Angel of Death: Book One of the Chosen Chronicles

by Karen Dales

  A new scent caught his attention halting him, its bouquet far superior to that of the horses. Following instinct and his olfactory senses, Fernando lunged at the intruder.

  Jeanie screamed as the crisped and blackened figure, smelling of charred meat in tattered bloodied clothing, threw itself at her. Pink teeth in a fearsome growl missed her neck as she jumped sideways to escape the deadly jaws. Landing in a pile of hay, it took only a moment to realize what was standing before her, stalking her with a feral grin.

  “Fernando,” she cried as he grasped at her, trying not to gag at the scent. His burnt body fell on top of hers. “It’s me!” Impacting on the threshed flooring, all air left her lungs in a whoosh.

  Shocked at hearing the familiar voice, renewed hatred bubbled to the surface and broke, masking the agony of his tortured flesh. She was the one who allowed this travesty to occur. She was the mortal who should have been killed long ago. She was the one who did not deserve the protection of a Chosen.

  Bearing down, frustration snapped at him as he felt Jeanie squirm out of his mouth’s reach.

  Realizing that what was left of the Noble mindlessly hungered for her blood, Jeanie knew that if bitten again she would die. She did not have much in reserve to keep him at bay, but she had to do something to survive this attack. She remembered her meal laced with the deadly herbs.

  “I’m tainted,” she yelled. “Fernando, no!”

  Jeanie’s words slapped him back to cogency and Fernando ceased his attack. With teeth clenched, he hoisted himself off the girl, every muscle protesting a meal denied. He had so wanted to rip her throat out with his teeth, to feast on her hot blood as it poured into him, to savour the taste of his revenge. Instead, he stood trembling and gazed down at the black blob lying in the hay that was the Angel’s love.

  “You fucking bitch,” he hissed, his jaw burning with the movement. Pain enervated through him and he stumbled backwards until the wall propped him up. “I should kill you for what you‘ve done.”

  Blackened patches of skin sloughed down his face to land in the straw, leaving glistening red skin and blood filled blisters in its wake. Jeanie could only watch, numb to the horror except for the rising nausea. Fernando’s words echoed in her head, springing forth tears and she knew the truth of them.

  “He’s still alive,” she muttered, unable to glance up at Fernando‘s slowly healing form.

  “What?” Surprise flushed through the Noble only to be quickly quenched. “How do you know this?”

  “I overheard Violet.” Slowly she regained her feet, but still could not bring herself to look at Fernando.

  “Ah yes. You’re friend from the Inn,” sneered the Noble.

  Jeanie stared dumbfounded at Fernando.

  “You think I didn’t know.” Fernando took a shaking step towards her. Charred muscle rustled like dry leaves. “She sent us to find you at the soup kitchen. She was all worried about you. Little did I know you were just part of the plan to entrap us and destroy us.”

  Eyes wide, Jeanie could only shake her head in defiance. What if the Angel believed the same? Swallowing her fear she found something else in its place - anger. Furious at the betrayal by her false friend and her complete naiveté and she lashed out

  “Ye stupid git,” she yelled. “D’ye think I’d bed the Angel just to see him kilt? What a sorry existence ye’ve had. I was snatched while out for a walk. Violet was my friend. I trusted her and she turned out to be a monster!”

  The horses whinnied and pounded against their boards as Jeanie’s voice faded from the stables. Silence fell between the two as Jeanie attempted to get her anger under control.

  “When I heard ye’d been kilt I actually was sorry,” she whispered, brushing away her tears. “When I realized ye were still alive I was happy. Now ye just disgust me.”

  The bold truth of the girl’s words rocked Fernando to the core. It was not what he expected from her or from anyone for that matter. His own anger diminished with the realization that she was just as much a victim of Violet’s, if not more so. For the first time in a very long time, Fernando felt compassion and shame. He glanced up to see her figure turn towards the open stable doors.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” he demanded, his eyes squinted with the light silhouetting her form.

