Angel of Death: Book One of the Chosen Chronicles (86 page)

“I don’t know how he managed to make it to the door let alone down the hall,”
came a voice filled with awe and fear. It trickled into the summer glen. It piqued his curiosity. Lowering the empty chalice to the stone beside the pool, he stood and cocked his head in an effort to listen better.

“I’ve cleaned him up as best I could, Father.”

“I know, my son.”
The man’s voice was so incredibly weary that he wanted to reach out and console the man. Instead he stepped away from the well and closer to the void that solidified, blocking off a path away from the sacred grove.

“What is the Angel, Father? I have never witnessed his like before.”

He heard the tired sigh.
“I believe you have answered your question within your question.
”

He stood next to the void. The white-faced demons swirled around him expectantly. He thought he recognized the tired man’s voice. The one the other called “Father”. He shook his head. He did not know who they were talking about.

“Will the Angel survive, Father?”

“I don’t know.”
A shift in attention.
“Brother Absolon?”

A new voice entered into the conversation
. “I do not know, Father. I have encountered many people in my long career, but none as unique as the Angel. The burns on his body were not made by fire, but by iron. His back has been flayed raw and cauterized, as were the knife wounds. I have dressed the wounds as best I could but it is the infection in his blood that is something I cannot treat. His fever is likely to kill him if it is not lowered. It‘s rising higher than any man could suffer. I’m going to start with cold compresses, with your blessing, Father.”

Realization dawned upon him. They were talking about him, but it made no sense. He was right here. He was healthy. There was not a mark on his body. He wanted to shout out to them that he was fine.

“Yes, go ahead. With God’s blessing.”

A shudder of energy flowed through him and he raised his hand to pound against the blackness to let them know where he was.

His hand fell into the void.

The touch of the cold compress against his forehead was icefire through his body. Pain erupted. Contractions split and damaged muscle. A scream of pure agony tore from his dry lips as he convulsed. Every part of his body was on fire.

“Grab him,” shouted Father Theodore at the same time Brother Absolon issued, “Make sure he doesn’t turn onto his back, for God’s sake.”

Frozen hands grabbed at him, trying to still the violent shudders, but it sent him back into that dark cold room and he sobbed. “No. No. Please no.” He heard his pleading as if someone else made them. “Please stop. Stop. No.” They were the words he had used in that dungeon that was her entertainment room when the pain became too great. The lashes fell, the blade seared, his blood burned, he wanted to die.

A hand lovingly touched his face and he screamed, sending him tumbling into her embrace. His back arched in agony in an effort to get away, but he could not. He was trapped. He could not bear her touch, not that, never that again. He whimpered, repeating over and over for her to stop, to please stop.

After forever the seizure released its hold, leaving a wake of desolation through his agony.
 

“What did they do to him?” a voice whispered into the encroaching darkness.

Father Theodore’s worried voice answered closely to his ear. “What does the Devil ever do to an Angel if he manages to catch one?”

The answer tightened his throat, forcing a shuddering sob before he gratefully slipped back into the sweet darkness. The white-faced demons buffeted him, enclosing around him in the Void.

Voices spoke in a darkness-tinged red with pain. The language seemed familiar but he could not make out the meanings. Fire burned along his body cancelling out any desire to follow the heated discussion. He did not dare to open his eyes. He did not know if he could. He did not care. Darkness enfolded him into its embrace.

Where were They? He frowned.

Where was the light? Where was the Grove? Where were the Ladies?

The absence of voices momentarily masked the sound of footsteps towards him. Head swimming, he felt a cold hand touch his forehead and he groaned, his back spasming at the touch. Pain raced up his neck and threatened to crush his skull while at the same time it ran across his hips and down his legs. He clutched his arms to his chest, his hands locking into tight fists as if to fight the pain, all the while lightning flashed through his closed eyes. Every part of his body was held in a paroxysm of agony that tore breath from his tattered body. The crushing sensation around his ribs made it impossible to inhale and he whimpered, feeling hot tears in the corners of his eyes. It was the lash again and again and again and all he wanted to do was curl up and die but his body refused to relinquish its harsh grip.

“Shhh,” whispered the voice.

It was real. It did not sound like the Vampiress’ sultry tones. She was real, but who was she? He tried to move out of the strictures of pain and gasped.

A freezing hand on his shoulder sent his body shivering and he sobbed. The touch was ice against his burning flesh. He wanted it gone. Its coldness as painful as the heat his body generated.

“Dinna move.” Recognition dawned. It was Jeanie. She was with him, but where were they?

An intoxicating scent reached his senses. The cold rim of a spoon touched his lips and he felt thick fluid spill into his mouth. It took all his strength to swallow.

One. Two. Three more and he was exhausted. The seizure left him suddenly limp and panting. He felt cold lips on his temple before the darkness claimed him once again. Jeanie’s whispered words of love followed closely.

He needed to move. His body felt cramped and battered. Sure that was what was causing the pain; he licked his parched lips refusing to open his eyes. He was lying on his side, the mattress pressing uncomfortably into his hip and shoulder. For a moment he had no idea how to gain a sitting position, his head spun just at the thought.

