Angel of Death: Book One of the Chosen Chronicles (84 page)

Lowering his hands, he smiled.

The gurgling of the pool flickered louder, as if to regain his attention. Answering its insistence, he walked the steps towards water. He luxuriated in the soft springiness of the grass beneath his bare feet. He savoured the scents of flowers as he gently pushed them aside to kneel before the well. He sighed at the calm the burbling brought him.

His heart skipped a beat at the sight of a large silver chalice sitting on a rock, a finely wrought chain attached to its stem. The light shifted and glinted off the silver, casting a white aura around it.

Curiosity flowed through him and he picked up the squat chalice with the wide base in both hands. On it, just under the lip, were characters he had never seen before but somehow he could read.

“I am She who gives the gift of joy unto the heart of mankind.

I am She that gives knowledge of the spirit eternal.

I give peace and freedom and reunion.

My name is Mystery.”

Without a second thought he dunked the chalice into the water, brought it to his lips and drank.

The bouquet was of flowers. The taste was of the iron of earth, the metal of blood. The feeling was cool and refreshing. Energy flooded through him. He gasped.

“Blessed be he who has been brought in these ways.

Blessed be he who kneels at the Altar.

Blessed be he who drinks from the womb of creation.

Blessed be he who speaks truth.”

A chorus of female voices spun him around on his knees still holding the chalice to see three tall, slender women walk towards him from a path he had not noticed earlier. He had seen these wondrous women before. He watched, awestruck as they approached. Each movement identically made together.

For all of their similarities, of height, slenderness, and incredible beauty, the differences were remarkable.
 
Identical in the gossamer style of their robes, the colours mated with the differences.

On the left stood a woman with long white hair that brushed the back of her knees. Her skin was pale as milk. It was her eyes that took him aback. Her irises were white while the pupils were cream.

In the middle stood a woman with long flowing vibrant red hair the same length as the woman of white. Her skin was ruddy, as if she had spent too long in the sun. She had the same eyes as he.

On the right stood the remaining woman of long raven black hair, as long as her sisters. Her skin was black and her eyes were the opposite of the woman of white. Pupils and irises a black void.

In unison they gave him a small smile and approached until he was forced to look up at them. Together they reached down, their long delicate hands lifting the chalice he had not realized he proffered. A hand of the White Lady and a hand of the Black Lady brushed against his as all three took the goblet, sending a shock of energy that made him gasp.

Awestruck, he watched as the Red Lady let the White Lady sip first then she and then the Black Lady drank in turn. Holding the chalice together, the three lowered it to him. Still on his knees he accepted it, refusing to relinquish his gaze upon the Ladies.

“Drink to the bitter dregs,” they chorused. “For the cup holds the wine of life and only through it may your answers be received.”

Confused, he gazed into the remaining water within the chalice. No longer did the water appear crystal clear. Swirls of white, red and black churned within. Sudden fear welled within him and the impulse to toss chalice and water away caught in his throat. Somehow sensing his disquiet he felt three gentle hands alight onto his head and a wash of calm flowed through him. Without looking up, he bent his head and drank from the chalice. The flavour was clear and clean until he reached the last three gulps. Tilting his head back he found it difficult to drink to the final drop.

The hands released him and took the chalice. Its chain snapped.

Slowly the Ladies, with right hands holding the stem, turned in a graceful dance. Thrice did they circumambulate, coming to a halt next to the pool where they ceremoniously lowered it onto a stone.

“Blessed be he who is Chosen,” they chorused. “Blessed be he who is the One.”

Together, they bade him to rise.

He stood only a head taller than they and he took a confused step back, cautious not to trip into the spring.

They smiled up at him. “Speak the words.”

“Where - where am I?” His voice was rough with disuse.

Frowns pulled down their full-lipped mouths. “Too late?” they chorused, as if speaking to themselves.

“Possible,” said the White Lady.

“The prayer was heard,” replied the Red.

“Choice was remade,” stated the Black.

“Time’s irrelevant,” they chorused. They turned their attention back to him. “Speak the words.”

Confused he shook his head. “What words?”

“Fear holds. Fear binds,” they chorused.

“Fear of pain,” said the White Lady.

“Fear of living,” remarked the Red.

“Fear of Them.” The Black Lady turned and pointed to the sky which had suddenly turned to night as if someone had blown out the sun.

A sudden chill enveloped him and he crossed his arms over his naked chest. A cool wind grasped at the Ladies diaphanous robes, causing them to flutter and snap. He watched in horror as a swirling of white descended from the dark.