  “Back to the monastery.” Jeanie stepped out into the sun, watching the villa for any signs that her escape had been detected. She felt safe in the warming rays, knowing she was beyond Fernando’s grasp. She would never allow herself to be a pawn of his or anyone else’s again.

  The thought of being trapped in the stable, awaiting discovery, filled the Noble with panic. He knew full well he did not have the strength to fight against whatever numbers the Mistress of Le Jardin threw at him, no matter how many horses he consumed. He had escaped the Sun Room, but had not planned on how to leave the property now the sun was fully up.

  “Wait,” he called out. The idea he was dependent upon this mortal girl for his escape galled him.

  Jeanie turned at the call and took in the ragged and wounded form of the once Noble Fernando de Sagres standing well within the shadows of the structure.

  They stared at each other, waiting for the other to speak.

  Fernando broke first. “You said the Angel was still alive.”

  “Aye, I did.” Jeanie stepped closer, still standing outside.

  “And you’re just planning on leaving?”

  She did not know if Fernando could shock her further until now. “Ye just dinna get it, d’ye?”

  Fernando bristled and attempted to straighten his burnt back.

  “I’m goin’ back to the monastery to get help to free the Angel.” Jeanie’s eyes flashed threateningly and then she smiled. Help was standing right in front of her if she could find a way to make him do it.

  Fernando barked a laugh. “You think that a handful of musty old monks can free the Angel? You don’t even know what you are fighting against.”

  “Oh but I do, Fernando.” Jeanie stepped into the darkness and realized he could hardly see her when his eyes did not focus properly. She found the card and held it close.

  “What?” He could not believe what he heard and stepped back from the girl. The bloodscent sent tremors through him and he knew he had to feed again, and soon. “You’re lying.”

  “I am not,” she affirmed.

  Surprised at her conviction, Fernando glared. “Then tell me.”

  She wanted to whoop and holler at catching the Noble in his manipulative trap. He seemed in such poor form that she was almost sorry to take advantage of him, but it was the only way. “I’ll tell ye after ye help me free the Angel.”

  Clicking his jaw shut, Fernando shook his head. “I can live without that knowledge.”

  Jeanie blinked in disbelief. She had not counted on him calling her bluff. Chewing on her bottom lip, she found what she needed to up the ante. “I’ll get ye to the monastery too.”

  “And how do you propose to do that?” he scoffed. “A nice stroll in the sun would limit my usefulness in obtaining the Angel.”

  “There’s a covered wagon beside the stable. I used to drive carts with my da. I ken how to hitch them too. Add a couple of horse blankets and ye‘ll be fine.”

  Slowly, Fernando nodded, agreeing to the terms. It was his only way. “If you get me back to the monastery and allow me time to heal, we’ll go back to get your precious Angel. Then you’ll tell me who or what is behind the poisoning of the Chosen.”

  “Deal.” stated Jeanie, sticking out her hand and instantly regretted the action. Crisped flesh slid in her touch, creating cracks that oozed red and yellow gore. It took all her resolve not to vomit.

  Fernando took her hand in his scorched and blackened one. “Deal.” He let her pull away faster than he would have liked, but still he admired her fortitude even as she wiped his burnt and suppurating flesh from her hand onto her skirt. “One other thing.”

  “What?” snapped Jeanie, halting in her pr
ogress of cleaning her hand. She checked between her fingers and grimaced.

  “Pick your two horses for the job,” smiled the Noble, his face ghastly as more skin sloughed off. “The others are mine.”

  Jeanie sighed at the necessity of what was to become of the poor beasts and nodded.

  Chapter XXXVI

  “It is the attachments in one’s life that suffering is created. The pain our bodies create is just one such visceral attachment. Detachment from one’s expectations of sensation will cause pain to cease, allowing one to transcend physical perceived reality.”

  “What about pleasure?”

  “So to with all forms of attachment, whether it be of the physical, mental, emotional or spiritual. Through detachment comes transcendence.”

