by Karen Dales
John grabbed his partner’s shoulder in the hopes to shake some sense into him and was met with a blank stare. Swinging around to face the Noble, he demanded, “What the bloody hell did you do to him?”
Pushing his hood back far enough to reveal crimson eyes, the Angel stepped forward to present the answer. “Nothing,” he stated, fastening his eyes onto the Bobbie’s. He could feel the man’s frightened pulse and talked directly into his soul. “Nothing. Now let us be on our way and do not come back here.”
It took a moment for the Push to come into effect. The officer’s shock at the Angel’s appearance was at first a barrier that quickly diminished with the force of will upon the other.
Slowly John nodded and turned to his partner. “Let’s go,” he intoned. Frank nodded and they both walked away without any knowledge of the last ten minutes.
Once they were well past audible range the Angel let out the breath he had not realized he held.
“Well, that was a close call,” remarked Fernando. “I guess we can count on them not coming back.”
“Maybe not them, but someone else.” He spun on his heel and sunk down next to the dead mortal. The stench of the man tickled his nose yet he rolled the grimy head to the side exposing the four puncture marks in a nice row along the jugular. They should have healed just before the last moment when death took him, unless Rupert had fed on him until his death, in that case the puncture marks were clear signs of a Chosen’s work. If Chosen were getting sloppy with their feeding, it was no wonder that mortals were writing about them and conspiring to kill them off.
A tiny trickle of congealing blood oozed from the wounds. Touching a finger to the red pearl, he brought the blood to his nose. A sniff revealed nothing so he touched the soiled finger to his tongue. At first there was nothing to mark the blood as different, but slowly the same sickly sweet taste, more intense than Peter’s, exploded in his mouth forcing him to spit out the tainted blood. Standing, he nodded in response to Fernando’s unasked question.
“Santo Cristo Foda do Deus!” Agitated, Fernando began to pace.
“I wish you would stop saying that.” He returned to examine the mortal corpse for any clue as to how he was infected with the poison.
The Noble halted, his brown eyes blazing. “Why?” He was upset and now the Angel was reproaching his words!
“I know what it means.” He pulled out a card from a moth eaten pocket. On it, in neat type written letters was the name and address of another soup kitchen in another part of the city. Turning it over, he found on the back, written in a flowing hand, the name Corbie Vale. Slipping it into his inner cloak pocket, he stood.
Fernando’s eyes were angry slits. “I don’t care if you or the whole bloody world has a problem with how I say things,” expounded the Noble. “I will not change for you or for any other. Now, what the hell was that I saw you slip into your pocket?”
“A card,” he replied, turning his attention to Rupert.
“And?”
He glanced up at the Noble once he discovered there was nothing on the corpse of the Chosen to offer any other clue. He stood, brushing his hands on his thighs. “I would strongly suggest that before you drain a mortal in your need to feed, you taste the blood first. It will not come right away, but if your victim is tainted you will taste a sickening sweet flavour, and it will be very likely that that person ate recently at a soup kitchen.”
The angry creases in Fernando’s face relaxed. “Sweet, eh?”
The Angel gave a quick nod. “What do you want to do with the bodies?” he asked.
The sudden change of subject brought Fernando’s gaze to linger on the corpses for a brief moment before saying, “Leave them. Someone will find them soon enough.”
He nodded. He did not like the idea of leaving the two bodies out like this. It seemed disrespectful to the dead, but they could not allow themselves to become more distracted than they were. Let someone else deal with the bodies, there was no place to hide them. They had more important things to worry about. Standing silently over the corpses, he mouthed a short prayer that he had heard Notus say many, many times through the ages and hoped that the intent, if not the words, would ease Rupert’s and the homeless man’s souls.
