Angel of Death: Book One of the Chosen Chronicles

by Karen Dales

  “You’re a young man – take this and place it on the table behind you.”

  Fernando did as he was bid, finding the weight to be unremarkable for his strength. The book slid home on the table with a thunk that rang through the room and he placed the candelabra beside it. He heard the door to the cabinet slide shut and Brother Bartholomew recommence his groans as he regained a more vertical stance.

  Glancing at the title, Fernando wished he had bothered to learn how to read French. “What is it?”

  “It’s a topographical survey of France,” huffed the elderly monk as he came to stand beside the Noble. “Collected within the last century, I believe. If your estate is at least fifty years old, it will be in here.”

  Elated at the prospects of finding Le Jardin, Fernando hoisted the cover exposing large sheets of paper covered in very tiny writing and many, many wiggly lines.

  “How is it that a monastery would have such a find? One would think it would be at some governmental establishment.”

  Brother Bartholomew passed a page to be flipped to the young man, enjoying the mystery and the company it brought. “I believe it was stored in Calais’ ministry office and once a newer survey was published, this one, as well as the others, came here. One should never throw away a book, no matter how old or irrelevant it may seem. Someone will always come along proving its applicability.”

  Fernando matched the monk’s sparkling smile. He had no doubt that he was going to find the next step in his journey all with the help of this amiable elderly man. Yet it seemed strange that Brother Bartholomew had been so displeased at seeing the Angel again. It begged the opportunity to find out more about his elusive partner.

  “If you don’t mind me asking,” he ventured, helping to flip another of the large pages filled with statistics. “You didn’t seem all that surprised to see the Angel.”

  The monk halted his procession of another page and gazed askance at the guest. Pursing his lips together, he let the page down and turned to face the Noble. “One does not forget a nearly seven foot tall albino.”

  “That’s true,” remarked Fernando. “But you also did not seem all that pleased to remake his acquaintance.”

  Turning back to study the small script, Brother Bartholomew turned another page, his tense silence filling the room. “I neither like nor dislike the Angel. It is not for me to judge, but rather His. But the Angel’s presence in our monastery, though quiet and seemingly unobtrusive, brought speculations and disharmony amongst the brothers.”

  Sensing that he was on the break of some new revelation, Fernando stepped closer to the elderly monk, took the page and flipped it. “How so?”

  “You’re travelling with him, so you must have some inkling as to what I mean.”

  Knowing all too well what the monk was hinting at, Fernando nodded. Even as a Chosen, the Angel seemed to elicit a sense of unease in those around him.

  “He told me he spent a year here in the company of Father Paul. The Angel doesn’t strike me as a devout Catholic.”

  Brother Bartholomew placed his hand flat on the page and turned to face the Noble. “Are you researching where this estate is or the Angel? Gossip is the devil’s work and I will not be drawn into such idleness.”

  “Please forgive me, Brother.” Fernando bowed his head in the hopes to appease the man. He did not want to force the information from him with his preternatural abilities, but he would if he had to. “It is that I need more information of the man that I am accompanying. If we were to find ourselves in some trouble I would need to know if I could count on him.”

  “And you don’t believe you can?”

  Fernando’s brows rose in surprise at the shocked expression on the elderly monk’s face. “I’m not sure. He told me that he spent his time here hunting, reading and practicing.”

  “Hunting – I don’t know about,” answered the Brother. “There’s not much around here to hunt. As for reading, yes, he did do a lot of that. He would read in here only when Father Paul taught his classes or worked, bringing books back to the room they shared when Father Paul was elsewhere. As for practicing – that he did – a lot.” He let out a huff.

  Sensing he was on the brink of some sort of discovery, Fernando pressed, speaking gently in time with the old man‘s heart. “Practiced what?”

  Brother Bartholomew’s shoulders slumped. “What did he not practice? Shortly upon their arrival the Angel would go out onto the cloister garth shortly after Vespers – sundown – and practice what Father Paul called, his forms. There he moved like a dancer but with all the insinuation that any motion could bring death. When he practiced with his sword, it became extremely obvious which Angel he could be if roused.”