Translucent figures spun around a single spot on the grass not far from where the three Ladies stood. With the Ladies between he and the white faced demons he watched as the central figure solidified. He gasped.

A chuckle made of dry leaves and cracking branches filled the glade. “Did you believe you could esssssssscape?” The White Faced Demon stepped out from the swirling to stand before the Ladies.

He wanted to run. He wanted to flee. He had believed it did not matter if It came. He had lied.

“Hold!” commanded the Three, and he felt himself rooted to his spot.

The White Faced demon cocked its putrescent head to the side in contemplation before lifting it again. “He is mine. He chose.”

“He was a child,” chorused the three angrily. “He has re-chosen.”

“It doessssssss not matter.” It tried to flow around the Ladies, only to find Its efforts blocked. Its face twisted in frustration. “We will not let thisssssssss come to passsssssss.”

“You made your choice on the Time of Crossing,” snapped the Three.

“Yesssss,” It hissed. “We want exisssssssstence.
 
We want life.”

“You made your choice,” countered the Three.

“Give usssss our Bridge.”

“No.”

“Give him to Usssssss!”

The three Ladies turned to face him, sadness filling their eyes. “Your fear has chosen. Your fear has ruled. Attachment has brought suffering. To live you have been born. To be born you had to die. It is the Circle. But it is the Mystery that holds it all. Please, speak the words.”

Their sorrow pulled at him and he knew that if he could not find what he was looking for within him, they would have no ability to save him. He lowered his head. He did not know.

A hand reached out and touched his face. The Red Lady smiled sadly as she lowered her hand over his heart. Jeanie sitting in a pew at St. Martin’s, her head bowed in prayer, her face wet with tears, flooded his vision and his breath caught.

“You know,” whispered the Red Lady, a sad smile on her lovely face.

Lifting his head he gazed at the White Faced Demon and then back at the Ladies. Determination replaced fear.
 
The words came unbidden, as if someone else spoke them. “Love is all. Love supported by Will.”

He did not need to see the Ladies smile. It was the look of horror on the White Faced Demon that proved the truth. Without hate for the pitiful creature, without anger for all Its trespasses against him, without fear of what It could still do to him, a warming sense filled him. The Ladies stepped away from him as he approached the Demon.

“No more,” he stated. “You fed off of me to feel life. No more. I take back all that you took from me.”

The Demon tried to flee, but he grabbed its strangely solid substance and pulled it struggling into an embrace. “I forgive you,” he whispered as he sank his teeth into the putrid neck, tears streaming down his face.

Emotional exhaustion enveloped Jeanie as she sat in the pew at the back of the church. She had decided at the last moment to take up Father Theodore’s advice, especially since he had sent the promised novice anyway. It had been awkward watching him nervously watching her and the Angel. Without a word, Jeanie had left just in time to hear the beginning of services.

She had never sat through a Catholic mass before and found it quite lovely with the beauty of the voices in canticle. It was as if she were hearing angels singing. It did not take long before the prayers melted out the tension that had supported her for so long and she found herself silently weeping.

Through her water filled vision and her soft hiccoughing a sense of peace washed through her when her eyes alighted upon the shrine to the Virgin Mother. The statue seemed alive with all the flickering lights of the votives at her feet. Jeanie caught her breath at one point when she foolishly envisioned that the statue turned its head to look at her with a sad smile. Shaking off the vision, Jeanie relaxed into the seat and stared at the brilliance of the magical ceremony.

She did not know how long the service was to last. Time seemed to have stopped until she felt a presence sit down beside her.

“It is lovely,” remarked Fernando. “Luckily I was first born and therefore not promised to the Church.”

Jeanie’s heart sped up. She knew why the Noble was there. It was time to keep her end of the bargain, but to do so would betray the man she loved. Was it not already too late?

She raised a hand to scratch the sudden tingling of Violet’s mark and at the touch her body shivered. A sudden sense of foreboding gripped her innards and she turned to face the cathedral’s doors.

Perturbed, Fernando turned towards her, his face twisted with anger. “Is this just another evasion from the little talk we agreed upon?”

Jeanie shook her head, her heart pounding loudly in her ears. She could almost hear Violet talking to her.
Open the doors
, it called. It made no sense, but the pull was alarming and she rose to do the voice’s bidding. With Fernando following at her heels she strode over to the heavy double doors and threw them wide open.

The rainstorm continued to rage, but beyond the low wall to the grounds Jeanie could see mounted horses coming up the path. Amongst them, wrapped in a magnificent white fur coat, its hood drawn tight around her face, sat Violet in side saddle. The dozen others fanned out as she approached, the glint of steel in their hands.