by Karen Dales
In Praise of The Chosen Chronicles
“A dark and gripping tale by a true mistress of supernatural fiction. Karen Dales brings fresh blood to the vampire genre.”
—Michelle Rowen, National Bestselling Author
“For readers who adore textured layers in their literary tapestries, rich in colorful emotions, Karen Dales is one writer of vampire fiction they’ll want to read.”
— Nancy Kilpatrick, Author: The Power of the Blood,
Editor: Evolve: Vampire Stories of the New Undead
“A fresh and intriguing new look at the vampire mythos.”
- Violet Malan, author of The Novels of Dhulyn and Parno
“...is a must-read for any fans of Twilight or other books in the popular Vampire genre.” - Oakville Today.
“This is a mature book...that makes it easy to enjoy...a story that has multiple layers and depth to it...the book reads fast because Karen never lets it slow down.” - Ruth Ann Nordin, Author.
“...one of the best stories by a new and upcoming writer that I have read...This tale was wonderfully written. Every character has a complete and utterly unique personality...The Angel of Death will make you smile, and it will cause your heart to break. Very few stories are the equal to this tale. When you read this story, have a box of tissues handy. Ms. Dales I am trying to await the next instalment patiently and it is not working out so well.” - Siren Book Reviews (5 out of 5)
"...a poignant and epic tale... a brilliant example of good overcoming and prevailing against evil and prejudice... an emotional ride of literary genius, both heart-warming and heartbreaking at the same time..."
- Bitten By Books (5 out of 5)
"a grand tale of eternal life and its many challenges... I greatly enjoyed Angel of Death by Karen Dales and ... recommend it..." - Two Lips Reviews (5 out of 5)
"I would definitely recommend this book to vampire fans.. a good solid read for both Changeling and Angel of Death... I’m definitely looking forward to where Dales goes with this in the future."
- Once Upon A Bookshelf
“I was hooked...a good book to read on a cold and stormy day.”
- Night Owl Reviews (4 out of 5)
Also by Karen Dales
THE CHOSEN CHRONICLES
Changeling
Angel of Death
Shadow of Death
Thanatos (forthcoming)
SHADOW OF DEATH
Book Two of The Chosen Chronicles
KAREN DALES
Dark Dragon Publishing
Toronto, Ontario, Canada
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Shadow Of Death:
Book Two of the Chosen Chronicles
Copyright © 2011 by Karen Dales
ISBN: 978-0-9867633-2-8
eISBN: 978-0-9867633-3-5
Cover Art, Design and Author Photo
© 2010 by Evan Dales
WAV Design Studios
www.wavstudios.ca
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of Dark Dragon Publishing and Karen Dales, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Dark Dragon Publishing
313 Mutual Street
Toronto, Ontario
M4Y 1X6
CANADA
www.darkdragonpublishing.com
For more information on the Author,
Karen Dales and The Chosen Chronicles
www.karendales.com
www.thechosenchronicles.com
Acknowledgements
There are always many people to thank and if I named them all it would fill a book unto itself. If I did not mention you it is not because you have been forgotten, it is because there is not enough ink in the world to express my gratitude.
First and foremost I must express my profound love for my husband, Evan, who has always been a support to me, sacrificing so that I can follow my dreams.
Mike Winkler, thank you for helping me with the German and lending me Subtle Persuasion, you and your wonderful wife, Stephanie, do prove that Vampires can love.
Adam, if it were not for you my French would be a mess!
In my journey as an author I have made some wonderful friends, none more so than Violette Malan and her husband, Paul.
To my fans I have made, thank you! It is because of you that this book was finished.
Karsha Pearce won the right to have a character named after her. I hope you enjoy!
For my son...
PROLOGUE
Multitudes of snowflakes stuck together in the cold, damp night. Filtering down from silver laden clouds they formed misshapen globules that impacted silently upon their fallen, earthbound brethren. No sound existed in the forest. Any animal daring to venture forth would find itself a-swarm with sticky snow. Instead the smart ones stayed huddled in their warrens and holes waiting for the brunt of the gentle snow storm to abate, leaving the forest as quiet as a grave.