  “And this is why you aren’t pleased at seeing him again?” Fernando’s eyes lighted at the knowledge.

  “Yes,” said the Brother. “To the novices he became what they had hoped they could have become. We lost quiet a number of them because of the Angel.”

  “He didn’t kill them, did he?” ask Fernando unable to hide his shock.

  “Heaven forefend! They just left with visions of heroics dazzling their young minds. Others were left questioning their faith. It was what happened when we had other guests one weekend that shattered our peace.” Brother Bartholomew turned back to flipping the large pages a little more rapidly than before.

  Not willing to leave this without some sort of conclusion Fernando gently Pushed, “What happened?”

  “A young man of obvious means stopped for a couple of nights with his pregnant wife and their servants. She wished to be blessed and he humoured her.” Brother Bartholomew’s fingers began to tremble, rattling the large sheets as he turned them. “The man having heard the gossip of some of the less disciplined monks went to see the Angel at practice. The next evening he challenged the Angel to a duel.”

  “He what?” Fernando could not believe his luck or his ears. He licked lips in anticipation.

  “The Angel at first ignored the gentleman, but the man forcefully insisted. Turning to face the young husband, his expression cold and emotionless, the Angel accepted. The man had his servant bring out a pair of duelling foils. It was over before it began. They saluted each other and then the Angel dropped his sword to the ground, side stepped the thrust, grabbed the man’s hand and twisted. The sound of bone snapping surprised everyone, but even more so, the young husband who fell to his knees in pain. It was then that the Angel bent down and whispered something in the man’s ear that set the man running, yelling orders that they were leaving right then and there. After that incident the Angel’s practice time changed to after Matins.”

  “And you saw this?”

  Brother Bartholomew hung his head and nodded. “I was looking for one of the novices and found him watching the Angel. I admit I became enamoured as well and witnessed the whole proceedings.”

  Pleased by the greater information Fernando smiled and took the next page as it was passed to him. “Is that it?”

  The monk leaned closer to the page that laid out the specifics of the Monastery and its surrounding properties. Off the northeastern boarder, lands belonging to Le Jardin des Dieux with the estate in its centre, were clearly marked.

  “I believe it is,” answered the Brother, relieved at the change of topic.

  “Do you think I can get a rough copy?”

  “That I definitely can do, my son,” smiled Brother Bartholomew.

  Quick paced steps echoed down the hall. In his hand Fernando held the folded map carefully crafted by Brother Bartholomew. It was not the discovery of Le Jardin that lightened his steps, but rather hearing more about the Angel. Having witnessed the Angel’s graceful defence with sword in one hand and Jeanie in the other, Fernando had been awed, something that rarely happened to the Noble. Hearing that the Angel regularly practiced these forms, with and without bladed weapon, confirmed yet again the incongruities of the man he travelled with.

  Notus’ account of the Angel’s mistaken Choosing in his
journal, coupled with the Angel carelessly admitting he became a warrior after receiving his scars made no sense. How does a young man holed up in a cave become a warrior of such skill and expertise? If indeed the Angel became a warrior after being Chosen, then the only conclusion to be drawn was that the Angel received his scarring wounds afterwards as well. That could not be possible unless there was something impure about the Angel that could brand him to be a Destroyed One.

  Fernando frowned. It always seemed to come back to that possibility and he did not like it for some strange reason. Despite the Angel being, well, the Angel, Fernando did not wish that extermination upon him. The closer he came to breaking the barrier to the Angel’s secrets, the less thrilled he became with the responsibilities and the possibilities those answers brought. He would trade them of course, without hesitation, if it meant his life or the Angel’s.

  Absentmindedly, he crunched the paper in frustration and then swore at his abuse of the map. Opening up the paper, Fernando halted and smoothed it out as best he could. Thankfully the markings made by grease pencil had not smudged too badly. He folded it carefully and renewed his search for the Angel.

