Angel of Death: Book One of the Chosen Chronicles (63 page)

Hugo checked the quickly healing wound across his neck as he took in the full countenance of
l’Ange
and shuddered involuntarily
.
His blue eyes went round at seeing the mortal girl on the rooftop and realized where she had come from.

“You fought while holding onto that mortal?” asked Hugo, incredulously.

Not even offering a nod, the Angel’s stared impassively at Hugo. “Imagine if I had fought free of the encumbrance.” He watched the French Chosen pale. “Now order your Chosen to stand down or the next attack I present
will
have your head.”

Face tightening in the anger of defeat, Hugo’s voice resounded in the dark cul-de-sac of warehouses ordering his Chosen to abnegate the battle. Once the sounds of combat came to a clattering end, he brought his attention back to the Angel. “You may have won this round,
l’Ange,
but next time, whore on your arm or not, I will win.”

Wiping off his blade on his cloak, the Angel sheathed the sword without taking his eyes off of Hugo. In an explosion of motion that not even the other Chosen could foresee, the Angel turned and back kicked Hugo in the centre of his chest.

The Chosen’s breath erupted out as he was propelled up and then over the edge of the rooftop to disappear to the street below with a sickening crunch.

Not bothering to check where Hugo landed, the Angel turned towards Jeanie, worry rising at the sight of her shaken and dishevelled form. Kneeling on the gravel roof, he was almost afraid to touch her but made his blood splattered hand reach out to caress the fiery curls from her face. When she looked up at him he thought she was going to be ill. Sweat shined her pale face.

“Dear God,” sighed Jeanie, catching her gorge and swallowing. “I knew ye could move fast, but –” She put a shaking had to her forehead. “Now I ken what an egg feels like when beaten.”

The admission filled him with grief. All he wanted to do was protect her, not hurt her. His eyes fell to the stones between them.

Jeanie saw his splattered face fall. Despite the gruesome nature of the spots they almost seemed to belong on him. “Why did ye send him flyin’ off the roof?”

“He called you a whore,” he stated, raising his head to look in her impossibly green eyes. Watching as her face widened in surprise in a glint of fierce love, he stood, his hand outstretched.

She placed her hand in his and let him lift her gently to unsteady feet.

“Promise me one thing?” she asked, smiling.

“Anything.” He returned her squeeze, but not her smile.

“Dinna protect me like that again,” said Jeanie. “Yer lucky I dinna hae any dinner tonight or ye’d be wearing it now.”

“You have my promise,” he smiled. Despite having been tossed around, Jeanie’s hair loose and flying in every direction made her even lovelier. He could imagine the sight the two of them made. Another shared bath was in the foreseeable future and this time maybe more could come from it, if they were both careful.

“How are we gonna t’get down?” Jeanie broke his reverie, staring at the edge of the rooftop, her face drawn in apprehension.

Frowning, he recognized her consternation. He knew she was not going to like the answer. “The same way we got up here – we jump.”

“Oh no.” Jeanie shook her head, backing away from the edge with hands raised against the possibility. Stumbling on the loose gravel she spun around. “There’s got to be stairs around here.”

He knew he was going to have a battle if he left her to her own devices and he did not have the time, sure that Hugo was probably waking from his plummet with a headache about now. Not letting Jeanie have another word in the matter, he swept her off her feet, cradling her as he walked to the edge. He met her shocked expression with a leer. “You had better hold on.”

“Gwyn, don’t you –” Jeanie’s protest was cut off with a high piercing scream as he stepped off.

Time halted as they fell to earth, his cloak billowed up, trailing behind. Jeanie nestled her face against his shoulder as her arms fiercely encircled him. The impact, when it came, shocked them both, but he managed to not stumble.

“Well, it’s about time,” admonished Fernando, his arms crossed over his chest. There was no sign of the oriental blades.

The scene of destruction tightened his jaw and his hands clutched protectively on Jeanie, not wanting to release her to witness the gruesome death and dismemberment of many of the French Chosen. He felt her head lift from his shoulder testing to see if they were truly back on the ground. He could not stop her as she craned her neck, twisting herself from his hold, to stand on the cobbles.

Blanching at the sight, she spun back to him to bury her face in his chest. He felt her shudder and he embraced her, not caring what the other Chosen would think.

The remaining Chosen stared in fearful awe of the Angel standing in their midst after nearly decimating a quarter of their numbers. The woman he had dismembered held her disembodied hand in her remaining left, weeping about how she would never be able to play her harp again. Ignoring her cries, his eyes fell to the one who had attacked him first.

The young man, Chosen not far past his youth, lay in two halves. His torso separated from his lower extremities by several feet. Blood pooled around spilled viscera, steaming in the cool air.
 
Still alive, the boy sobbed until he saw the Angel standing nearby.

 
“Please,” implored the boy through hiccoughing sobs. “I can’t live like this. I can’t be half a man, half a vampire.”

Knowing what he had to do, the Angel took Jeanie by the shoulders, forcing her to look up at him. “I don’t want you to see this. Go to Fernando.”

The cold hard determination in his face halted any protest Jeanie could have made. She did not want to leave his side, but it was obvious that he was fully the Angel again.