  The words of his first Master rang through his mind as if he and the monk were sitting in his dimly lit cell. Of course that was impossible. Master Tsang was over seven hundred years dead. Yet the substance of the words rang true more so now as he hung from the iron shackles.

  He could no longer feel his hands. The last time he ventured a glance, they were blackened and swollen, the iron band cutting and smouldering into his inflamed wrists. The smell of his burning flesh mingled with the soot the grease torch released.

  Mouth parched, he tried to swallow and felt his dry lips crack. He was on fire from the iron borne infection and he knew that what he heard was not what she had said.

  Time had lost meaning in the torture the Lady of Le Jardin exacted upon him, yet some part of him knew that what seemed to be nights of torture were only several hours.

  He vaguely recalled her storming down the stone steps and taking up the serrated knife. It was difficult to recall when there was a time when that bloodied blade was not part of her hand, and somewhere in his fevered mind he believed that the knife was her hand.

  With meticulous care and a surgeon‘s skill, she carved into his body, following previously treaded paths. First came the chest wound. Sizzling meat and blood wafted up causing him to retch and incurring her wrath when he refused to answer her questions. Then she traced the ancient scar on his arm, opening it up in a slow mockery of the single slash that had first rended his flesh and exposed his deadly differences.

  He had turned his head away from the flicking of her cold tongue to lap at any blood that oozed from the burnt flesh, ashamed that the coldness gave some relief. Still he refused to reply.

  With each passing of the blade as it dug deeper, the questions repeated, slicing muscle fibre from muscle fibre in a cautery that added to his agony until the words became a mantra, whispered into the flesh as she consumed him.

  “Where is she? Where did she go? What is she going to do? If you tell me I will stop.”

  He refused to believe her even though his body cried out for him to relinquish the knowledge so as to be freed from the torture.

  Through the Lady’s fury and constant repetition he knew that somehow Jeanie had escaped, eluding recapture. He silently repeated each question, clinging to them in the hope they provided as his body was riddled in unrelenting agony. His voice broken from screaming, a part of him was grateful that he could barely utter a word otherwise he would have answered the Mistress long ago. Anything to make her stop, to ease the pain if only for a little before she would find another reason to pick up the knife and begin her work anew.

  Another presence entered the chamber, cutting off the litany, bringing a momentary respite from her slicing attention. He released a sob at the sudden relief before a frustrated scream shattered the silence that turned his gut into a knot, sending shudders along his body.

  A new mantra began as she stabbed into the scar on his leg, carving the old wound open in one easy stroke. The jarring of blade against bone sent him swinging on the chains.

  Through his cries he heard the words repeated again and again as she worked the knife. “Where is de Sagres? Where are they hiding?”

  Gasping, his eyes closed, he could feel the cold touch of the white-faced demons beckoning him into their embrace. Their torture would be a release from the suffering he endured and he opened his eyes.

  The Lady’s contorted face looked up to meet him. The inferno that raged through him blurred his vision. She could do anything to his body, but he would escape, he realized, and she would never find him. No one would ever find him again. Not Jeanie. Not Notus. Not Fernando. They would be free while he fled into the awaiting arms of the demons. It was his choice. He accepted it.

  “Why are you smiling?” snapped Le Jardin’s ruler. She lifted the gore-besmeared blade to his face and held it there.

  “You‘ve lost,” he rasped, not knowing nor caring where the words came from. They stole his breath away and he closed his eyes, the tug from the demons more insistent. It would be his choice that he would endure. The known tortures of the demons were preferable to the unknown devices she had yet to put into action.

  He groaned as he felt his head snap back.

  “What are you talking about? I never lose.” The Mistress’ fetid breath raised his gorge.

  His breath came in quick gasps as she sawed her way along the knotted scar on his leg, each pass sending spasms through his body as she repeated her newest questions. Over and over the new mantra sounded in an effort to force the answers from his torn and burnt flesh. It was when he realized that the questions had stopped, halting the blade’s motion, that he opened his eyes.

