by Karen Dales
Corbie Vale had returned to London earlier than he expected. Business concluded successfully in Spain, he had returned to Calais to see what had become of the Angel and de Sagres under Violet’s plans. He never could understand Violet’s obsession with the Angel when he could barely stand in the Chosen’s strange presence. There was something inherently wrong about the Angel that made Corbie’s back crawl. Yet after the arson, Corbie had only wanted to see the Angel’s head on a platter. Thankfully, many of the barrels of poison were already on his merchant ships.
Landing back in Calais, he had sent a letter to Violet that came back unopened, sparking Corbie’s ire. His Little Flower was always petulant and wilful, irritatingly so, that there were many times that he wanted to pluck her petals to prove a point. That was what he had intended when he hired a horse and driver to take him to Le Jardin. What he found stunned him.
The place had been abandoned save only a starving new Vampiress. When confronted, the woman told the story of how the Mistress left with her remaining Vampires to retrieve her prized possessions and never came back.
Corbie had killed the weakling Vampire in disgust and waited at Le Jardin for several nights. When he could only conclude that Violet either left or was defeated by the escaped Chosen, Corbie hastened back to Bastia. She needed to know the failure of the Little Flower and what that could bode for their plans.
His hand on the backstage door, Corbie opened it and took the six steps up into the darkened theatre. He let the voices guide him to a concealed place behind stage right. Standing with his back to the curtain, he listened.
Bastia’s voice was raised in annoyance as she lorded over the solitary Chosen. It was when she abruptly quieted at the sound of the audience doors opening that Corbie dared a glance. Incredulous to who walked down the carpet, Corbie could only dumbly watch the events unfold. Anger simmered at the growing realization that everything they had worked for was coming undone and all their plans were laid bare to the vile Chosen.
The Angel was alive and so was the Noble, but their scars from their run in with Violet showed plainly on both. How a Chosen could survive direct contact with the sun widened Corbie’s eyes. A Vampire would completely and totally incinerate almost instantly.
Corbie watched in growing horror as the house of cards he and Bastia created began to teeter and start its accelerating collapse. What was the worst was now the Chosen of London knew about the existence of Vampires and that they had been thoroughly duped.
Bastia’s disclosure as a Vampire was even more of a shock. The Angel and de Sagres had discovered everything!
Rage shook Corbie. Centuries of careful planning and preparation came to naught. Hiding in plain sight of the Chosen, Vampires had achieved many of their desired ends with these infernal pretenders. It was the Vampires who were supreme and their machinations to terminate the Chosen in a nice quiet way had nearly been complete in Britain. Now it was over. The violence that erupted in the theatre was testimony to the blood baths that would now occur where Vampires lived in the same areas as the Chosen. There was no way that Corbie could think of containing this breach.
It was the sight of the fog rising out of nowhere that swept Corbie’s fury into terror. It was when the Vampire saw the forms within fog that he turned, fleeing down the steps towards the stage exit.
Slamming the door closed behind, Corbie leaned against the black painted wood in an effort to regain what logic was left to him. He hated the cowardly way he fled as he saw the mists swirl around Bastia’s corpse.
The Angel had won and it infuriated Corbie. Firing his own hatred of the creature, he knew that he had to recoup his losses and find a way to continue the destruction of the Chosen. Most of all he desperately wanted the Angel to pay.
Pushing off the door, he saw someone standing beneath the light post. Corbie smiled wickedly at the plan suddenly evolving in his mind as he walked towards the girl.
The sight of the man Jeanie had seen when she had been held prisoner at the Kitchen dried her mouth to ashes. She did not need to ask him what he was, the scar on her neck, and strangely the small one on her wrist, tingled. Every instinct in her cried to run but she was riveted to the spot, her green eyes wide with the pounding of her heart between her ears.
“It’s been a while, has it not?” purred Corbie, completely enjoying the girl’s fear.
She was the Angel’s paramour, if Violet had been correct. The girl was also the only mortal that Violet wanted to possess for herself, believing this tart to be a friend.
