Angel of Death: Book One of the Chosen Chronicles (7 page)

With nothing left to lose and so much more to gain, he took a deep steadying breath and ascended the stairs two at a time.

The man crouched to the right of the doors, stood at his approach. No longer the grubby street urchin, he stood tall and broad. Clearly he had been picked for his strength and not for his mind. Vacant hazel eyes focused on him and in a monotone spoke, “Who goes there?”

“I have been summoned by the Mistress,” he replied, searching for any sign of intelligent free will.

“Who goes there?” repeated the servant. Obviously the answer was not the appropriate one.

A click and a snap drew his attention to the other servant now standing, making bookends of the doorframe, but holding a loaded pistol cocked and aimed.

If it were to be that way, then he would play the little games so long as it served his purpose. Catching the vacant eyes with his own, he spoke softly, intently, and in rhythm with the guard’s beating heart and Pushed. “
Let me in.”

The guard nodded as the order plucked an unknown string in his soul. Placing a thick muscled hand on the large brass door handle, the door opened with a click and a scrape.

The reception hall was dimly lit to take into account the sensitive eyes of the Chosen. Small lamps illuminated fine art interspersed along walls papered in red velvet patterned into blossoming roses. A large silver candelabrum hung in the middle, alight with more than a dozen fine beeswax candles. If he did not know any better he would have thought he was in the middle of an art gallery.

The doors closed behind him, shutting out all sound from the outside world and he glanced around the audacious room. Even the large heavy oak doors leading to the theatre were lavish in their workmanship. It was more ostentatious than the last, but then again the last Court hall was devastated by the Fire and he had never set foot in it until it was nothing more than a charred ruin holding the bones and ashes of the Chosen who had hid there.

His eyes widened in realization of which Court hall he was comparing it to. Had it been that long? He ran his hand through his long thick white hair, pushing back the hood of his cloak. An involuntary shudder ran through him as he remembered the Roman built manse Master Antonius and his Lady Julia used. Visions of mosaic floors crowded by people in togas and the more common dress of the era made him cringe. There had been too many people, too close together.

He shook himself out of the past and realized he was gratefully alone.

Along the wall near the front entrance a grandfather clock, standing taller than he, indicated that he was five minutes early. Deciding to look around while he waited, he went from painting to painting, revolted by the gruesomeness of the dark images. It was the large oiled canvass of a demon with burning red eyes subduing and forcing the submission of a fair haired angel with his wings hideously ripped off, that caught and held his attention.

Master Antonius stood on the dais wearing the finery of a Roman Primus Pilus. The Master gazed angrily at him while Lady Julia, seated in a throne made of gold and draped in a fine white toga laced with gold, covered her horror with the back of her hand.

“Kill it!” The order issued from the Master of Britain.

He started at the touch on his arm and gazed down at a waif of a man.

“It is time, sir.”

The sound of the servant’s fearful heartbeat rang in his ears. Smoothing his features into a mask of non-expression, he nodded once, steadying himself to enter into the lion’s den.

The little man turned around, keeping his eyes on the Chosen as long as possible and led the way to the heavy double doors at the end of the hall.

Notus begged for his life on bended knee, pleading for forgiveness. Seeing his Chooser humiliate himself, he stepped forward only to be surrounded by finely forged steel blades. They did not know what such a weapon could do to him. They could never know. It had taken almost two years to come here, more than a year and a half in Ynis Witrin healing and learning to use his arm again.

The order that he be stripped came from Lady Julia. He needed to run. Even among the Chosen he was too different.

“They are ready for you, sir. Can I take your cloak for you?”

He shook his head, trying to clear his mind of the unwanted memories. Abasement on the servant’s drawn and tired face made him realize he gave the wrong answer. Unhooking the cloak, he folded it and handed it to the man, keeping the clasp to be pocketed. “I’m sorry. I was thinking.”

“Yes, sir.” He hung the cloak over a thin arm. “You are to go in immediately, sir.” He bowed his bald head and backed away.

Turning the cool polished brass knob, he entered into the realm of the Court. No seats lined the sloping floor that ended at the stage. A single high backed chair, ornately engraved and upholstered, stood before large drawn red velvet curtains. Those Chosen who had decided to come and pay their respects, or more likely, to watch the show, stood along the walls. Seated in the throne sat the Mistress, flanked by her select few. She did not notice his arrival; her attention was on the dark haired man in lavish attire standing before the stage.

“
Sua puta fodida!
You cannot do this to me!” hollered the man. His dark shoulder length hair whipped around in a wavy mass. The accent was unpredictable – Portuguese.

“Ah, but I have, my dear,” purred the Mistress; her chin resting in her delicately boned hand. Dark long curls framed her pale painted face. “I can do whatever I wish. I can even take all your possessions –”

“You wouldn’t dare!” roared the man.

“Dare?” Her musical voice turned sour. “I’ve done!” She snapped red painted fingers and the man beside her with short black greasy hair produced a folder. She grabbed it out of his hands without so much as a thank you and opened it, showing the contents to the one before her. “Your deeds. Your leases. Your signature!”

