Angel of Death: Book One of the Chosen Chronicles

by Karen Dales

  “Can I help you?” offered Notus, hesitantly.

  The man Notus supposed was Fernando stepped past him and into the foyer followed by the woman, her hands in a mink muff.

  “I thought that Jeanie would have been the one to answer the door,” commented Fernando, glancing around the empty apartment.

  The girl’s name shocked Notus and he stood straighter. Closing the door to the outside world, he trapped himself with these two strangers. He watched the man take off his black leather gloves as he walked into the living room. The woman stayed where she was.

  “Jeanie is your housekeeper, is she not?” Fernando turned to face Notus, an expression of pompous expectation tilting his head.

  “Was,” bristled Notus, instantly not liking this man.

  It was the woman’s delight that surprised him the most. “Oh that’s wonderful! Then the Angel and she –” The lady cut off at the horrified expression on the monk’s face. “What is it?”

  “Jeanie’s dead.” He did not mean to have the words come out so abruptly and nor did he expect the impact of the hard truth to sting his eyes. Notus turned away, ignoring the others as he crossed the room to his desk, taking up the dried quill and cloth in a futile attempt to clean the nib.

  He was surprised to hear the woman’s gasp in concert with the man spluttering, “What?”

  The click of the woman’s shoes told Notus that she had moved further into his home. He ceased the rubbing motion along the quill tip and noticed that he had snapped the tip clean off the fine writing utensil. Frowning, he placed it and the cloth down on the desk.

  “I guess we should have figured that something was wrong when the Angel did not send Jeanie for this,” remarked the woman to Fernando. Pulling her hands out of the muff, she placed the furry tube under one arm, while she opened her coat and pulled out the Angel’s sheathed sword. “Jeanie always made sure this came with him, even if he could not hold it.”

  The woman’s words made no sense to Notus and he took the ancient blade from her dainty hand. He would not draw it. It was the boy’s, given to him by his sister, previously owned by his father - a truth he would never relinquish.

  He stood the sword beside his desk and lifted his gaze to the two Chosen. “What do you mean? Who are you?” He knew he sounded rude. It was completely unlike him. It was yet another indication that his trials in the Mistress’ court had profoundly affected him.

  Surprise lit up the woman’s heart shape face, widening her blue eyes. “Oh dear, we have been rude, Fernando.” She shot the man a remonstrative glare before returning her attention to their host. “Please let me introduce ourselves to you - although I’m sure the Angel has mentioned us - I’m Bridget and this is Fernando.”

  “And we’re now the new Master and Mistress of London, thanks to the Angel,” added Fernando, seating himself on the couch.

  Notus’ eyes went round at the announcement, even more confused and worried. What would the new Master and Mistress of London want with him or his son? Suspicious of the blasé nature Fernando held in the monk’s home, Notus stepped away from his two supposed guests.

  Noticing the monk’s unease, Bridget tilted her head in concern. “Did the Angel not tell you about us? About what happened?”

  Notus warily shook his head. “We have not yet had a chance to talk.” It was not a lie, but came close enough to one by the omissions in the statement.

  It was the Master of London’s turn to appear flabbergasted before he shook his head in wry amusement. “That’s so bloody like him.”

  The statement dropped Notus’ jaw. It was clear that these two knew his son well, but how? Confusion from the missing fourty days swirled and he sat down in the chair that now served at his desk.

  “Maybe you would be so kind as to enlighten me, sir,” said Notus, slowly. “Perhaps it would clarify many questions I have about what happened during my detainment.”

  Fernando leaned back and glanced at Bridget. Notus was well versed enough to be aware that these two were communicating silently as only Chooser and Chosen could do. The only question was which one was the Chooser and which the Chosen.

  Finally Fernando let out a sigh through his nostrils and nodded. “Alright. Though both Bridget and I think you should hear it from the Angel. Ah, the joys of being the one in charge. Where is the Angel, by the way?”

  “In his room,” stated the monk.

  “For all this time?” asked the Mistress.

  Notus glanced down at the strips of wood that made up the floor and nodded. He could sense the tension arising from another conversation between Chosen and Chooser.

