Angel of Death: Book One of the Chosen Chronicles (75 page)

Fragments of reality began to coalesce in time with the steady beat. First came the awareness of his body and he groaned as the pulsations increased, sending waves of nausea that threatened to overwhelm him. He could feel the minute intricacies as muscle, skin and bone knit together remaking his damaged temporal lobe. If he had not felt so horrible, he would have been jubilant that it had been lead shot in the pistols.

Gradually, the migraine eased to a dull headache and he groaned as lightning shot up his arms. Raising his chin from his chest, he could almost feel his brain shift back into proper position, but the effort left him drained. Head lolling back he realized he was erect and opened his eyes.

Blurred black and white images washed over his vision, wavering until he could see the shadowed stone ceiling over his head. It was then that he realized it must be a stone floor that grated into his bare knees and the tops of his feet. He was kneeling with legs apart and had no recollection of arriving in this awkward position.

Uncomfortable, he tried to pull his legs together to purchase a greater balance only to feel the shooting pains in his arms and chest. His legs were pinned. It was then that he realized it was the cold touch of metal from behind his knees and over his ankles that held him firmly in place.

If that were the case, then what was holding him upright?

Turning his head, the answer chilled him and forced him to try and yank his arms down from the iron manacles that grated into his flesh.

Excruciating pain caused him to cry out and cease his movements. Kneeling, with his arms outstretched, he could feel the poisonous metal rip into tendons and bone. He could see black tendrils as the iron seeped into his veins, creeping up into his hands and descending down his arms, threatening to send him into oblivion.

Panicked, his mouth suddenly dry, he swallowed. It was what They promised and he felt his heart beat faster in time with his increased breath. He was trapped, held prisoner, and the need to purchase his freedom panicked him.

He closed his eyes and took a shuddering breath. Unable to make his fingers grasp firmly around the iron chain, he knew he had no choice and with a groan he pulled down in the hopes to snap the chains. Instead intense fire flared down his arms, into his chest and threatened to engulf him. His heart sped up as his breath left him trembling.

Relinquishing his attempt, he could only hang there, panting as the pain re-established itself.

Eyes squeezed shut; he could feel cool tears drip down the outer corners of his eyes. The fever associated with iron poisoning grew with prolonged contact and he knew that it was a matter of time before They came for him to exact their punishment. If he could remain conscious, then hopefully they would be held at bay until he was free.

For what seemed an indeterminable time, he waited until the pulsating fires diminished enough to be somewhat bearable and for rational thought to be attempted. He was caught, manipulated by this mysterious woman who had claimed Jeanie as a friend in that alley so long ago.

They had used Jeanie to capture him.

Concern for her snagged his breath. He could not let himself imagine that the Lady of
Le Jardin
would kill Jeanie. She had said to her servant not to harm her. It was a faint hope, but it was all he had. How they found her, let alone managed to capture her, sent a chill up his spine to clash with the inferno the iron was making of him.

Closing his eyes, his body shuddered uncontrollably. He hoped that those at the monastery would be all right and they would forgive him.

Fernando, he had no doubt, was as good as dead. Once word reached Katherine, so too would Notus be Destroyed. The Noble had been right. Jeanie had been the liability that had cost them everything, but he still loved her. More tears flowed knowing that it was his lack of will that had brought her into harm’s way. He had broken his oath to her and betrayed Notus’ love, and because of that they would most likely soon be dead.

Opening his eyes, he lifted his head. If he could have slouched his shoulders in despair he would have. There before him, standing against the stone wall, leaned his bloody sword with its dark sheath lying on the floor. On the wall, a series of hooks displayed all manner of torture devices. His eyes took in the sharp surgical implements; their gruesome configurations denoted that they had very little medical application except for the sole purpose of pain induction. Each and every one of them, he could see, was made of steel, but it was what hung on the end that riveted his attention and set him trembling anew.

Fastened to a steel rod, nine chains of small iron links hung. On each tail wire barbs stuck out like thorns arrayed on a rosebush, but it was the ends of the links that widened his eyes in horror. Large iron weights, sharply edged, acted as the plumbs. Even in the complete darkness of the dungeon he could see the small flakes of caked on blood and flesh. Nausea threatened to overpower him and he knew that the Lady of the Garden of the Gods did not need to be here to begin his torture. It had already begun. Closing his eyes, he managed a shuddering breath, anything to remove the sight of what was to come.

Voices penetrated the darkness, drawing closer, accompanied by footsteps. Hanging impotently, he knew that the Lady, joined by a male, descended down the stone steps. Her commanding voice issued orders and the heavier foot falls increased in speed and in volume, bringing with it the flickering orange glow of torchlight.

Eyes still shut he tried to relax in an attempt to feign unconsciousness in the hopes that she would leave disappointed. He knew it was the cowards’ way out, but he needed time to think. Already he could feel the greedy coils of the white faced demons attempting to clutch at him, ready to catch him in their putrescent embrace should he succumb to the poison seeping into his being.

The slip of wood into its bracket preceded softer foot falls, heralding the Mistress of
Le Jardin’s
arrival. “Alright Gustav, what is it that you wanted me to see.”