Ignoring the scrutinizing gaze of the Noble, he turned, determined to find out if Jeanie was indeed alive and if so, how did she fit into with the poisoning of the Chosen. It was extremely doubtful that she knew about the Chosen, and even more so regarding the poisoning, considering that if she were alive she would be a prisoner. But why? Why attack her? What caused her to be singled out, if indeed that was the case? The only reason he could fathom was her connection to him, and if all these theories were fact then he and Fernando were not only walking into a trap, they were being toyed with as well.
He regarded Southwark Bridge up ahead. Below the engineering masterpiece, the Thames undulated; a black eel, sleepy in the cool night. He did not want to even think of the water he would have to cross, or the effects the action would rend on him. Steeling himself from the unease of crossing the bridge, he focused upon the gas lamps illuminating Bankside.
The first few steps along the bridge were fine until they moved over the water. Then the familiar feelings of vertigo and nausea clutched at him, threatening to unbalance him. He could almost feel the bridge sway under his feet but knew that to be a falsehood. Swallowing down his gorge, he tried in vain to think of anything beside the unsteady movement far below his feet. The lines of lamps on the other against the city’s backdrop were his anchor, as well as the droning of a voice he knew was Fernando. He prayed that Fernando was not expecting conversation.
“You aren’t even listening to a word I said,” blasted the Noble. He had no clue why the Angel had shut down, and for that matter, he did not care. He did care that he was being ignored yet again.
The words filtered through and the Angel kept his sight on the other side of the river, knowing that if he turned to face the Noble he would lose the tenuous hold he had over his unease.
The silence of the response and the fact that Fernando was unused to being ignored began to irritate the Noble. Used to hearing himself speak, he also expected to be heard. If he opened the conversation to include another he damned well expected that person’s participation, but nothing came from the Angel.
Irritation built into anger, Fernando raised his voice. “Do you have nothing to add? Did you hear nothing I said, or was I just speaking to amuse myself.” He stepped out in front of the Angel and halted. “Caralho! You’re not listening to me even now!”
Focus on dry land shattered, the sudden rush of the depths of the river below washed over him and he placed a hand on the short protective wall in the hopes to hold his balance. He needed to get past the furious Noble and he took a tenuous step but was stopped once again.
“Get out of my way,” he said thickly.
“Now why should I do that?” inquired Fernando, sarcastically. “You haven’t heard a word I said. Why should I listen to you?”
Closing his eyes to help concentrate long enough to find the breath to answer, opened them and said in a rasping voice, “Please Fernando, tell me once on the other side.” This time he managed to push past.
Anger still unabated, and heightened by the brush off, Fernando stomped alongside the Angel’s graceful strides. “I am not going to repeat myself. Do you have any idea how much you irritate me? Seu Fodidinho! And now you are obviously hiding something. What is it?”
“I’ve told you everything I know,” he replied. Now if they could only get back onto solid earth he would not have to fear that the Noble would notice something wrong.
“Not bloody likely. You didn’t tell me what was on that card you took from that transient.”
Before he could respond four large men approached from the south side. Small clubs hefted in relaxed hands and one slapping his cupped palm invitingly. Anywhere but here, silently pleaded the Angel, his shoulders slumping under the cloak. Fernando seemed quite
enthusiastic at the prospects of taking out his frustrations on someone, anyone, and placed his hands in easy reach of his blades.
“Oy, guv’nor, spare some for th’ missus and me, wot?” asked the one in the lead.
A smile lighted the Noble’s features as he responded, “My good sir, you would do better if you said please.”
The man’s brows shot up in surprise, obviously unused to receiving this type of response. Quickly recomposing himself to the jeers of his mates, he held up his club menacingly. “Th’ only please me an’ me mates need are these ‘ere clubs. Now give us yer money.”
Fernando’s smile turned malicious. “Shall we give these gentlemen what they desire,” he stated, glancing up at the Angel.
The ruffians chuckled at the prospect of new wealth received through violence.
Managing to hide the growing unease and nausea, he nodded. He disliked what he was about to do but there was no other choice. Who knew what they would do to another target if he and Fernando did not deal with them now. Pulling off his hood, he watched as the four tried to back away, fear filling their features, only to find the Noble suddenly blocking off their retreat.