Abandoning Jeanie to make her decision, he stepped around her to stand over the youth and looked up when he heard Jeanie scurry to the Noble. He did not expect any warmth from the man, but was surprised to see Fernando stand protectively by her side and whisper something in her ear.

“
L’Ange
, please,” cried the disembodied Chosen.

“Is this what you truly want,” he asked the young man.

Tears glistened trails down the side of the French Chosen’s face to pool in his ears as he nodded.

Turning away, the Angel looked over to Hugo who was staggering over with squinting eyes and a hand on the back of his head. “He’s yours, Hugo. You heard what he’s asked of me.”

“I have,” replied Hugo, his voice tight with pain and annoyance.

“You’ll accept what I do here tonight and not hold it against me or mine?” His question was more statement.

“Do I have a choice?” bristled Hugo.

He accepted Hugo’s answer and turned back to the young man. Unsheathing his sword, it rang through the silence. He ignored the other Chosen around him who stared and muttered to one another as he placed the tip beside the young man’s neck.

“I am not the Good Father. I cannot give you absolution.” The young Chosen sobbed harder. “I am
L’Ange de la Mort
and I can give you release, but before I do I will give you two things.” His eyes caught the Chosen’s watery hazel eyes. “I forgive you for your ill fated attempt to kill me.” Shame filled the young man’s face. “Second, I will make sure that your dying wish is fulfilled.”

A sob caught in the young man’s throat. “I want my ashes taken to my mother.”

Stunned at how truly young this Chosen was, the Angel let out a slow breath and swallowed. “Hugo, you heard?”

“Yes,
l’Ange
, I heard,” came the reply. “It will be as Aimé asks.”

A sigh of relief released from Aimé as the Angel gave a curt nod and he solidified his awkward position for the gruesome task. “Go with God.”

Lifting the ancient blade across for the backhanded strike needed, he watched Aimé close his eyes. Silence reigned and he focused the power of his swing to cleanly decapitate. Through the force, the tip of his blade caught sparks against the cobble as Aimé’s head was rended from shoulders and sent flying.

The hush was broken by the sound of the head clattering against stone.

Hardly any blood marked the gruesome task, having poured forth earlier.

Lifting his blade, he wiped it against the corpse and placed the sword in its sheath. Faces caught in grief, some in anger, watched him as he strode over to Jeanie, whose pale green face proved that she had watched the whole spectacle. Once close enough, she stepped into his embrace, shuddering. He gave Fernando a nod of thanks that was returned with one in kind and turned to leave. Their motion towards the exit caused the other Chosen to take up action to clean up the mess.

Halting not a dozen steps away, he ignored Fernando’s questioning glare and turned to face the French Chosen.

“Hugo,” he called out. “How did Marie die?”

“You should know,” sneered the Chosen. “After all it is because of you English and your war against us.”

Frustrated by the erroneous answer, he shook his head. “Tell me.”

Hugo stepped over a corpse missing only her head and strode over, but kept his distance. His Chosen stood stock still in expectation of another break out of violence. “Aimeri took Marie out to the Cabaret for some entertainment and then for some refreshments. It happened after she consumed a young German visitor.”

“So why do you think it’s because of the British?” asked Fernando, his interest piqued.

Hugo’s eyes narrowed, noting how this other Chosen distanced himself from his compatriots, but did not consider that this other’s accent was tinted heavily by something else. “Because we have traced the source to the shipping company that you conveniently blew up to cover your tracks.”

Astounded at the audacity of the claim, Fernando glanced up at his partner.

“Can you believe this guy?” he asked rhetorically in English before walking off.

“Fernando, wait,” called the Angel and was surprised to see the Noble halt and turn around. “It was the spice.”

“Like I couldn’t figure that one out?” Fernando shook his head and walked back. “We should let these idiots get what’s coming to them.”

A part of him wanted the same thing as the Noble. He could not deny it after how Hugo and his troupe treated them, but he could not let it lie. He turned back to the French Chosen. “The Chosen in England have been sorely afflicted by the same situation. We’re here in Calais because we have followed a similar lead.” He knew Fernando was not going to appreciate what he was about to offer Hugo. “I’m willing to share the information we have-“

“What? Are you crazy?” exploded Fernando in English. “After what they tried to do to us?”

Ignoring the outburst, the Angel continued. “— if you are willing to allow us unmolested passage anywhere in France this takes us.”

“Why should I allow this?” asked Hugo, interest piqued.

“Because if we’re right, you don’t have to do anything. If we’re wrong we’re most likely dead.”

A hopeful smile lifted Hugo’s thin lips. “Alright, tell me.”

He ignored Fernando’s roll of the eyes. “Not here. You and one other can come back with us to our hotel. I know you know where we are staying.”

Hugo chuckled humourlessly. “We’ve known your movements on our land since the night after you arrived.”

“I know,” stated the Angel, meeting Hugo’s eyes with abhorrence. Hugo took an involuntary step back before catching himself. “Will you come?”

“What’s to say you won’t kill me when we get there?” Hugo lifted his chin in defiance.