Angel of Death: Book One of the Chosen Chronicles (94 page)

Shock was the first expression that widened her eyes as she gazed down at the long piece of oak sticking into her chest. The knife dropped to the ground beside him an instant before her body slid from his, convulsing in its death throes. It was what Jeanie had told him about Vampires. It was enough to kill the Mistress of London.

Groaning in agony, he managed to push her off and roll over onto his knees. He tried to support himself on his hands but they were now useless, so he rested on his aching and burning forearms as he tried to catch his breath. The sounds of battle seemed distant but he could feel the Chosen’s rising concerns that the Vampires were winning.

Crawling a little ways away from Bastia’s decaying body, he rested his forehead against the plush carpeting in the hopes that the room would cease to spin. There was no choice if the Chosen were to win. He worded the ancient spell of summoning.

The mist rose steadily from the ground, unnoticed by those who still fought. When it was of a height with him he could see the thickening of the vapours until one of the demons flowed towards him.

What is your bidding, Sire?
Its words throbbed through his head. Its desires were as obvious as its gruesomeness.

Without a thought the words came to him in the ancient language Auntie taught him when he was a boy. It was the same language They and the Ladies used.
“
Take the Vampires. Do not touch or harm the Chosen.”

As you so order, Sire, so shall it be done.
It flowed back into the rising fog.

Surprise and panic gave way as the Chosen and Vampire realized what was ascending from the floor. Fernando swore, immediately recognizing the threat, and grabbed Bridget, hugging her in an effort to seem small against the rising demons. Soon the whole theatre was swirling with the thick white mist and what it held in its vapours.

Mayhem commenced.

Screams and shrieks of terror seemed far off through the mists. Those Vampires who managed to move seemed to stomp heavily in an effort to flee only to have their cries and footpads cut off. The sounds continued on for an insufferable amount of time as the swirling mists and its denizens continued to follow the orders of the Angel. When the last cry was uttered, the mists dissipated.

Breathing heavily as if he had run for miles as a mortal, the Angel watched the dark spots in his field of vision connect until all was blackness.

“Get up.” The words and the sense of urgency pounded between his ears, yanking him from the grove and the delicious spring water it held.

“Dammit Gwyn, get up!”

The use of the name shocked him awake with a gasp and he realized he lay face down on the red carpet. He was so incredibly tired that all he wanted to do was lay there, close his eyes and slip back to the sacred grove.

“Come on. Get up.”

Rough hands grabbed at him, hauling him bodily to his feet. Swaying, he blinked down at Fernando’s dishevelled form. It was obvious that the Noble had taken a few cuts from some of the rips and slashes in his once expensive tuxedo. Bridget was beside him. Her long golden hair no longer sported the perfect style but rather gave testimony to the brawling and cat fighting she had done. Gone was her fox fur wrap and one of the shoulders of her dress was ripped. Beside the damage done to their clothing they appeared perfectly healthy. He doubted the same could be said for himself.

“We managed to get Notus down, but he’s not waking,” said Bridget. Her eyes flickered over to where the old Chosen lay on the stage surrounded by a handful of Chosen in equal physical disarray.

His heart lurched at the sight and he carefully hobbled to the stairs leading up to his Chooser. He accepted Bridget’s strong support as he winced with every step despite the fact that the surviving Chosen stared openly at him. It was clear that the questions of what the Angel truly was would spin around, spawning dangerous speculation. He wondered how many saw the blackened and bleeding knife wounds along his forearm.

Once on the stage he was better able to survey the damage to the Chosen and the Vampires. Only a few decapitated bodies lay on the floor. They belonged to the Chosen. Nothing remained of the Vampires taken by the mists.

In the middle of the red carpet the Vampire Mistress of the London lay sprawled and shrivelled with a large piece of wood sticking up out of her chest. He scowled at the corpse and shook his head at the incalculable damage she and her kind had wrought upon the Chosen. Turning his face from the scene, he brought his attention to Notus’ unconscious form.

Sallow skin hung loosely from Notus’ slack face, making his salt and pepper hair even more stark. It was apparent to all that he had been nearly drained, but it did not explain his torpid state. Standing over his Chooser’s supine form, the Angel’s breath caught and he gritted back tears. He knew what needed to be done but he did not know how much he could give.

 
He had never fed Notus since the night of his making. It had always been the other way around, Notus offering himself for his Chosen to nurse at his wrist when the iron wounds made it impossible for the Angel to hunt. Now he had to return the intimacy but he did not know if he could. Not when the memory of Violet’s teeth penetrating his flesh was so new.

“So it’s true,” stated a Chosen, matter-of-factly. The man swept back unruly blonde locks as he stood by Bastia’s dried up corpse, gazing in disgust. “Vampires are real and they’ve - she - duped us into believing it was just a word attributed to the Chosen. What idiots we are!”

“We’ve grown too complacent, Jonathan,” replied Georgina, pulling at the rip in her bodice to cover her naked breast. “We’ve let ourselves accept whatever has been thrown to us, especially those things that stroked our sense of self importance. Katherine did that - we allowed it.”

“Yes, we did,” added Maurice who had leapt down from the stage to scowl at the body. He turned to face the Angel. “And now that the Angel killed Katherine are we allowing yet another pretender to rule over us as Master?”