Having moved passed the thugs too quickly for them to see, Fernando stood relaxed, a dagger in each hand. “I believe this is what you truly want,” he grinned, a sadistic smile plainly revealing the sharp pointed teeth of the Chosen. At last the Noble was going to have some fun. With a quick flick of his wrists the blades flew, embedding themselves in the shoulders of two of the ruffians. Screams escaped their mouths, shocked by the pain but more by the cruel turn of fate that now placed them on the defensive.
Taking the release of the daggers as cue, the Angel reached out and with the training of centuries past and years to hone his abilities, quickly and effectively punched the leader in the face so that he fell backwards, unconscious and with a broken, bleeding nose. The last unhurt man, too terrified to scream, attempted to bolt but the Angel was there. Grabbing the ruffian by the neck, he turned the face away and sank his teeth into the unwashed neck.
Blood exploded into his mouth and it took all his effort not to swallow at first, tasting for the taint. All he found was the intoxicating sweetness of fear and sucked on the wound, filling himself of the life sustaining nourishment, hoping that his nausea would not rise. It did not take long to still the man’s futile attempts to get free and just before death could claim the man; he released him to collapse onto the cobbles.
In shock of the sight of one of their own so brutally murdered, the two with the daggers in their shoulders found they could not scream for the hands that covered their mouths. Leaning between the two, Fernando still smiling wickedly, whispered, “Careful what you wish for, you might just get it. What? You don’t like Yin and Yang? That is a shame. After all the trouble you went through to get them from me. Tch tch tch. That is too bad. I guess I can have them back.”
He spun the two wounded men around like drunken tops and removed Yin from the larger man’s shoulder. Free of its impalement the blood flowed fiercely down the man’s chest, staining the already filthy shirt and coat. Yin did not remain bloodied for long as Fernando cautiously licked the blade clean to the horror of the men. Finding the blood untainted, the Noble raised a brow as if judging the quality of a fine wine and sunk his teeth into the man’s neck.
Once drained, Fernando turned his attention to the last man standing and smiled. Red blood stained his teeth. “I take it that you now wish to keep Yang?”
Terrorized, the ruffian could only nod mutely, holding his wounded shoulder as his legs gave out.
Fernando sadly shook his head at the unfortunate reply. “I’m terribly sorry, but they are a matched set. Killed a slant eyes for them. So you see, I must have it back. Sentimental reasons of course.”
Grabbing back Yang, he quickly dispatched the screaming man, and looked up at the Angel leaning against the bridge support with eyes closed, and then to the unconscious form of the leader.
“Is he tainted?” asked the Noble, bending over the only survivor, forgetting all about the two whom he just killed.
“I don’t know,” whispered the Angel. He kept his eyes closed in an attempt to keep his unease and nausea at bay. A light breeze pulled at his long white hair, causing the strands to fly in his face and he pulled up his hood.
“What do you mean?” demanded Fernando. “You took out one of them and you won’t do the same to this one. I don’t understand you. You feed off the one, yet not the other? By God, I took them both and now I won’t need to feed for a week or more. This happenstance was fortuitous and you look like you’ve just fed off your brother.”
Opening his eyes, he gazed at the unconscious body. “Then you take him.” He could not handle any more. Maybe if they were not on this blasted bridge he would not have a problem, but right now even one was too much.
Face screwed up in disbelief, Fernando shook his head, knelt and finished off the last one. Wiping his mouth with a handkerchief, he stood, dismay still played on his features.
Lifting the corpse, the Noble said, “Are you going to help me, or what?”
Shoulders slumped; he sighed and easily picked up another of the bodies. It was an easy task throwing the corpses over the guard to land with a distant splash. No one would find them and if they did it would not be for quite some time. He knew he should feel some sort of remorse, he usually did, but his need to quit the bridge was pervasive in his being.