Her annoyed tone echoed off the walls, making him wonder how big the room truly was.

“This, Mistress,” replied Gustav, excitedly.

Dread solidified in his stomach. He heard Gustav’s approach, followed by his Mistress’. It took all his mental reserves not to panic and just allow himself to continue to hang there.

“What’s this?” she questioned, curiosity piqued.

“When I personally prepared the Angel, as you requested, my Lady, I noticed this reaction to the iron manacles. Even the wounds he took above are not healed. They appear burnt,” replied Gustav. “As you can see, my Lady, the Angel is truly unlike any other Chosen, if indeed his is Chosen.”

“Of course he’s Chosen,” she snapped. “He’s not mortal and he’s not one of us. What else could he be?”

“I do not know, my Lady,” came the cowed reply.

The Lady emitted a deep-throated sound of disaffection. “Leave me.”

“Yes, my Lady.”

The scurry of retreating steps left him with the knowledge that he was alone with his captor.

“You can give up the pretence of being unconscious,” commanded the Mistress of
Le Jardin
. “It may have fooled my mortal servant, but I am above such childish deceptions.”

Opening his eyes to slits, he saw her standing in height with him wearing a rust coloured silk shirt beneath a red leather corset tightly laced so as to accentuate her sensuous figure. A fine woollen skirt of the same colour as her shirt hung down to the floor in thick pleats. Raven black tresses escaped from its elaborate up-do to dangle and swirl about her ears and neck, but it was her eyes that captured his attention.

Angry at the cruel delight he saw, his jaw clenched. “What have you done with Jeanie?”

Momentary surprise flashed from vivid blue eyes. “She’s fine, for the time being.”
 
The Lady lackadaisically stepped around him, surveying her catch; each footfall rang through the dungeon.

“I would have thought you would have asked a more poignant question,” she purred, coming up behind him, her breath tickling his neck.

 
He forced down a shudder at her closeness. His only hope was that she told the truth. His eyes widened as he felt her cool hands travel down along his sides to finally embrace him around his hips, the full length of her body pressed him from behind.

“Do you not wish to know why you will be kept alive while the Chosen de Sagres will die with the dawn?” she whispered, trailing her fingers up his abdomen.

Turning his head away from her lips, he let his gaze land on the far wall and swallowed. The information was double sided. At least Fernando was still alive, and with that there was hope, but for him, there was none and so he kept silent.

Her hands fell away and he felt her step back. “When I ask you a question, you will answer it,” she erupted.

A cry of pain shocked through him as the Mistress yanked his braided hair snapping his head back. His arms strained against the shackles.

The poisoning effect set him trembling. On weakened legs he managed to right himself so that the shackles eased their bite.

“Interesting,” she drawled. She continued her circumambulation, coming to stand before him, hands on her slim hips, sadistic delight illuminating her smile. “You are unlike any other Chosen I’ve ever had.”

The Lady walked over to the devices hanging from the wall and he heard the scrape of metal against stone. He only had eyes for the serrated scalpel in her delicate hand and involuntarily recoiled. Increased agony shot down his arms, pulling from him a groan.

The smile on his torturers face grew at his distress. “Do you know why you and none of your predecessors were unable, even with your preternatural strength, to free yourselves from these bonds?”

The knowledge that there had been others added not only to his nausea, but to his rising panic. Unwilling to give in, he clenched his jaw, forbearing any possible response. It should not have been a surprise when she guided the blade into the sword wound, searing muscle, as she sliced deeper into his chest. The sudden flashing anger should have been enough.

Agonizing pain filled him and caused him to cry out.

The scent of his burning flesh nauseated him.

It was when she hit bone that he nearly lost the fight against unconsciousness and what that would bring.

Cool relief followed in its wake as the blade was removed and her finger traced along the wound, worming her finger in deeper.

Panting, he opened his eyes and stared at her shimmering form as he fought to get the pain and trembling under control. Hate wound round his belly. The desire to pummel the smug expression from her face surged.

“You
will
answer my questions,” demanded the Mistress, haughtily. “I am more than pleased to correct your rudeness as I see fit.” Her finger hit bone, long fingernails scraping painfully.

“I don’t know,” he gasped, his voice rough. If she would tell him, then maybe he would be able to figure a way out.

“Now that wasn’t so difficult.” She smiled beatifically at his compliance and removed her hand from the wound, wiping the bloodstain onto his chest.

She leaned forward, rubbed her cheek against his and whispered, “Because the manacles have a post that is hammered through the wrist. The damage done makes it near next to impossible to grasp anything. You can’t imagine how many Chosen pulled so hard their hands popped off.”

He felt his gorge rise as she moved away, tittering. It explained so much of why the reaction to the iron was moving faster than expected. The iron was bleeding into him because it was through him. He swallowed and gasped. There was no way out.

“Why?” he rasped. “Why are you doing this?”

Astounded, her fine black eyebrows rose, she cocked her head to the side. “To you personally or you in the plural sense of the Chosen?”

“Both.” He closed his eyes momentarily, feeling the draw of oblivion and shook his head in an attempt to clear the fever from his mind. Pain borne fatigue owned his soul.