Angel of Death: Book One of the Chosen Chronicles (95 page)

The Angel had given him something he had refused to ever dream about, always believing himself a disinherited foreigner. Even after stripping the Angel of his secrets the Angel gave without asking for anything in return. Fernando now understood the difference between the Angel and his Chooser and the rest of the Chosen. Bridget was right. Given the powers the Angel possessed, Fernando needed to make sure the Angel would stand with he and Bridget and never against them. There was no doubt in the Noble’s mind that the Angel would make a formidable enemy.

He Sent his idea to Bridget and she affirmed the decision with a grin. He knew what the first order of their new reign needed to be and addressed the Chosen. “The Angel and his Chooser are under the protection of the Master and Mistress of London. Any who gainsay it may quit these lands immediately or have their lives forfeited.”

The Master of London’s declaration floored the Angel. It was not what he was expecting. The Noble was actually keeping his promise and then some. For the first time in his very long life he was safe from prosecution and the threat of Destruction was nullified, as long as their friendship continued. It was such an alien state of mind that all he could do was stare dumbfounded.

It was Bridget’s next words that stripped him from his stupefaction. “You are given permission to Choose whom you love, regardless of who may try and say otherwise. Now, heal your Chooser and go home. You have sacrificed much for the Chosen, not only here in Britain, but in the rest of the world. We will see to it that the word goes out.”

With the new Mistress of London’s help, the Angel sat down beside Notus’ unconscious form. Painfully, he managed to support Notus’ head in his lap and pushed up the tattered remains of his left sleeve with feeble fingers, exposing the blackened manacle wounds and the fresh gashes in his forearm. He could not use his wrist. It would have to be the inside of his elbow. Lowering his arm, he pressed his feverish skin against Notus’ cold blue tinged lips.

“Drink,” he whispered unable to keep the urgency from his voice. “Drink Notus. It’s me. Your son.”

The corpse like mouth opened and he felt stinging as needle sharp teeth pierced his flesh. He wanted to immediately pull away as he felt the power of Notus’ suckle on his arm, imbibing with each pounding of his heart.

Images flashed to mind. He could see Notus’ fight against those Vampires that had brought him here against his will. He could feel the monk’s stunned defeat. Blurred images and sensations flowed into him of Notus’ exsanguinations by the Vampires and then the binding of him to the t-bar.

The visions of Notus’ torture evoked his own by Violet, sending him reeling. He yanked his arm away, feeling Notus’ teeth rip his flesh into a gaping wound that quickly closed, and he scrabbled away, ignoring the pain that shocked up his arms, leg and back with the movement. It was only a couple of feet away from his Chooser that he halted, eyes closed and gasping, his whole body shaking from the memory.

Bridget’s quiet voice stirred out of his panic as she knelt beside him. “It’s okay. Everything is all right. You’re here, not there. You need to get control. You’re projecting your emotions and it’s scaring everybody.”

He managed to return to the here and now, but it was Notus’ voice that widened his eyes.

Stretching with a yawn, Notus stood with the help of the Master of London. “What an odd dream.” The monk turned to face the Chosen around him, his face going slack with the memory of where and why he was there. “Oh.” Slowly his eyes comprehended what he saw decaying on the carpet and then widened in apprehension.

“Where’s my son!” he demanded.

“Here, Notus,” answered Bridget from the Angel’s side. “He’s here.”

Notus whirled around to see his boy on the stage floor next to the woman who had spoken. Panic set into him but was quickly quenched at the smile on her face and his son’s look of utter relief. The monk took a couple of tottering steps towards them.

It was so good to see his Chooser awake and moving. He wanted to smile and get up, and was about to when Notus knelt down. The sallowness was replaced by a faint pinkish glow, but he could still see that the monk needed more.

“You look a little worse for wear, my son,” smiled Notus, his brown eyes twinkling.

Usually such a statement would have caused him great consternation, but he had learned some things from being with Jeanie and Fernando. “I could say the same for you, old man.”

He met his Chooser’s stunned expression with a slight smile and was rewarded with a boisterous laugh before being caught up in a fierce bear hug. Enduring the crushing pain, he closed his eyes, breathing deep of his Choosers scent and he knew that everything was going to be all right. He hugged Notus back, enjoying their first embrace, ever.

Pulling away, Notus brushed back tears with his hands. “I was so worried about you.”

The statement shocked a laugh out of him. “You worried about me?”

Notus had the wherewithal to look abashed. “Well, after I closed you off…”

“I understand,” he replied, realizing that he truly did. He would have done the same if Notus had been around the time of his experiences with Violet. Reaching up, he touched Notus’ face and gazed deep into brown eyes. The monk’s eyes widened momentarily and then he sighed.
I truly do.

Notus nodded with a knowing smile and rose to his feet.
Let’s go home, my son. I’m famished. Then you can tell me everything.

With Bridget’s help the Angel managed to rise to his feet.

“Go,” she gently ordered. “Fernando and I can manage.”

Glancing at the Noble’s perturbed expression, he turned back to the new Mistress. “Thank you,” he whispered solemnly. “Thank you for everything.”

“Didn’t you hear your new Mistress of London?” barked the Noble. The gruffness belied the slight playful tone underneath if one had spent a month with the man. “Go home.”

