Angel of Death: Book One of the Chosen Chronicles (97 page)

Collapsing onto the couch, Notus realized he missed Jeanie’s fiery nature and willingness to do what was asked of her. He had all but expected her to come over the first evening after his release. She had been such a good girl that it was like having a daughter in the home, one that was always willing to test out his culinary concoctions to see if they tasted palatable. Sometimes she would bring a recipe from Alice and they would have fun figuring it out together. It was almost as if she had more in common with him than the boy.

Notus groaned and leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees so that he could bury his face once more in his hands.

The boy.

He had not seen the lad since he had left him sitting under the lamp post. He knew the boy was home, he could feel his presence behind the closed door to his room, but whenever Notus attempted to communicate he was met with a solid wall. The times he tried to knock on the cracked door he felt such an over powering feeling to leave that Notus let his hand drop before his knuckles could rap twice. He did not remember seeing the door with a crack in it before.

Worry over the boy grew as the nights passed without nary a word or thought shared between them. Notus knew now that he should not have accused the boy of Jeanie’s death, but having just been released to find his son in such a state and then the girl being murdered…it was too much to take in so soon. If only the lad would talk to him, to tell him what had happened in all the weeks he had been hung up on the t-bar. Maybe then he could make some sense of everything and find some meaning in the girl’s death. There had been meaning in her life, there had to be such in her death.

Three nights and the boy had not come out - had not made contact in any way. There had been periods when the boy had shut himself off, probably unconsciously, in a effort to hide his strong emotions when they surfaced. It was one of the things that Notus had learned to accept rather than change in the boy. To let him have time alone when he needed it, whether he stated it or not, but somehow this was different. He had never seen such a strong display from his son as he did three nights ago. No, that was not correct, only once before, life times ago, with another girl.

“Ah, no,” gasped the monk. Comprehension pounded him backwards against the couch. Could it be possible? He shook his head. The boy was always evading Jeanie whenever she came over for her chores and would leave as soon as it was polite or reasonable to do so. Confusion washed over the monk as he sat there with no other logical explanation.

A knock on the front door snapped his attention from his meanderings. The rapping came again.

Standing, Notus hesitantly walked to the door, listening for any possible malfeasance to occur again and realized how shaken his experience with the Mistress of London had left him. No physical mark remained on him, but he had discounted the emotional damage that had been done through his capture and suspension. Laying a hand on the door, he listened intently for any possible threat and jumped back when the knock came again.

“Come on,” came the male voice.

“Shush, Fernando,” replied a woman’s voice Notus recognized. “Maybe they’ve gone out.”

Fernando snorted. “Sure, then why can I hear breathing coming from the other side of this damned door?”

In the realization that the two on his doorstep were the Chosen from the theatre, Notus’ eyes widened. Turning the lock, he opened the door and stood back.

Before him a dark man wore a brown suit that seemed to accentuate the sun kissed colour of his skin. His almost black hair was slicked back into a tail and in his gloved hand was a simple yet stylish ebony walking stick. The woman, by contrast, wore her golden hair in a tight bun held by a navy blue hair net and a little chapeau studded with aquamarines within its net that matched the blueness of her eyes, while the modest dress and long coat matched the hat. Both appeared to be ready for an expensive evening on the town.

“Can I help you?” offered Notus, hesitantly.

The man Notus supposed was Fernando stepped past him and into the foyer followed by the woman, her hands in a mink muff.

“I thought that Jeanie would have been the one to answer the door,” commented Fernando, glancing around the empty apartment.

The girl’s name shocked Notus and he stood straighter. Closing the door to the outside world, he trapped himself with these two strangers. He watched the man take off his black leather gloves as he walked into the living room. The woman stayed where she was.

“Jeanie is your housekeeper, is she not?” Fernando turned to face Notus, an expression of pompous expectation tilting his head.

“Was,” bristled Notus, instantly not liking this man.

It was the woman’s delight that surprised him the most. “Oh that’s wonderful! Then the Angel and she –” The lady cut off at the horrified expression on the monk’s face. “What is it?”

“Jeanie’s dead.” He did not mean to have the words come out so abruptly and nor did he expect the impact of the hard truth to sting his eyes. Notus turned away, ignoring the others as he crossed the room to his desk, taking up the dried quill and cloth in a futile attempt to clean the nib.

He was surprised to hear the woman’s gasp in concert with the man spluttering, “What?”

The click of the woman’s shoes told Notus that she had moved further into his home. He ceased the rubbing motion along the quill tip and noticed that he had snapped the tip clean off the fine writing utensil. Frowning, he placed it and the cloth down on the desk.

“I guess we should have figured that something was wrong when the Angel did not send Jeanie for this,” remarked the woman to Fernando. Pulling her hands out of the muff, she placed the furry tube under one arm, while she opened her coat and pulled out the Angel’s sheathed sword. “Jeanie always made sure this came with him, even if he could not hold it.”

The woman’s words made no sense to Notus and he took the ancient blade from her dainty hand. He would not draw it. It was the boy’s, given to him by his sister, previously owned by his father - a truth he would never relinquish.

