by Karen Dales
In Praise of The Chosen Chronicles
“A dark and gripping tale by a true mistress of supernatural fiction. Karen Dales brings fresh blood to the vampire genre.”
—Michelle Rowen, National Bestselling Author
“For readers who adore textured layers in their literary tapestries, rich in colorful emotions, Karen Dales is one writer of vampire fiction they’ll want to read.”
— Nancy Kilpatrick, Author: The Power of the Blood, Editor: Evolve: Vampire Stories of the New Undead
“...is a must-read for any fans of Twilight or other books in the popular Vampire genre.”
- Oakville Today.
“This is a mature book...that makes it easy to enjoy...a story that has multiple layers and depth to it...the book reads fast because Karen never lets it slow down.”
- Ruth Ann Nordin, Author.
“...one of the best stories by a new and upcoming writer that I have read...This tale was wonderfully written...Very few stories are the equal to this tale.”
- Siren Book Reviews (5 out of 5)
"...a poignant and epic tale... a brilliant example of good overcoming and prevailing against evil and prejudice... an emotional ride of literary genius, both heart-warming and heartbreaking at the same time..."
- Bitten By Books (5 out of 5)
"a grand tale of eternal life and its many challenges... I greatly enjoyed Angel of Death by Karen Dales and ... recommend it..."
- Two Lips Reviews (5 out of 5)
"I would definitely recommend this book to vampire fans.. a good solid read for both Changeling and Angel of Death... I’m definitely looking forward to where Dales goes with this in the future."
- Once Upon A Bookshelf
“I was hooked...a good book to read on a cold and stormy day.”
- Night Owl Reviews (4 out of 5)
Also by Karen Dales
THE CHOSEN CHRONICLES
Changeling
Angel of Death
Shadow of Death
Thanatos (forthcoming)
ANGEL OF DEATH
Book One of the Chosen Chronicles
KAREN DALES
Dark Dragon Publishing
Toronto, Ontario, Canada
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Angel Of Death:
Book One of the Chosen
Copyright © 2009 by Karen Dales
Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9867633-1-1
eBook ISBN: 978-0-9867633-5-9
Published by Dark Dragon Publishing at Smashwords
Cover Art, Design and Author Photo
© 2010 by Evan Dales
WAV Design Studios
www.wavstudios.ca
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of Dark Dragon Publishing and Karen Dales, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Dark Dragon Publishing
313 Mutual Street
Toronto, Ontario
M4Y 1X6
CANADA
www.darkdragonpublishing.com
For more information on the Author,
Karen Dales and The Chosen Chronicles
www.karendales.com
www.thechosenchronicles.com
Acknowledgements
Never in my life have I been so blessed to have so many supportive people in my life. As always, the love and support, as well as the patience to sit and listen as I read my drafts or natter excitedly about my projects – my husband, you are always cherished.
Michael, Stephanie, Derek and Danielle, your support and help, encouragement and love, has always made me work to my highest ideal.
Adam, I’ll always say this…thanks for the French lessons!
Thank you to Michael and Angela, Rick and Jean-Guy who have been so supportive to me to make these dreams come true.
For Evan.
Chapter I
The sound of his heels clicked against the cobbles, reverberating in the cool hours before dawn. He enjoyed the quiet walk back to the flat they rented from Mrs. Heathrope. She was a nice retiring widow of eighty years. Nearly blind, she enjoyed having a polite scholarly man of the cloth and his unusually tall assistant living on the main floor of her home, while she resided in comfort and solitude upstairs. She was off on her six month vacation to the south of France, where she would escape the ravages an English winter played upon her. She left her home in the care of these two young folk never knowing that they had each outlived her by more times than she could count.
Walking through Trafalgar Square, he could make out a few homeless or passed out individuals curled up on benches. The gaslight made the night bright to his preternatural sight, allowing for the dingy grey and brown colours to fall to the background of the occasional punctuation of colour. It also made it easier for him to see the degenerates littering the square with their prostrate forms.
The sooner he made it down to the Embankment the better. There he could gaze at the Thames and the south side of London. It gave the momentary illusion of being out of an over populated city where the smells and sounds assaulted his senses. This was not the first time he and Notus had come to London, and most likely it would not be the last. Oh how he disliked, nay hated, this city. Every time they came it gave him good reason.
Turning west onto the Embankment the reduction of gaslight around him allowed for more starlight to float down, but only a little more. The dark waters, quiet in the still night, reflected not only the old waning moon, but also the many lamps that lined the bridges and walkways. True night never came to this city, and he missed it.
He did not know why Notus decided to come back to London after being away for nearly two centuries. Notus had explained it was because he was offered the once in a lifetime job of restoring ancient manuscripts and illuminations at the National Museum and Library. What the monk did not need to say was that he had had many of these types of experiences, but for the first time he was getting a chance to see how some of his own work had withstood the ravages of time.