Many of the Chosen gasped at the statement. To the Angel, he had prayed it would never come to this and his mouth turned to dust as he tried to swallow. Here he stood, albeit supported, before the remaining Chosen of the council for the British Chosen. It was a position he never wanted to find himself in, in any court.

Wild speculation and accusations flew not only at him but also at each other. The Chosen debated what had actually transpired in the last half hour and what was the Angel’s significance in it. Bridget and Fernando watched dumbfounded at the vehemence in many of the Chosen. It had been the Angel that had saved them from the Vampires. Could they not see that? But they did not.

The volley of words rose until a dark haired Chosen yelled, “I still smell blood.”

Several nervously chuckled at the statement. “Of course you do, Maurice,” placated Jonathan. He pulled his ripped suit jacket to settle properly across his shoulders. At the sound of the tear increasing he shrugged it off and threw it to the ground. “This place is littered with Chosen and Vampire blood.”

“That’s not what I meant,” sneered Maurice. “I still smell blood, it’s burnt, and it’s coming from the Angel.”

Wary curiosity, fear and anger swarmed the Angel, but it was the concern from Bridget and Fernando’s audacity that floored him. He could not deny the blood dripping from the slices into his forearm. He could not deny the cautery the iron blade had done. His shirt was ripped for all to see the wounds that marked him different. Bridget’s arm steadied him as the realization struck.

“We’ve all wondered who and what the Angel is.” Maurice struck a pose as if he were a politician in the House of Commons giving a speech to the Throne. “According to our ancient laws handed down to us by the Elders and their Elders, the Angel is now Master. We have a right to know if he truly is Chosen.”

The one-two punch stole the Angel’s breath and all he wanted to do was sit down, tend to Notus and leave. He was too ensnared in his own sloppy machinations to retreat. He opened his mouth to reply, but surprisingly Fernando stepped forward.

“The Angel is Chosen,” stated the Noble, briskly, his ire up. He quickly glanced at the Angel and then addressed Maurice and the others. “I have spent more time with the Angel than any other person here save his Chooser. In that time I learned much about the Angel.”

The Angel winced at what he knew was coming - Fernando was going to divulge everything. He knew he should never have trusted the Noble.

“Shhhh,” whispered Bridget, a slight smile on her smudged lips. “It’s going to be alright.”

Fernando turned to glare at his Chooser and the Angel, “Do you mind?” He returned his attention to the Chosen. “What I have learned is that the Angel is what he is - The Angel.”

“That doesn’t explain that demon filled fog,” snapped Maurice. “Where did that come from? Why did it only go after the Vampires? Who controlled it?”

“You’re right, it doesn’t explain it,” stated Fernando matter-of-factly. “But a Chosen has a right to privacy or do you want to explain why you fuck little boys in your basement.”

Maurice’s face paled and then reddened with indignant rage. Turning on his heel, he strode out of the theatre, the door ringing closed with his wake.

“Shouldn’t someone stop him?” suggested a pretty blonde Chosen.

“Why?” offered Fernando. “Maurice is a coward. He shouldn’t ever have been given the Choice. He’ll be on the first ship to the Americas in an effort to get as far away from the truth as possible.”

“So the Angel is now Master,” queried Georgina, her eyes narrowing to find a reason why he should not be Master.

This was not what he wanted and he shook his head in denial. He had told Bridget and Fernando that he would not take up the mantle. It was not for him.

“It seems so,” scowled the Noble as he backed up from the edge of the stage. He had done as much as he was willing to do to for the Angel. Regardless of what others may think of him, Fernando kept his word.

It did not feel right, but an idea blossomed to mind. If they believed him to be the new Master then they would accept his first and only decree as Master of London. It was the only way out of the tangle he found himself.

“No,” he whispered, shifting his position to face the Noble. “I was never raised to rule anything or anybody.” Silence fell upon the auditorium as every Chosen turned to face him. Expectant curiosity flowed. Even Bridget, who still supported him, gazed up at him surprised at his response. He caught Fernando’s shocked eyes with his own. “It should be someone who was raised to rule others. One who was trained from birth even though denied it into adulthood.” He winced as he placed his hand on the Noble’s shoulder. “Fernando, last Fidalgo de Sagres, and Lady Bridget of Brittany –” Bridget gasped. He inclined his head to whisper; “I recognized your accent when you spoke French.” He continued his address to the Chosen.
 
“— You are now Master and Mistress of London, monarchs of the Chosen of Britain.”

A silent concussion rocked the room, causing the glass around the gas lamps and the sconces to twitch. Several Chosen stumbled before catching themselves to stare wide eyed while others fell to the floor with the impact. When all had resumed their upright positions a wash of relief and happy acceptance flowed from them. Several even smiled while others nodded appreciatively. What they all could not account for was the strange occurrences attributed to the Angel, but the general sentiment was that they were happy he was not Master.

Tentatively, Jonathan cleared his voice. “There is still the matter of the Angel, my Lord and Lady. The Chosen have experienced too many odd happenings, from the demon filled mists to finally this strange explosion we all felt at the Angel’s proclamation. You infer that the Angel is Chosen yet there he stands, requiring support, with wounds on his arm that will not close.”

The Angel stared at the new Master of London, knowing he had put his life in the Noble’s hands. Would Fernando honour his promise even now?

The sudden flush of power Fernando had received with the Angel’s pronouncement made him smile and he glanced at Bridget before meeting the worried crimson eyes. Cocking his head, appreciating the irony of the circumstances, the Noble turned to face the other Chosen.