Vampires had no friends, even amongst their own kind. There were those they used and those they discarded. Corbie was sure that Violet’s sentimentality about Jeanie had been the stake in his Little Flower’s heart.
Jeanie tried to take a step backwards but found she could not move. This time there were no bars between them and she gasped as his hand snaked out, lightning fast, to grab her around the wrist. His pale fingers tickled the scar on her wrist, causing her breath to catch.
She did not know what was wrong with her. She should run, but she could not. A desire to bend to this Vampire’s will was surging past her fears.
Corbie’s smile widened as the Vampire Effect took hold on the girl, but it did not include his eyes.
“We’ve not been formally introduced, Miss Stewart. I am Corbie Vale, Lord of Valraven and as you have already surmised, I am a Vampire.”
He lifted her wrist to his mouth and rubbed it against his lips, teasing himself with the scent of her blood so easily accessible beneath her pale flesh.
“I gave you this when you fought so valiantly to save the Chosen Notus. I hid it of course, cutting the flesh after I had drunk your sweet nectar.”
Ecstasy shot from Jeanie’s wrist to her groin, making her legs weak. Her mind tried to make her body flee, but her flesh responded traitorously to the Vampire’s touch. She did not want him, but her body’s desires were not to be denied.
He pressed close, forcing her arm behind her back while his other hand whipped around to grasp her by the back of her neck, his fingers gently playing Violet’s mark.
It was too much. Her mind stopped fighting and her legs gave way, all she wanted to do was to serve the master of her body.
Corbie grinned, exposing his extending incisors. It was said that revenge is a dish best served cold; tonight it would be as cold as the grave.
Jeanie could not have pushed the Vampire away even if she had wanted to.
Corbie held her and her body convulsed as he bit deep into her neck.
It took him a moment to take in what his eyes beheld as he stood outside the doors to the theatre. Notus stood beside him and wondered what had happened to their joyful reunion. His Chooser’s query echoed mutely in his mind. It made no sense as to why Jeanie was laid sprawled beneath the lamppost, the yellow light a circle around her limp form. That was not how he had left her there. She had been full of life and promise, and was hopeful and expectant for his return. They had so much more to discuss. The taste of her lips last kiss on his burned.
His breath caught as comprehension slammed into his gut nearly bowling him over. “Oh no.” He whispered his denial despite the truth laid before him. “Oh Gods, please no.”
“What is it?”
He ignored Notus’ panicked query and descended down the steps towards Jeanie’s supine form as fast as his preternatural abilities would allow, all pains forgotten except the new one blossoming in his chest. Collapsing to a halt beside her, he could only shake his head in denial of what he saw through his tears, his hands raised, afraid that touching her would instil reality.
Fiery cinnamon curls splayed about her head like a blossoming rose, but it was her deathly pallor and the silence of her heartbeat that told him the truth. It was not supposed to be like this. She had been safe. She had not followed him in. He had promised her - given her his Oath, his love - but it had not been enough.
A cry of utter despair tore through him as he picked up Jeanie’s lifeless body
and hugged her lolling head to his chest as he sat on the cobbles. The green spark of summer was gone from her eyes and he closed them with a trembling hand. This was not how they had planned. They were supposed to go back to their home together with Notus.
He sobbed over her, his tears dripping onto her cooling body.
“Oh my dear God.” Notus’ stood behind his weeping Chosen, shocked at seeing his housekeeper dead in the boy’s arms and crossed himself. The words spilled out before he could recapture them. “What have you done?”
The implication of Notus’ question snapped his head up to gaze at his Chooser and he knew the answer. He had done nothing. That was his crime. He had failed to protect the woman he had given himself so completely to. He could only shake his head and bring himself back to stare at Jeanie’s flaccid face knowing he would never see her smile, never hear her voice nor feel her joined to him ever again. It was a loss he never expected to experience and he did not want to let her go even in death.