  The Lady of Le Jardin stood at the implements hanging on the wall. Carefully, she placed the bloodied blade on the small table against the stone and picked up something else.

  His eyes widened as his breath and heart raced at the sight. Cold terror impaled him and he found he could not relinquish the gaze until she was beyond his sight. Again he felt his head snap back, the cold metallic touch of the scourge’s rod pressed upwards under his chin.

  “I have had my fun,” she hissed, “but it is starting to grow dull. I had believed that the Angel would be more fun than this. Answer me.”

  An explosion of air ripped through his lips. “They know.” His raw throat barely allowed the whisper. “Jeanie and Fernando know about the Vampires poising the Chosen and you will never find them.”

  He felt her tense with the understanding of the truth and he closed his eyes. “You may possess my body, but my soul belongs to Jeanie.”

  Another scream of rage shook the room and he felt her sudden release that sent him swinging.

  He knew it should not have been a surprise what happened next, but the intense agony of feeling the barbed iron lashes rip and flay him, lifting and separating, searing skin and muscle, pulled him closer into the embrace of the demons.

  A second followed by a third lashing, as the Mistress raved.

  In her fury she cursed her failure with the Angel and screamed her defiance against whose orders she had broken. She had failed her Mistress, the Lady Bastia, Mistress of Britain, Mother of All.

  The sound of tearing and the smell of burning seemed remote as the inferno that became his back radiated through his body, numbing his mind.

  Four.

  Five.

  Six.

  The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth and he wondered whose it was.

  He lost count after eleven. His body was numb as he swayed on the chains. He wondered if he could die from this torture and decided he did not care.

  Let go.

  A woman’s voice, multilayered in its harmony, rang through his mind above the sound of the decimation of his body and he whimpered.

  It’s time to let go.

  Closing his eyes, he could see them. The white-faced demons were close; Their hungry expressions inviting.

  You made a choice. Come.

  Darkness descended between he and the demons. White putrescent faces twisted in impotent rage before they were obliterated by nothingness.

  With a sigh, he fell into the Void.

  Jeanie stood outside Fernando’s door, hand poised to strike the wood and halted. It
was a day and a night since they arrived back at St. Martin’s amid a flurry of questions from the monks that received them. The worse was trying to explain l’Ange‘s whereabouts and their damaged presentation. She had even heard Fernando thank God that there was a cloud obscuring the brilliant fall sun when he exited the covered wagon, his body layered with blankets, to enter the dark stone walls of the monastery.

  Upon witnessing the burnt ruin of Fernando’s face, an elderly monk sent several others scurrying. The Noble had barked a laugh, which turned to a grimace of pain before letting the old man guide him to his room. Jeanie had been surprised to witness the healing changes on Fernando’s face and hands, but they were far from healed. She wondered how many more horses it would take. Guided by another monk, Jeanie followed him to the room she shared with the Angel and was told to wait. Father Theodore would wish to speak with her.

  The inviting bed pulled at Jeanie. Succumbing, she lay down. It did not take long to fall into a dream-plagued sleep that left her more exhausted than before. In every nightmare Violet’s youthful body, her soft lips and sharp teeth penetrated her mind leaving her desiring the Vampires touch. Each time she woke, her body shivered in anticipation while her mind reeled against what her body desired.

  Shaking off the reminiscence, Jeanie knocked on the door. They had waited too long already and she was anxious to get back to Le Jardin. The problem was that she felt pulled to see Violet, to feel her betrayer’s touch, to hear the Mistress’ voice. It was growing hard to keep her focus on rescuing the Angel.

  “Come in,” came the brusque response.

  Jeanie turned the handle and pushed. She had not seen the Noble since returning and stood in shocked silence.

  Fernando fastened the top two buttons of his blue pyjamas and turned. “Didn’t your mother teach you that it’s impolite to stare?” He turned back to the small mirror hanging on the wall above the washbasin, patting his dark hair into place.