Slowly, he managed to get his elbow under him. It was enough of a movement that forced his body forward, causing his right arm to reach over to stop him from rolling onto his stomach. The shock of pain jammed through his wrist and set off an explosion in his upper arm and across his chest and back, threatening another seizure. Gasping, he waited fearfully, with eyes closed, for it to subside. It did so but the smouldering in his arm and wrist was enough to let him know that at any movement the fires would start up again to threaten another fit that would send him back to oblivion.

Strong freezing hands rested on his burning shoulders sending his teeth chattering and his body shivering. He wanted the touch to stop but could not utter a word for the clicking of his teeth. With help, he painstakingly managed a sitting position. Each movement sent lightning up and down his back. Several times he momentarily blacked out until he realized it was best if he kept his eyes closed. The arms of the stranger did not let him fall but gently carried him until he was able to sit.

Gasping, he hung his head and held his bandaged arms crossed on his chest in an effort to will the pain away. The throbbing of his arms and back pulsated out of sync with that of his leg and he sat there with eyes closed hoping he would not pass out again. The precursor to another paroxysm terrified him so he stayed still.

Innumerable minutes passed, but he did not care. Gradually, he opened his eyes. Staring at his bandaged arms, he winced as he brought them away from his chest. In the white bandages around his forearms long pieces of flat wood were ensconced from knuckles down to his elbows. His right upper arm was expertly wrapped, tying in the bandage over his chest. Any movement of his right arm sent flashes of pain up into the side of his head, making him nauseous, but it was his back that he knew was the worst. He did not need a mirror to see that. Every motion painted a picture of his torture, forcing him to relive every excruciating laceration. He felt his chest constrict and his eyes well.

Swallowing down the emotion, he carefully brushed away the linen sheet covering his thigh and frowned at the large bandages surrounding his upper leg. The tightness encircling him renewed. It had taken him so long to recover from the original wound. He did not know how long it would take now. Eyes suddenly burning, he closed them to the tears that would have eventually come.

Sitting there, the fire in the fireplace all but dead, he trembled in the memory of everything she had said and done to him, spilling her secrets as easily as she spilled his blood, ripped his flesh and stole his hope. She strove to break him, to make him completely hers, and she had nearly done so. All he had had to do to make the pain stop was to plead and grovel his loving adoration for her. To tell her what she wanted. That he would forever be hers. It was always there, at the tip of his tongue. The shame and the humiliation always bit back the words, leaving trails of tears down his face for her to rail against.

Yet here he was, still alive while she, he was almost certain, was dead. It did not erase what she had done to him and even had she never scarred his body, he knew the effects of her torture seared his soul, separating and isolating him from all others with expert precision.

He knew the Vampire’s secret and how it was set to destroy the Chosen. It was the only glimmer of hope but it was enough to make him open his eyes and lift his head.

The world suddenly spun and slid sideways. His stomach bottomed out and his breath caught painfully at the sight of Fernando sitting smugly in the chair across from him. A wave of conflicting emotions rolled into him making him gasp. Panic set in. He wanted to flee, but it was impossible. He was as firmly trapped as if he still dangled from those accursed chains. This time it was not the metal scourge that he feared; it was the lash of Fernando’s tongue. His breath came in short gasps.

“I think it is high time for the Angel to explain what the hell he is and why he’s been masquerading as a Chosen,” stated the Noble. He leaned back, glowering down over his crossed arms.

Fernando’s words splashed cold shock over him and dried his suddenly slack mouth. He could not withstand the Noble’s fierce glare and broke eye contact to stare at the grey stone between them. Trembling, all he could think to reply sat dumbly on his lips. He could not bear to be put through questions that he himself could not answer. Whatever the Mistress of
Le Jardin
had broken in him, Fernando sought to shatter the rest to pieces and he was powerless to stop it.
 

Closing his eyes he knew that though he was Chosen he could no longer deny the radical differences. What was he then? - A question that haunted him from the moment of his birth. The Ladies called him Chosen, but They called him the One. They declared him to be the Bridge of Life and Death, but what did that mean? He could not tell Fernando this. He could not tell anyone.

The door to the room opened. He did not need to turn to see Jeanie enter. The tension suddenly tightened and he heard Fernando’s chair creak as the Noble shifted forward.

“Leave him alone,” commanded Jeanie, flying to his side. Relief washed over him and he closed his eyes, releasing the tension he did not realize he held.

“I will not.”
 
Fernando stood to glare down at them. “You have evaded me at every turn. The Angel is awake. I will have my answers or I will have no choice but to go to Hugo and tell him what I have witnessed.”

Panic sent his heart hammering anew. He knew exactly what it meant and knew that Hugo would have nothing but glee to declare him to be Destroyed, even to have a hand in dismembering him before the sun could rise to finish him off.

Jeanie stood. “Ye dinna have to do anything.” Fear tinged defiance shook her voice.

“You’re right,” sneered the Noble, “I don’t, but I’m not about to place my neck in the sun without a good reason. Any of the Chosen would have healed from these wounds in a matter of a day, and none of the Chosen can do what he did a fortnight ago. Even the snivelling monks here believe him to be a true Angel. They’re calling it the miracle of St. Martin’s. He’s awake. It’s his decision.”