Brushing errant locks from her face, he saw the two puncture marks marring her perfect neck and he knew without a doubt that it was a Vampire that had killed her. A new groan escaped him. Whatever pains his body had suffered were nothing compared to this. Vampires had taken Jeanie from him. He had been so stupid believing she was safe outside his protection. She should have come in with him. They knew what Jeanie was to him and one of them had killed her.
“My boy,” said Notus, incredulously, “What is Jeanie doing here? Did you bring her into this?”
Burying his face into her hair he could not bear the accusatory tones from his Chooser.
“She wanted to help,” he said meekly, not looking up. He cradled Jeanie, rocking them both.
A wash of Notus’ shock rolled over him and he bowed beneath it. He felt his Chooser kneel beside him. “Let go of her, my boy. She’s gone. Let me take care of her.”
He shook his head, denying the truth. Another sob tore through him and he felt strong hands on his arms pulling him away. He knew what Notus was doing. He had seen the Good Father do the same for countless others who had refused to give up their beloved dead.
“No,” he bellowed, clinging harder to Jeanie’s corpse. He could not let her go.
The hands fell again, more insistent than before. With it came determination and a hint of anger. She’s gone, my boy. Go home and let me take care of her. We’ll talk after.
In too much pain to resist, both physically and emotionally, he watched Notus take Jeanie’s body from him as if it were happening in a dream. Jeanie’s limp form dangled in his Choosers arms, appearing as though she was a sleeping child.
It was not a bed Notus would carry her to, but to a coffin in the morgue Notus dealt with for the others he cared for in this manner. To see the monk dealing with Jeanie in this same manner fractured his heart and he gasped.
Tears blurred the last visage of Jeanie's beautiful form as his Chooser disappeared into the night, leaving him so desperately alone.
Chapter XLV
Notus sat at his desk, quill in one hand and his face buried in the other as black ink dropped its load onto the once clean piece of paper. It was the fourth such attempt to collect his thoughts and write them down. Each time amounted to another sheet crumpled into a tight ball with nothing more than a word or two followed by drips of ink. He was starting to consider breaking out the fancy fountain pen the boy had given him as a Christmas present three years ago, but doubted that would fix the problem.
Three nights since his release from Katherine’s clutches had yielded nothing but silence and a growing apprehension that something was terribly wrong. He had been so incredibly glad to see the boy after being released from the t-bar that his hunger had been a second priority.
He dropped the quill onto the paper and rested his head in both hands.
Fourty days had passed strung up and drained on that damned mockery of a cross. Fourty nights of terror. Not knowing if he would be allowed to live to see the next night. Nine hundred and sixty hours of separation between him and his Chosen, never knowing what would become of the boy.
It was not the torture of being hung up on the bar, but the fear of what would become of his son, that had first encapsulated every thought until he was forced to realize there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. He took the only way out; he went within, into deep contemplative prayer and meditation where nothing could touch him. He never knew if they drank from him after that first instance. If they had, he had no recollection of it.
Scrubbing his face with his hands, Notus sat up and pushed the paper away, uncaring that the ink on the nib would dry it to uselessness.
So much of what had happened still remained a mystery, even to the issue of Jeanie’s involvement and her death. What struck Notus even more was the boy's reaction over the girl’s corpse. He had never seen the boy react like that.
The chair squealed against the wood floor as he pushed away from the desk and stood up. He had too much nervous energy to sit and write, but he did not know what to do. Picking up the balled papers off the floor, he tossed them into the waste bin beside the desk and began to pace.
Notus could not believe Jeanie was dead. It made absolutely no sense to him as to how that could be possible. She had been the housekeeper. What was she doing there outside the theatre? The boy said she wanted to help, but that made no sense either.
The monk grimaced at the last time he saw her as he laid her down on the table of the funeral home he dealt with when those he helped to pass needed a proper burial. Notus would never let anyone be buried without some shred of dignity, even if they never had it in their life. In Jeanie’s case, he owed it to her and left her there with the funeral director in his dressing gown, with instructions to provide the very best for her. The middle-aged man had nodded solemnly and accepted the I.O.U. on good faith.
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.
&
nbsp; “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.