He stood the sword beside his desk and lifted his gaze to the two Chosen. “What do you mean? Who are you?” He knew he sounded rude. It was completely unlike him. It was yet another indication that his trials in the Mistress’ court had profoundly affected him.

Surprise lit up the woman’s heart shape face, widening her blue eyes. “Oh dear, we have been rude, Fernando.” She shot the man a remonstrative glare before returning her attention to their host. “Please let me introduce ourselves to you - although I’m sure the Angel has mentioned us - I’m Bridget and this is Fernando.”

“And we’re now the new Master and Mistress of London, thanks to the Angel,” added Fernando, seating himself on the couch.

Notus’ eyes went round at the announcement, even more confused and worried. What would the new Master and Mistress of London want with him or his son? Suspicious of the blasé nature Fernando held in the monk’s home, Notus stepped away from his two supposed guests.

Noticing the monk’s unease, Bridget tilted her head in concern. “Did the Angel not tell you about us? About what happened?”

Notus warily shook his head. “We have not yet had a chance to talk.” It was not a lie, but came close enough to one by the omissions in the statement.

It was the Master of London’s turn to appear flabbergasted before he shook his head in wry amusement. “That’s so bloody like him.”

The statement dropped Notus’ jaw. It was clear that these two knew his son well, but how? Confusion from the missing fourty days swirled and he sat down in the chair that now served at his desk.

“Maybe you would be so kind as to enlighten me, sir,” said Notus, slowly. “Perhaps it would clarify many questions I have about what happened during my detainment.”

Fernando leaned back and glanced at Bridget. Notus was well versed enough to be aware that these two were communicating silently as only Chooser and Chosen could do. The only question was which one was the Chooser and which the Chosen.

Finally Fernando let out a sigh through his nostrils and nodded. “Alright. Though both Bridget and I think you should hear it from the Angel. Ah, the joys of being the one in charge. Where is the Angel, by the way?”

“In his room,” stated the monk.

“For all this time?” asked the Mistress.

Notus glanced down at the strips of wood that made up the floor and nodded. He could sense the tension arising from another conversation between Chosen and Chooser.

Finally Bridget spoke up. “Do you mind if I go in to talk with him?”

“It’s not me who will determine this, my Lady, but rather him.” Notus hitched a shoulder. “You are welcome to try. His room –”

“Yes, I know,” cut off Bridget as she turned towards the broken door. This time Notus hid his surprise that she knew where it was, but could not hold it when she opened the door and went in.

“Bridget and I agreed that I’ll tell you what I know,” said Fernando, snapping the monk‘s attention around, “since she is of the belief that if I don’t then you’ll remain in the dark and that will not be beneficial to either you or the Angel.”

“I appreciate that, sir.”

“First thing that you can do is cut the ‘sir’ crap and call me Fernando. Gwyn does.”

The use of the name for his son proved beyond a doubt that this Chosen knew the boy well. He nodded solemnly.

“Good.” Fernando offered a quick smile and embarked upon his tale.

He sat and stared over his arms, the lower part of his face buried in the pillow that was hugged to his chest by his bent legs. Jeanie’s scent lingered over top of the clean linen of the white pillow casing. It was the last vestiges of what remained of her and he refused to let go for fear that the brief time spent with her would become a myth within his memories. He could not allow that. She had been too precious to him, too important, too loved.

He let out a shuddering breath and closed his eyes wondering if it were possible to run out of tears. Jeanie’s death was still too raw and the memories of her flaccid body in his arms too painful. Violet could have scourged him to death and it would have paled against the torment he now felt at Jeanie’s loss.

Swallowing down his pain, he buried his face in the edge of the pillow drinking in what remained of their infinitesimal time together and damned himself for allowing fear to block him from acting upon his love for Jeanie sooner. There had not been enough time for love when there should have been. It burned his heart and tore at his guts.

The hours after Notus had taken Jeanie away had been excruciating. Too many times he contemplated watching the sunrise for the first time since he was a child. It would have put an end to his agony and guilt, but he knew that Jeanie would not have wanted that. She had sacrificed too much to ensure that he survived. To throw that gift away would dishonour her memory.

Her memory. His memory of her. That was all that he had left. That last kiss, last touch, and last fleeting smile hiding her worry. It was burned into him, a constant reminder that he had utterly failed her.

He wrapped his arms around his legs, bringing his legs tighter to his chest, squishing the pillow, and ignored the twinges his visceral wounds set off. Their pains were nothing and he sat on his bed, his back against the headboard that served as an island to the wreckage of his life.

If he dared to open his eyes to the darkness he would see the destruction his guilt and mourning had created once he came home. The pent up rage at his failure and the fury of his loss had sent him dashing nearly every piece of furniture into kindling. The nicely tailored clothing was now littered amongst the wreckage. It was only when he approached the bed did some sense come to him and he had collapsed, sobbing into the twisted sheets that had been left unmade when he and Jeanie rose to leave for France. Her scent lingered, stealing his anger and replaced it with grief.

He did not know how long he had lain there weeping. At some point Notus had come home but he dared not to go to his Chooser and nor did he want the monk to come to him. He was too raw and Notus’ admonishment over Jeanie had been a deterrent for any contact. He could not bear any more accusations than he himself could supply.