To Notus, the illuminations and book copying were his passion and he would spend hours upon hours working on intricate patterns and artwork before even contemplating how the words would be calligraphed. Sometimes he would become so engrossed that he would forget to satiate his hunger. Now with the opportunity of a nearly two thousand year old lifetime, Notus was getting a chance to play in one of the largest playgrounds outside of the Vatican.
Notus’ Chosen shook his head in disbelief, his white hair swaying. It was always the same. If Notus got even the slightest whiff of a manuscript, no matter how far away they were, they would up and leave so that Notus would satisfy his thirst for beauty and knowledge intricately intertwined. It usually left him either choosing to come along or to go off in another direction for a period of time. Always, in the end, he would go with Notus. He just wished that this time it was not London. Nothing ever good came from coming to this place.
He sighed, remembering the last time. They had been here for only short while, arriving mere months before the worst outbreak of the Black Death. That had been in 1665 and they had lived pretty close to where they currently were residing at Mrs. Heathrope’s, off of Fleet Street near Fetters Lane. The neighbourhood had boasted some of the best bakeries and specialty shops in Lon
don. Even though the shops closed on Sundays they did a thriving business for the parishioners of St. Paul’s, until the plague came. Doors were marked with crosses one by one until it seemed that no where could one go without seeing the results of disease and death.
Foul smokes competed with the stench of rotting corpses left waiting to be taken for burial. Many of them waited too long because those attending the dead soon fell to the malady crushing the city.
The nights were worse. Cries of pain and despair came on the breezes to fill the sensitive ears of the two Chosen who bravely feasted upon the poor souls craving death and release from pain. Notus had insisted while the other Chosen turned their backs. Notus would walk amongst the barely living giving succour and deliverance to those who asked for it and expected his Chosen to do the same. He did so begrudgingly, never speaking to the diseased people, but giving them some sense of comfort before he transformed their infected blood into life giving energy his own body craved. It took more to feed off of them, than to feed off of a healthy person, but Notus insisted that it would help those who would otherwise die in excruciating pain. They had done this sort of thing in the past, but never in such a situation as that.
As knowledge of their help spread, so too did the name they bestowed upon him. An old name – the Angel, the Priest’s Angel – and he did not need to ask which angel they believed him to be. He had been called the Angel before. He could see it in their eyes. He was the final thing they saw in this life. No matter that they were dying anyway, relief and then fear would illuminate diseased dulled eyes before giving way to the darkness of death. Even those of the New Religion allowed him to come to them, when they refused his Chooser. He had hated it.
They existed on death and disease for over a year and relished the reprise winter brought, but it was the Great Fire that proved yet again that London was not a place where he wanted to be – ever.
It was near dawn and they were in their small flat, readying themselves for a peaceful day’s sleep, when the sounds of rising chaos and the smell of cinders took them out of doors to see the night ablaze. Worse of all it was getting closer, too close. Grabbing what they could of their belongings they ran to the Cathedral. He only managed to take Geraint’s now ancient sword.
Into St. Paul’s they fled, following Notus down into the sepulchre. Cooler air relieved their lungs, but not for long as they became disastrously aware that the fire was upon them. With nowhere to run, they did what they could and individually hid in the sarcophagi of wealthy individuals long dead.
It was brutal laying there in a stone box too short for him, curled up against a rotting corpse, hugging his sword in terror that their long lives might be snuffed out any moment. Then the excruciating heat came, taking his breath and his consciousness away. When he finally awoke, there was no heat and he tentatively lifted the lid only to have it completely yanked free by Notus.
Climbing out of the coffin, he could see the devastation all around them. He did not know how long they had hidden, but the sarcophagus was blackened. Both haggard, they carefully made their silent way to ground level and stood in horror at the devastation around them. Nothing was left except blistered and burnt wood smoking in the light drizzle. St. Paul’s lead roof was gone, exposing a clouded sky.
Stepping out of the ruins of the great church, they stood in stunned silence at the destruction of the city. The horrific proportions of the fire’s appetite sent their minds reeling as they walked numbly into the streets that used to be called London, their ravenous hunger forgotten.
Their flat and all their possessions were gone. Notus wept for all the books and scrolls he could not save.
Clutching his sword to his breast, he said a silent thanks to the old Gods that gave him the wherewithal to save it.
Many of the Chosen who had remained in London had fled to the Courthouse, which was home to the Lord of the Chosen. It too was gone and so were those that had hidden in it, having to either choose between the blazing fire or the burning sun.
In the months that followed, many had beseeched Notus to become Lord and Master. Having no stomach for the politics or for how the Chosen were changing over the centuries, they enthusiastically packed up their meagre belongings and left, only to return half a dozen years ago.