  Finally Bridget spoke up. “Do you mind if I go in to talk with him?”

  “It’s not me who will determine this, my Lady, but rather him.” Notus hitched a shoulder. “You are welcome to try. His room –”

  “Yes, I know,” cut off Bridget as she turned towards the broken door. This time Notus hid his surprise that she knew where it was, but could not hold it when she opened the door and went in.

  “Bridget and I agreed that I’ll tell you what I know,” said Fernando, snapping the monk‘s attention around, “since she is of the belief that if I don’t then you’ll remain in the dark and that will not be beneficial to either you or the Angel.”

  “I appreciate that, sir.”

  “First thing that you can do is cut the ‘sir’ crap and call me Fernando. Gwyn does.”

  The use of the name for his son proved beyond a doubt that this Chosen knew the boy well. He nodded solemnly.

  “Good.” Fernando offered a quick smile and embarked upon his tale.

  He sat and stared over his arms, the lower part of his face buried in the pillow that was hugged to his chest by his bent legs. Jeanie’s scent lingered over top of the clean linen of the white pillow casing. It was the last vestiges of what remained of her and he refused to let go for fear that the brief time spent with her would become a myth within his memories. He could not allow that. She had been too precious to him, too important, too loved.

  He let out a shuddering breath and closed his eyes wondering if it were possible to run out of tears. Jeanie’s death was still too raw and the memories of her flaccid body in his arms too painful. Violet could have scourged him to death and it would have paled against the torment he now felt at Jeanie’s loss.

  Swallowing down his pain, he buried his face in the edge of the pillow drinking in what remained of their infinitesimal time together and damned himself for allowing fear to block him from acting upon his love for Jeanie sooner. There had not been enough time for love when there should have been. It burned his heart and tore at his guts.

  The hours after Notus had taken Jeanie away had been excruciating. Too many times he contemplated watching the sunrise for the first time since he was a child. It would have put an end to his agony and guilt, but he knew that Jeanie would not have wanted that. She had sacrificed too much to ensure that he survived. To throw that gift away would dishonour her memory.

  Her memory. His memory of her. That was all that he had left. That last kiss, last touch, and last fleeting smile hiding her worry. It was burned into him, a constant reminder that he had utterly failed her.

  He wrapped his arms around his legs, bringing his legs tighter to his chest, squishing the pillow, and ignored the twinges his visceral wounds set off. Their pains were nothing and he sat on his bed, his back against the headboard that served as an island to the wreckage of his life.

  If he dared to open his eyes to the darkness he would see the destruction his guilt and mourning had created once he came home. The pent up rage at his failure and the fury of his loss had sent him dashing nearly every piece of furniture into kindling. The nicely tailored clothing was now littered amongst the wreckage. It was only when he approached the bed did some sense come to him and he had collapsed, sobbing into the twisted sheets that had been left unmade when he and Jeanie rose to leave for France. Her scent lingered, stealing his anger and replaced it with grief.<
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  He did not know how long he had lain there weeping. At some point Notus had come home but he dared not to go to his Chooser and nor did he want the monk to come to him. He was too raw and Notus’ admonishment over Jeanie had been a deterrent for any contact. He could not bear any more accusations than he himself could supply.

  Whenever he felt the monk’s concern, he shut if out. Whenever he heard his Chooser approach his door, he silently screamed for Notus to leave him alone until the monk’s presence retreated. He knew Notus was anxious, but could not care and he buried himself in Jeanie’s pillow in an effort to escape into his memories.

  It was the sweet touch filled memories he desired to flee into. Instead, when he found himself dozing, images of Jeanie underneath him or on top of him would turn into a nightmare where she turned into a blood drained corpse, where it had been he, and not a Vampire, who had bled her dry. When these images swarmed his mind, he would bolt awake, gasping, to renew his weeping. Now he just sat there, staring blankly into the dark, inhaling Jeanie’s sweetness and refused to sleep.

