a first and the realization twisted his gut that Katherine was right. “Shhh,” he said calmly, “try not to worry. It will be over soon.”

“I-I can’t s-s-see,” stammered Rupert. “Whose…whose th-there?”

“The Angel,” he replied, gently. “Be calm, everything will be alright.”

At the sound of the title Rupert’s body somewhat relaxed for an instant before another scream rendering convulsion racked his body. “T-the Angel?” he managed a moment after the spasm receded once again. “Oh G-God, I’m d-dying.” Another vicious betrayal of his body arched him, but this time for longer.

There was nothing either he or Fernando could say in response as the length and the violence of the convulsions continued to increase. With little time between death throws, he tried to sooth the man by telling him about all the good things he could expect. All Rupert could do was sob over and over that he did not want to die, until the last convulsion left him lifelessly limp with blood running from mouth, nose and ears. Shaken at the violence of the poison, he glanced at the Noble who extricated his crushed hand from Rupert’s grasp.

“Is he dead?” inquired the Noble, obviously rattled, but more by the possibility that it could have been him.

“I don’t know.” He gazed down at the slack pale face. Checking for a pulse was useless, as was checking for breath. How did one check to see if a Chosen still lived? “Give me your knife.”

Brows furrowed. “What for?” demanded the Noble, reaching for the hidden sheaths at the small of his back.

“We need to find out if he still lives.” He took the dagger by the hilt. The pommel had a white swirled teardrop inlaid on it with a tiny black dot in the centre. It was a finely crafted instrument. It did not matter where he made the cut. The slice on Rupert’s neck welled with blood but did not close. Wiping the blade on Rupert’s cloak, he handed it back to Fernando, mindful of its razor sharp edges. “He is dead.”

“
Merda!”
hissed Fernando. Sheathing the dagger, he stood in time to see two Bobbies running towards them, obviously drawn by Rupert’s screams. They came to an abrupt halt as the Angel stood, gently laying Rupert’s head down on the stone.

“Is there a problem officer?” inquired Fernando, innocently.

The shorter of the two nervously licked his lips. It was obvious that he was new to his line of work. The older, and more rotund Bobbie, hitched his thumbs in the pockets of his uniform jacket. There was a definite air of superiority exuding from this man that made Fernando scowl.

“We ‘eard someone screamin’ an’ come t’ check it out and we see two bodies on the ground and you two stand’ o’er them. Would you like to be explainin’ what the ‘ell is goin’ on or shall we go t’ the precinct?” said the older officer and made a move to grab Fernando’s arm.

The Noble knocked the rude hand away, his eyes narrowing at the presumption and locked onto the Bobbies’ grey eyes. “No. I don’t think so. There are no bodies here. My friend and I were just out for some night air. Do you understand?”

The older officer stood, his eyes wide and pupils dilated. “Yes sir. Just out for some night air,” he slowly replied.

The younger officer glanced nervously from his superior to the Noble and then back again. “Frank, what are you saying?”

Frank turned to face his partner, still under the spell. “Time t’ go, John. Nothin’ ‘appenin’ ‘ere.”

“But the bodies!” protested John.

“There ain’t no bodies.”

John grabbed his partner’s shoulder in the hopes to shake some sense into him and was met with a blank stare. Swinging around to face the Noble, he demanded, “What the bloody hell did you do to him?”

Pushing his hood back far enough to reveal crimson eyes, the Angel stepped forward to present the answer. “Nothing,” he stated, fastening his eyes onto the Bobbie’s. He could feel the man’s frightened pulse and talked directly into his soul. “Nothing. Now let us be on our way and do not come back here.”

It took a moment for the Push to come into effect. The officer’s shock at the Angel’s appearance was at first a barrier that quickly diminished with the force of will upon the other.

Slowly John nodded and turned to his partner. “Let’s go,” he intoned. Frank nodded and they both walked away without any knowledge of the last ten minutes.

Once they were well past audible range the Angel let out the breath he had not realized he held.

“Well, that was a close call,” remarked Fernando. “I guess we can count on them not coming back.”

“Maybe not them, but someone else.” He spun on his heel and sunk down next to the dead mortal. The stench of the man tickled his nose yet he rolled the grimy head to the side exposing the four puncture marks in a nice row along the jugular. They should have healed just before the last moment when death took him, unless Rupert had fed on him until his death, in that case the puncture marks were clear signs of a Chosen’s work. If Chosen were getting sloppy with their feeding, it was no wonder that mortals were writing about them and conspiring to kill them off.

A tiny trickle of congealing blood oozed from the wounds. Touching a finger to the red pearl, he brought the blood to his nose. A sniff revealed nothing so he touched the soiled finger to his tongue. At first there was nothing to mark the blood as different, but slowly the same sickly sweet taste, more intense than Peter’s, exploded in his mouth forcing him to spit out the tainted blood. Standing, he nodded in response to Fernando’s unasked question.

“
Santo Cristo Foda do Deus
!” Agitated, Fernando began to pace.

“I wish you would stop saying that.” He returned to examine the mortal corpse for any clue as to how he was infected with the poison.

The Noble halted, his brown eyes blazing. “Why?” He was upset and now the Angel was reproaching his words!

“I know what it means.” He pulled out a card from a moth eaten pocket. On it, in neat type written letters was the name and address of another soup kitchen in another part of the city. Turning it over, he found on the back, written in a flowing hand, the name
Corbie Vale
. Slipping it into his inner cloak pocket, he stood.

Fernando’s eyes were angry slits. “I don’t care if you or the whole bloody world has a problem with how I say things,” expounded the Noble. “I will not change for you or for any other. Now, what the hell was that I saw you slip into your pocket?”

“A card,” he replied, turning his attention to Rupert.

“And?”

He glanced up at the Noble once he discovered there was nothing on the corpse of the Chosen to offer any other clue. He stood, brushing his hands on his thighs. “I would strongly suggest that before you drain a mortal in your need to feed, you taste the blood first. It will not come right away, but if your victim is tainted you will taste a sickening sweet flavour, and it will be very likely that that person ate recently at a soup kitchen.”

The angry creases in Fernando’s face relaxed. “Sweet, eh?”

The Angel gave a quick nod. “What do you want to do with the bodies?” he asked.