  Fernando’s first inclination was to go to the cloister garth just in case the Angel was picking up his old practices again despite the horrendous weather. Not finding the Angel there, Fernando managed to trace back to the guest quarters. First he knocked on the Angel’s door and hearing nothing but Jeanie deep in sleep, Fernando gently opened it to confirm what his ears reported. The Angel was not in his room. Since only Brother Bartholomew peopled the Library when he left, Fernando had no clue as to where else he could look for his elusive partner.

  Wandering the halls in his search, Fernando halted when he found himself standing in the vestibule of the church. Drawn by the flickering candlelight which seemed to warm the chill of the sanctuary, he took a step through the doorway and into the nave.

  It was a large church for such a monastery, simple in it’s design lending to it an aesthetic beauty. Scowling at the sight of the dead man on a cross, Fernando was about to turn to leave when he caught sight of his partner kneeling before the shrine to the Holy Mother.

  “Now that is a sight I thought never to see.” Fernando walked over to where the Angel knelt at the prieu dieu, his dishevelled hair masking his pale face.

  Fernando watched, as the Angel seemed to wake, rolling his broad shoulders and lifting his head. A long fingered hand reached out to grasp the sheathed sword resting by the feet of the Virgin, sending the Noble’s heart beating faster in anticipation of a clearly mismatched fight. The Angel knelt back and then stood, sweeping his long tresses away from his face with his free hand. Swallowing hard, Fernando lifted his head defiantly, matching the Angel’s hard gaze.

  “What do you want, Fernando?” The Angel’s voice was thick with an accent the Noble had never noticed before.

  “I’ve been looking all over for you.” Fernando turned to follow the Angel out of the Church and into the corridors that would lead them to their rooms.

  “You found me. What is it?”

  Fernando sped up his stride to keep pace with the Angel’s. “I found the location of Le Jardin.”

  The Angel came to an abrupt halt and turned to stare down at the Noble. Not to be discomposed, Fernando opened up the map and held it out for the Angel to study. A smile blossomed on Fernando’s dark lips at the shock on his partner’s face.

  “Where did you get this?” asked the Angel, handing back the parchment.

  “Brother Bartholomew was most helpful.”

  Crimson eyes flashed dangerously. “What did you do to him?”

  Very aware of the slip, Fernando placed a hand over his heart feigning injury. “Why nothing. I would never be so uncouth as to break our etiquette rules. He was most pleased to help me look through the records in their Library.”

  Frowning slightly, the Angel resumed his journey to the room he shared with Jeanie, Fernando at his side. “What do you have in mind?”

  “We go after sunset to check out this Garden of the Gods,” replied Fernando.

  The Angel curtly nodded. “And if we find Madam Fleur de la Montagne?”

  “Simple,” stated the Noble as they rounded the corner. “We kill her and put an end to the poisoning of the Chosen.”

  The Angel came to a halt before his door. A flicker of worry came and went before he placed a hand on the knob. “Fine. Sunset it is.”

  Fernando stood at the door to his guestroom and faced his partner. “You’d better be quiet. Jeanie’s asleep.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I popped my head in when I was looking for you.” Fernando smiled at the startled expression and opened his door. “She’s going to be fine.”

  Closing the door behind, Fernando entered his room leaving the Angel standing in the hall. It was one thing to figure out the Angel. It was another to keep the Angel from figuring him out, he hoped.

  Chapter XXXII

  It was not the sound of the door closing quietly with a click, nor the shuffling of sandaled feet as they padded across the stone floor, and neither was it the sound of a tray clinking into place on the lone table in the room that finally pulled Jeanie’s sleep fogged mind to consciousness. It was the scent of fresh baked bread and chicken that flared her nostrils and sent her stomach gurgling in anticipation. Stretching her arms above her head, her back arched as she groaned with relief. Jeanie dropped her arms and snapped her eyes open.