The sight of the black water below swallowing the last two bodies, forced him to back away from the edge, fighting to push down his rising nausea. “Can we go now?” he asked, wishing that the bridge would stop spinning.
“Sure,” replied Fernando, mystified by the Angel’s strange behaviour.
They quickly crossed the bridge in silence and without any further hindrance. Fernando occasionally glanced at his partner’s intense features focused on nothing. Something had disturbed the pale man, and to Fernando’s mind it was doubtful that the Angel would be this affected by the scene with the ruffians. No, there was something more, something that Fernando was missing.
Pursing his lips once they were off the bridge and seeing the Angel relax, he ventured, “You don’t supposed that those men on the bridge were some sort of diversion.” He knew the answer but he still wanted to hear the Angel’s reply.
Finally back on solid land, he felt the shift and the evaporation of the nausea and vertigo. “I doubt it. If they were, they probably would have been tainted. No, they were just looking for trouble on their own.”
“And found it they did,” chuckled the Noble, dryly. “You’re probably right. I just wanted to confirm my own thoughts on the event. Now where is the soup kitchen that fair maid told us of?”
There did not seem to be much around. A few people dressed in average attire walked the street. Occasionally a carriage would roll by, drawn by tired horses. Not a block away, on the east side of the street, a large low square building, obviously converted from a warehouse, stood with its window’s alight and its double doors thrown open.
Two men stood on either side of the old wide wooden staircase, batons hanging by leather strings from well-muscled wrists. These men were large and definitely not unintelligent. No one ventured in, but grubby people stumbled out in little clusters happily talking with one another or just beaming in delight. The sign above the double doors, roughly painted in bright red, declared London Free Kitchen.
The name rang a bell and the Angel pulled out the business card. On it, it too, said London Free Kitchen. How many were there? He mused.
“I believe this is the place.” He handed the card to the Noble. “I retrieved this from the old man that happened to be Rupert’s last meal.”
Fernando raised a questioning brow and flipped the card over. “Corbie Vale?”
He hitched a shoulder and took back the card. “Whoever Corbie Vale is we can count on him to be part of all this.”
“True if indeed they are the culprits.”
“I imagine we shall soon find out.” He walked towards the two men standing guard once all the riff-raff had left.
“What do you think you’re doing?” hissed the Noble.
“I am going to find out if Jeanie is in there and hopefully end this nightmare.” He turned to face the shorter man. “Do you have a problem with this?”
“Of course not! The idea is sound but the method …there is no method!”
“Then what do you propose?” Fernando was correct. They need some type of plan. Barging in probably would not be a good idea, but the idea of finding Jeanie alive was clouding his judgement and that was dangerous.
“Bluff it,” stated Fernando, holding out his hand, palm up. A half smile pulled at his lips.
Reluctantly handing over the business card, he was unsure of the Noble’s intent. With a nod of appreciation, Fernando turned and approached one of the men standing guard, a friendly smile on his face.
He was stopped from going up the stairs by a large outstretched arm, the baton now in a meaty grasp. The brute wore no expression and did not seem at all affected by Fernando’s charming smile. The other guard turned. “I’m sorry, sir, but the establishment is closed for the evening. If you wish, you may come back tomorrow. The London Free Kitchen opens at half past four.”
“You misinterpret my intentions, my good sir.” Fernando inclined his head and held out the card. “As you can see, my friend over there and I have an appointment with Corbie Vale.”
The man took the card and in the dull light emanating from the kitchen, read the card, mouthing the words. “This is one of our cards,” he finally said, looking up. He did not hand it back, but slipped it into his pants pocket. “Unfortunately Mr. Vale isn’t here. He doesn’t usually work at this kitchen.”
“That is quite unfortunate,” frowned Fernando. “He definitely told us to meet him here. Maybe we are just a little early. We can wait for him inside.” He made a move to ascend the stairs and found a hand on his chest preventing any forward movement.