  Beyond his bedroom door he sensed, rather than heard, Fernando and Bridget’s presence outside the flat and then listened as they entered. He tried to close off the conversation between the new Mistress and Master with his Chooser, but hearing their stunned expressions upon finding about Jeanie only tightened the band around his heart.

  He had expected Fernando to shout gleefully and was surprised at the Noble’s dumbfounded feelings. It was Bridget’s gasp of shock coupled with sadness and worry that pulled a small whimper from him. They had known what Jeanie was to him. Even Fernando had grudgingly begun to respect Jeanie after she had saved the Noble from Violet and the Vampires. Now they were here in his home, talking to Notus and he still wanted to be left alone with his memories of Jeanie.

  It should not have come as a surprise when he felt Bridget’s questing emotions, as if she were testing whether or not she should approach him. There was a moment’s pause when he could feel Fernando’s frustration at Bridget, but it dissipated into acquiescence. He knew he could try and stop her from entering his room, but he also knew that if he did, it would get her back up and Bridget would barge into his room in a huff of indignation. Strangely enough a large part of him wanted her to come in.

  Clutching his legs to his chest he waited for Bridget to enter.

  The door creaked open allowing for a slight draft to stir the darkness and mix it with the diffuse light from the main room. The clicks of Bridget’s shoes followed by a click from the door told him that she had entered and shut it behind her. Despite having allowed her in, he recoiled at her presence and hunkered further into the pillow at his knees.

  He attempted to shut out Bridget’s shock at the devastation but found he could not. Another quickstep into his room and Bridget found a used candle lying beside the shattered ceramic holder and a box of matches. It did not take long for the Mistress of London to shed light upon the ruins, setting the nub with its flickering wick down on a piece of broken wood. He felt the bed dip under her weight, but dared not open his eyes to see the pity on her face.

  “Oh Gwyn,” sighed Bridget. “I am so sorry.”

  He clutched the pillow tighter to his body, squeezing his eyes in an effort to push back the tears. He felt her cool hand alight on his burning arm. The pain of the knife wounds on his forearm exploded at the touch, forcing a hiss.

  He felt Bridget stand and move closer until her cool hand rested on his forehead.

  “You’re burning up.” Bridget dropped her hand. “If Fernando hadn’t shared with me his knowledge I would never have believed it possible.”

  Bridget sat down beside him on the bed, her hip touching his stocking feet. Maybe he was ill again. It seemed likely considering the damage Katherine’s blade had done.

  “Let me take a look at this.”

  He felt Bridget’s hand take his in an effort to straighten his arm so as to examine the wounds, but he snapped his arm back.

  “No,” he whispered, hoarsely. He did not want to relinquish his grip on the pillow.

  The cool hand found its way back on his. “Then at least let me look at it this way, alright?”

  He knew Bridget was pushing out of deep concern for him and he nodded. She was right that it needed tending, but he did not care. It was not that wound he nursed.

  Gently, Bridget rolled back the sliced shirt, exposing the blackened and glistening wounds gaping wide enough that she could observe the whiteness of bone beneath the deeper of the gashes.

  “The wounds need stitching,” stated Bridget. “I can do this for you, but I’m not very good at it. Maybe I can ask the Good Father.”

  The mention of his Chooser snapped his head up and opened his eyes.

  “No.” He could not let Notus see him like this. The monk would be horrified and guilt ridden, and then when he calmed down enough Notus would return to being accusatory for Jeanie’s death. “Notus can never know.”

  Bridget calmly cocked her head in disbelief. “Know that you were hurt in the attempt to free him? I believe Notus would want to know the sacrifices you have made for him.”

  Her words stole his breath away and stung his eyes. Lowering his gaze, he pressed his face against the pillow and inhaled. The sacrifices were made for Jeanie and were all for naught.

  “I know you are hurting,” whispered Bridget. “I don’t need to feel it to see it written on your face and on your body. But to push the man who has cared for you all these centuries away, at this time when he too is mourning Jeanie’s death, will do nothing but create an irreparable rift between the two of you. I will not believe it for one minute that you went through everything that you did to get your Chooser back only to push him away when you need each other the most.