He turned to cut through The Temple to get to Fleet Street. He enjoyed this area, as finally there was something of nature here in the Temple Gardens. Even the ancient buildings, now housing lawyers, did not take away from some greenery of grass and flowers. It still did not replace his desire for the sense of home he felt in thickly forested areas, but at least it was something.
He walked up Inner Temple Lane that would take him onto Fleet. He was getting close to home, and none too soon as the feel of dawn tickled along his skin even though the sky was still dark.
Home. It was a strange word for the place they lived in. Most nights he would go out, feed, and then find some place to take in some entertainment where he would not be noticed. Darkened theatres and concerts he enjoyed. Sometimes he would join Notus in going to the Museum and then drift off to the Library where he would sit and read until it was time to go home. Once a week he would meet Yong Zheng Ru on the rooftop patio of the apothecary he and his daughter ran in Chinatown. It was from there that he was returning.
A lone solitary figure flashed in the corner of his eye. Recognizing the individual as one of his own kind, he shook his head in annoyance. He made it a point never to have anything to do with the Vampires, as the Chosen liked to call themselves now. Notus was right about the changes and he too did not like the way they younger ones, and some of the older ones too, modeled themselves off of the silly stories mortals wrote to try and explain a brief encounter with a Chosen. They both knew they were thought of as strange by refusing to have any dealings with these new fangled Vampires. Once, a long time ago, Notus had respected and honoured the Chosen hierarchy, but now he refused outright to play their Vampire games and ignored the Mistress’ calls to court. It was a choice both he and his Chooser had consciously made over great discussion, and neither had regretted it.
He glanced up at the paling sky as he turned onto Fleet. The sky, now a dark blue, heralded the rising sun. He knew beyond any doubt that Notus would be adding to the groove in the Persian rug, worrying himself and complaining to his Good God about his temerarious son. He smiled in spite of himself at the image of the monk imploring to his God, arms gesticulating heavenwards, only to stop at his entrance and begin again the long rant about how dangerous it was to be out so late. He did not know why he did this to Notus. Maybe it was to provide some perverse pleasure at seeing the monk distraught and fuming rather than fixated upon his books. Maybe it was just to see that the man still cared for him even after all these centuries. No matter the reason, it was also to ensure that when he returned Jeanie would not be there.
Jeanie.
He could not fathom why Notus had decided to keep her around, let alone hire her as their maid. Never before had Notus hired a woman. Always a young man in need of some extra help would be taken off the streets and given responsibilities that could only be met during the day. Jeanie had those responsibilities now, as well as the cleaning. Jeanie also made him extremely uncomfortable to be in his own home. He did not know what it was and thought best to leave shortly after she would arrive from the room at the Inn Notus paid for. She, like all the others who came before her, never knew their true natures. Notus was very careful of that, easily explaining about his Oaths never to see the sun until God’s son came to mankind again. Explaining his pale Chosen took a bit of creativity mixed with some truth that seemed to work to keep curiosity away.
Notus had brought the fourteen year old girl home on Christmas Eve no more than five years ago to become their housekeeper and helper. In that time they watched her blossom from a young maid to a fiery young woman of nineteen. A vision of her sparkling green eyes the colour of spring, her long curling burnished copper hair, and sensuous curvaceous form sent a shu
dder through him. Like it or not he found her one of the most beautiful women he had ever laid eyes upon.
But if one thing his centuries of long life had taught him was that the women he had been with wanted only one thing from him – to say that they had been with him. He was a curiosity, even amongst the Chosen, and after Notus had made it clear what was going on, he had stopped the fleeting one or two night experiences. He did not like being used.
It was not hard to imagine that she had the same intentions towards him. She always had a brilliant smile for him, which always made his breath catch. She scared him. No. That is not right. He shook his head and realized what she evoked in him was confusion and made him feel the way he did when he was first Chosen. She made him uncomfortable.
He barely understood Notus’ desire to have her over almost every night for several hours. After cleaning and setting things in order from her daytime errands, Notus would practice his new culinary hobby and fix her dinner before she would go home.
Most times Notus would stay behind, handing over the chore of walking her home to his Chosen if he had not fled soon enough. They would walk in silence with him cowled deeply under his cloak wanting only to be done with it so that he could go on with the rest of his evening. He suspected his Chooser was exploiting a perverse sense of sadism, secretly enjoying his Chosen’s discomfort around Jeanie.
It had not always been like this. In the beginning she shied away from him. Maybe it had to do with how they initially met. He grimaced, remembering coming home just before dawn on Christmas, going to his room, undressing for bed and then the God awful scream that made him jump out of his skin. His ears had stopped ringing by the time Notus burst in to take stock of the scene before him and go to calm the young girl in his bed, apologizing for forgetting to mention the girl upon his arrival. That day he discovered how uncomfortably short the sofa was. Now she always had a smile for him and would find reasons to brush past him, cleaning wherever he went, even if she had already cleaned that spot.