The man made a move to leap up onto the stage, halting as the hiss of metal issued from the sides of the theatre. “If you have everything of mine what do you need me for?” he spat.

“All in good time. All in good time.” A victorious smile curled her red lips and the Mistress languidly sat back in her throne.

Ice blue eyes flickered up the carpet to the figure at the back of the theatre. The Mistress bolted upright in surprise.

His presence acknowledged he stepped down the sloping floor, ignoring the murmurs of shock and surprise. Another throne and another Mistress threatened to superimpose themselves upon this time and he clenched his jaw, trying to force back the memories.

Clothes ripped from his body. The sound of Notus’ begging in the background. He was forced to his knees. The cold tiles reflected the torchlight as he was made to bend over. His arms yanked up behind his back. The searing touch of sharpened steel on the back of his neck immobilized him.

“I am so glad you came,” purred the Mistress.

Forcibly repressing the rising terror he knew was reflected in his eyes, he slipped his cold mask into place, but even as he did so, he felt it slipping. The thin scar at the back of his neck tingled.

“You did not leave me any choice.” He kept his eyes locked onto the Mistress. Distinctly aware of all the eyes upon him, he was more aware of the measuring gaze of the Portuguese Chosen.
Let them stare,
he thought.

Her eyes darkened despite the chiselled smile. “Our kind always has a choice.”

Your kind.
Of course he would not say it. He chose to say nothing.

Realizing that she was not going to get a response from this near mythological Chosen, the Mistress absently dismissed her irritation with a wave of her hand. She was used to power unquestioned, civilities enacted. Steepling her painted fingers, she relaxed into her throne. “It has been a long time since you have been to Court. In fact, you have refused to attend your Mistress on several occasions.”

“I am here now.” The theatre now consisted only of him and the Mistress. The others he ignored.

“Yes. Yes, you are. I had to go to great lengths to set up this audience with the Angel.”

Now we get to it.
He set his jaw and lifted his chin. “Where is Notus?”

“Here.” She saw the flicker of hope in his ruby eyes. “You will see him soon enough.”

“I want to see him now.”

The Mistress sighed in exasperation. “I will permit it if you agree to listen to me.”

He felt the trap ready to spring. There was only one way out and that was through. He nodded once.

Pleased with the answer, the Mistress turned to the man on her right, the one with the lanky black hair who had handed her the portfolio. “Valraven, please be a dear and open the curtains,” she ordered.

“My Lady Katherine, I must protest. What if the rumours about him are true?”

“Then I will deal with it. Now open the curtains.”

Valraven bowed and left the stage.

He watched in silence as the heavy drapes gradually parted. The mask shattered at the sight of his Chooser brutally chained and crucified in the middle of the stage, his brown homespun robe torn and bloodied from wounds that had already healed. Automatically he reached out to find Notus unconscious and unresponsive, his blood nearly drained.

In two strides he leapt up onto the stage, his only thought was to free Notus from the mockery of the Mistress’ grasp. He heard his outcry of defiance mingled with the one Notus had yelled as the axe came crashing down oh so long ago. This time it hit. Instead of the axe slamming down in front of him, the blow from a staff hit him squarely across his back, sending him reeling. He landed heavily, face down on the stage. Reality blinked out.

The Mistress’ obvious dismissal of his presence infuriated him. Somehow that bitch had changed the deeds and papers so that all his accumulated wealth was transferred to her. As to her reason, he had no clue.
All in good time. All in good time
. In time she would deeply regret her intrusion and her usurpation of his life and property. He never did like Katherine Dumonte. Now he despised her. Mistress or no, she had no right to mess with Fernando de Sagres.

He turned around to see who caused the Court to buzz. His dark brown eyes snapped wide at the sight of the tall pale vampire steadily walking towards the stage.

Merda do Sando Deus. It’s the Angel. It has to be!
There was no other that matched the rumoured descriptions. When Bridget and others murmured their fables, he believed them to be such; fables - lies conjured to explain the unknowable. But now he watched the myth walk towards him, and the Mistress.

I wonder if the other parts of the story are true?

He stepped out of the tall man’s path. The Angel stood a good head and shoulders taller. Was that fear that lighted the crimson eyes for the briefest of moments? Fernando knew himself to be a fair reader of men. He touched a brawny finger to his lips, trying to read the man before him. It was not easy. The mask slipped into place and he could discern no more. He could not fathom the reason why the Angel would fear the Mistress and her lot.

Fernando watched the interplay between the Mistress and the Angel. At the mention of Notus’ name Fernando perked up, his attention grabbed. Notus - the Angel’s sire. She had him. The two were legendary. Completely unlike others of their kind, sire and fledgling were still together. Who would have imagined? He had left Bridget long ago.

The sound of rusty pulleys brought his attention away from the pale vampire to the stage. His eyes darkened at the sight of the crucified vampire on the large T-bar. The sound of the Angel’s cry brought him back to the erupting chaos and he involuntarily winced at the crack resounding off the staff as it crashed across the Angel’s back.

He felt hands pull him roughly to his knees, his arms drawn up behind his stinging back. The stars quickly cleared from his vision to see the Mistress lording before him. It was like before.