  “Let me go and get him. Fernando is telling him everything so you don’t have to,” continued Bridget, disappointment colouring her nurturing tones. “I know it is really not his prerogative and that you should be the one telling the Good Father, but if you can’t or won’t, then Notus has the right to hear it from someone. What do you want to do?”

  They sat there in silence and he knew that Bridget was right, but he could not bring himself to say so. Even Fernando’s accounting would not give credence to his own isolated mourning because Fernando did not know either. The only one who could possibly guess was sitting beside him.

  After an indeterminable period of time he felt Bridget’s weight leave the bed. “If you cannot choose, then I will.” She walked to the door, her steps clicking loudly.

  “I cannot believe you to be Chosen if you cannot choose,” she said harshly.

  Stunned at the multilevel implications, he dropped his legs, allowing the pillow to fall. Painfully, he turned his stiffened body so that his legs dangled over the side.

  “Wait. Please, Bridget. Wait.”

  She turned, her hand on the knob. Raising her blonde brows, the rest of her face did not relinquish its stony expression.

  He lowered his gaze to the broken pieces of wood and clothing littered on the floor and felt ashamed. He made his decision.

  Gradually, he told of how he and Notus had found Jeanie laying beneath the lamppost after leaving the theatre. Through his tears he spoke of how he had held her lifeless form and found the vampire marks upon her neck, proving his failure to keep her safe. In a breaking voice he told of Notus’ accusation and that it had been his fault she was now dead. Weeping, he told of his last visage of Jeanie being carried away by his Chooser as Bridget’s strong arms closed around him.

  “I did what you suggested,” he cried against her shoulder. Bridget’s gentle stroking of the back of his head halted. “She said yes. We wanted to wait until after Notus came home. She wanted his blessing. I know as I always have know, he would never have given it.” It was the final truth lay bare and it shattered him. Clutching at Bridget, he held on as he sobbed.

  It was always going to be either Jeanie or Notus. Fate had decreed which would be taken away,
but Jeanie’s loss left him unable to reconnect with Notus, thus leaving him with no one.

  When he finally regained control of himself, Bridget relinquished their embrace and gazed into his teary eyes.

  “You should have told Notus all this, not me.” She wiped his tears from his cheeks with her thumbs, while ignoring her own.

  He closed his eyes and shook his head. “He wouldn’t understand.”

  “I think you underestimate the capacity of love he has for you.”

  Eyes opening, he stared into Bridget’s sky blue eyes, his heart aching at the compassion he found there. How Fernando ever managed to deserve such a Chooser was beyond his comprehension and now knew how lucky the Noble truly was. He nodded.

  “Let me go and get him,” offered Bridget, breaking from their embrace. “You two need to talk.”

  He watched her take two steps before he made his decision. “Bridget?”

  “Yes.”

  “Before I talk with Notus, could you…?” He glanced down at the wounds on his arm.

  Bridget smiled and nodded. “Just tell me where I can find a needle and thread.”

  He told her and watched as she exited, nervousness vying for prominence over the despondency he had felt for the last few days.

  Notus sat quietly in his chair, listening to the unbelievable tale the Master of London spun. At first the whole notion of the boy teaming up with this incorrigible young Chosen in effort to free him seemed completely incongruous to what he knew the boy. The lad would have gone on his own, as he always had, to discover what he needed to, but to realize that the boy had agreed upon a partnership with this Chosen made him wonder how much, or how little, he truly knew of the young man he had spent nearly a millennium and a half with.

  The story grew even more unbelievable with Fernando’s inclusion of Jeanie into the mix and how the Angel had insisted upon it. The Master spoke of the phial found and Tom and Alice’s establishment burnt, which brought a gasp from Notus. Fernando was quick to add that the Angel had sent Alice and her family into safe keeping, which the Master still thought was strange. Notus was happy enough to hear that his boy had done the right thing by these kind and generous people, and nodded as Fernando continued with the discovery of Jeanie’s capture in the free kitchen and the trap. Notus could tell the young man was omitting some items but let the matter slide until Fernando told of Yong Zheng Ru’s death and Jeanie’s discovery of the Chosen.