  Despite the glorious warmth the bed supplied, Jeanie had no recollection of where she was or how she arrived. Quickly sitting up, she met the surprised gasp of the young tonsured monk with one of her own as she scrabbled to lift the bed sheets to her chin.

  “Where am I?” she asked. The room was small with a roaring fireplace, a small oak dresser, a desk with single chair, and one single night table, and of course the single bed she laid in. On the wall above the headboard a crucifix dangled against the stone.

  The young monk cleared his throat, turning his eyes from her and back to setting the desk to a dining table. “You’re in the Monastery of St. Martin’s.”

  “How – how did I get here?” Jeanie frowned. The last thing she remembered was the strange fog lifting as the freezing rain pelted down. She shuddered at the memory, glad that the rain had come to banish the gruesome figures swirling in the mist.

  “The Angel brought you here.” The young monk turned to exit the room. “You were half frozen and near death. Brother Absolom has given orders for plain and simple foods until you recover.”

  So many questions swirled in Jeanie’s mind. Placing a hand to her forehead in an attempt to halt the spinning, one question floated to the surface, breaking away from the others in evidence to its importance. “Where’s the Angel?”

  The monk glanced down at the floor next to her bed and quickly left the room.

  Jeanie peered over and smiled. His tousled white locks whispered across his face and the arm flung over his head as he lay on his back. White against white, his other hand splayed against his chest as it slowly rose and descended in deep sleep. A thin linen sheet covered by a simple woven brown wool blanket tucked around his lower body. It had been so long since she had seen him so peaceful.

  Carefully, so not as to wake him, Jeanie pushed down her covers and swung her bare legs over the other side of the bed. It was then that she realized she was naked. Blushing furiously at what she must have displayed to the monk, Jeanie glanced around and found her shift hanging over the footboard.

  Once dressed, she followed the delicious scent of hot food and found a bowl of chicken broth steaming in unison with the small loaf of bread. A growl responded and without further ado, Jeanie sat down and ate, dunking in ripped pieces of fluffy bread into the soup and puffing over the spoon.

  The questions she had left unspoken arose, slowing her consumption of breakfast. One answer was self-evident. The Angel slept on the floor because the bed was too small for two, let alone someone of his height
. It warmed her immensely that he did manage to sleep beside her. The other points that filled her mind remained unanswered and would have to wait until the Angel awoke.

  Jeanie glanced to the small draped window near her bed and frowned at the diffuse light filtering in at the edges. She had no sense of what time it could be. Only the light indicated that it was day. How many more hours would it be before the Angel awoke remained as mysterious as to how long she had slept.

  A whimper sounded from across the room snapping Jeanie’s attention from the broth sodden bread in her fingers to the figure sleeping next to her bed.

  It came again, followed by a sob.

  Placing down the wooden spoon with a clatter, Jeanie rushed over to his side chewing on the last morsel. Worry and dread filled her.

  White brows drawn together over closed eyes, scrunched in pain. Jeanie anxiously watched glittering tears gather at the distant corners and then trail down. Incomprehensible words mumbled from his pale lips. It was clear to Jeanie that the Angel was in the throes of a nightmare he could not wake from.

  Swallowing down her own concern and the bread, she brushed his silken strands away from his face. She wanted to wake him, to free him of whatever past memories grasped at him, and find comfort with her.

  Placing her hand on his shoulder, she gave him a little shake in the hopes that would break him from his slumber. Instead he thrashed in his sleep and cried out. His fear and torment tore at her heart. She had to wake him. With more force, she shook him and called his name.

  Crimson eyes snapped open. He gasped for breath, sat up, and scrabbled away until he hit the wall.

  He could still feel Them, grasping at him with putrescent skeletal hands, their execrable mouths clambering to gain purchase on his body. Shuddering, he knew the threat was now a promise made and he did not know why. Nausea threatened to overpower him but he managed to swallow it down. He felt sullied and marked. Leaning his head against the cool stone, he closed his eyes as he failed to get his breathing under control. It was now a matter of time before They reaped their reward from his flesh, bone and soul, and a terrible premonition filled him.