His lips quirking with a slight smile, the Angel bowed his head to his friend. “Yes, sir.”

Limping down the stairs and up the centre isle with Notus’ confusion washing over him, the Angel happily ignored the stunned expressions of the Chosen as he passed.

T
he cobbles clicked under her shoes as Jeanie paced back and
forth beneath the light post. At first she went around in circles about the tall iron spire, but with the speed of her apprehension she found she was becoming dizzy no matter which way she circled. Giving up, Jeanie decided to pace a straight line. Walk five steps, then turn. Walk five steps back; turn again, over and over until she lost count. The only comfort was the rhythm her steps created.

To say that she was nervous was an understatement. She understood the reasoning behind the Angel’s desire to keep her out of the theatre. Jeanie did not have to be told the hard way. She learned her lessons, unfortunately at the expense of the man she loved. It had been a surprise that he had even offered that she come and wait. She was not about to ask, but could tell he almost expected another confrontation about where she was allowed to go. It was a harsh realization that the Angel expected another fight on that issue. It seemed to be the only thing they ever fought about and it made her sad that they would ever raise their voices at each other. Quietly, she accepted his offer and did not demand more.

Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Swivel.

Now she waited outside the same building, underneath the same light post as she did over a month ago, marvelling at all that she had learned and experienced in that time. It all seemed so surreal. The Angel was hers so totally that the offer he made still spun her mind. The fact that he, Fernando and others were immortal blood drinkers called the Chosen was incredible. What was even more frightening was that not only did the Chosen exist, but Vampires were real too, the evidence of both on her body.

Jeanie dropped the hand that had absently risen to brush against the scars of the bite marks that Violet had given her. It was another indication of the differences between the two sets of immortals. With the Angel, the marks were gone within hours and any bruising left behind was gone within the day. Not so with the Vampire’s marks. They were slow to heal like any other wound.

What was completely unsettling was when the wound was touched it sent shivers of desire for a Vampire to feed off of her. She never had that with the Angel and nor did she tell him what the effects where when he noticed the scars the first time.

Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Swivel.

It had been hard enough seeing the devastation Violet had inflicted upon him. He would always bear the scars once he healed, but she wondered about the wounds that were not visible. Jeanie had witnessed the Angel in the throes of a nightmare before, yet it was nothing to what she had seen him go through afterwards. She could not count how many times she had awoken to hear him cry out, pleading for Violet to stop, his body shuddering as the memories convulsed through him. The only thing she could do was cradle his head and sing the Gaelic lullabies her mother had sung to her. Most often it had been enough. Other times she had to cry out for help to keep the seizure from causing the Angel more harm. What surprised her the most was Fernando’s help when there was no other around, especially after the Angel‘s secrets were laid bare.

Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Swivel. Stop.

Jeanie had expected the Noble to become more abusive towards the Angel, instead Fernando distanced himself and when they did come in contact he was often disgruntled or distracted. Gone was the superiority. Fernando was a man who was straining under the burden of his newfound knowledge. Jeanie just wished she knew what Fernando’s decision would be.

Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Swivel.

Jeanie returned to her pacing, desperately hoping that Fernando and Bridget would keep the Angel’s secrets so that he could come back to her.

Before long the constant pacing and worrying created scenarios in her mind, raising her anxiety and the rhythm of her pacing. She did not know how long she did this. She ignored passers-by who openly gawked at her distracted state and did not notice when the street became quiet except for her drumming feet.

Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Swivel.

She continued, wondering what was happening inside and why it was taking so long until she saw a man she thought she recognized exit through what appeared to be a side entrance. He hesitated briefly before approaching her.

Corbie Vale had returned to London earlier than he expected. Business concluded successfully in Spain, he had returned to Calais to see what had become of the Angel and de Sagres under Violet’s plans. He never could understand Violet’s obsession with the Angel when he could barely stand in the Chosen’s strange presence. There was something inherently wrong about the Angel that made Corbie’s back crawl. Yet after the arson, Corbie had only wanted to see the Angel’s head on a platter. Thankfully, many of the barrels of poison were already on his merchant ships.

Landing back in Calais, he had sent a letter to Violet that came back unopened, sparking Corbie’s ire. His Little Flower was always petulant and wilful, irritatingly so, that there were many times that he wanted to pluck her petals to prove a point. That was what he had intended when he hired a horse and driver to take him to
Le Jardin
. What he found stunned him.

The place had been abandoned save only a starving new Vampiress. When confronted, the woman told the story of how the Mistress left with her remaining Vampires to retrieve her prized possessions and never came back.

Corbie had killed the weakling Vampire in disgust and waited at
Le Jardin
for several nights. When he could only conclude that Violet either left or was defeated by the escaped Chosen, Corbie hastened back to Bastia. She needed to know the failure of the Little Flower and what that could bode for their plans.

His hand on the backstage door, Corbie opened it and took the six steps up into the darkened theatre. He let the voices guide him to a concealed place behind stage right. Standing with his back to the curtain, he listened.

Bastia’s voice was raised in annoyance as she lorded over the solitary Chosen. It was when she abruptly quieted at the sound of the audience doors opening that Corbie dared a glance. Incredulous to who walked down the carpet, Corbie could only dumbly watch the events unfold. Anger simmered at the growing realization that everything they had worked for was coming undone and all their plans were laid bare to the vile Chosen.