Fernando de Sagres, the last heir to the title Fidalgio de Sagres and now Master of the Chosen of the British Isles, did not count himself as one of the smart ones. Standing on the side of the cart track, he ignored the puff of vapour his annoyed huff left to gradually dissipate before his face.
“Are you sure this is the place?” he asked his companion.
“This is where the man from the livery said they delivered their things.” Bridget, Mistress of the Chosen of the British Isles, turned up the fox fur collar of her ermine coat in an effort to keep the chunky snow from finding its way down the back of her neck. Hindsight proved that she should have left her golden tresses to flow naturally, rather than bind them tightly in a matron's bun. She peered into the dark forest, trying to find any sign of where they next had to go.
“This doesn't make any sense,” fumed the Master. “Are you sure you got the correct information? I couldn't make heads or tails of what he was saying.” Fernando placed his hands in his coat pockets. The cold did not bother him. It was standing out in the middle of nowhere on a godforsaken night, obviously at another dead end in their search. He could not count how many times they had sensed their quarry only to realize they were well off their mark.
The Mistress scowled at her Chosen and took a step closer to the edge of the track. The livery manager had succumbed to her charms easily enough without having to Push him for the information, but finding the path through the snow laden trees in the middle of a snowfall would not be easy. Ignoring Fernando’s irritation, Bridget stepped onto the edge of the track and then took a step towards the trees. It was supposed to be on this side, right here, if the livery manager was correct. She grimaced as a clump of snow slipping from a bent branch made its way down the back of her neck. Despite the discomfort she stepped further under the skeletal umbrella of trees.
Through the dark Bridget watched the silver and white mix with the blacks and greys that painted a haunting picture. What she found strange was that there seemed to be equidistant space between what appeared as two rows of trees. Bridget’s pulse quickened.
Hearing his Chooser’s intake of breath and sensing her sudden excitement, Fernando took the crunching steps through the ankle deep snow to stand beside her. “What do you see?” He gazed into the woods, trying to discern what Bridget had discovered and failed.
Fernando carefully walked to where Bridget pointed. When he stood between the rows of trees he returned her smile and nodded. “Have I told you lately that not only are you beautiful, but you’re a genius as well?”
Stepping in her Chosen’s footsteps, Bridget came to stand before the man she loved and placed a cool hand on his cheek “You often tell me that I’m beautiful.” You’ve never told me the other, she Sent.
Emitting a growl at the intrusion in his mind, Fernando backed away. “I agreed to only remain myself open to you insofar that this damned situation with the Vampires is dealt with. You know I don’t—”
“I know, Fernando,” sighed Bridget, as she turned to follow the tree-canopied path. Brushing past the Noble, she turned as his hand suddenly grabbed her arm.
“No. You don’t.” Releasing her arm, he stepped to her side as they continued up the path. “And I’d rather I kept it that way.”
“I know that too,” snapped Bridget, expecting the same argument that they nightly engaged in since he came back with the Angel three months ago.
She had gotten her way in making sure that Fernando did not sever their mental link with one another. This time her arguments did not fall on deaf ears, but he still resented the bond when Bridget used their Chosen talents, allowing unspoken communication between Chooser and Chosen. Allowing the matter to lie, Master and Mistress walked along the path in mutually agreed upon silence.
Every so often a sloughing of snow would fall from branches too weak to hold their load, adding to the whiteness camouflaging the path. The only sound came from their leather booted steps, crunching and squeaking in tattoo. Any mortal human would never have found the path, let alone be able to traverse it, but to Chosen sight, the night was lit up in a spectacular array of glimmering diamonds against a backdrop of grey and silver.
Farther on, the trickling sound of a stream filled the silence, adding its natural cadence to the crunching of immortal feet. Neither Chosen could see the river far off to their left, but its melody added a mysterious otherworldly air. Quickly glancing at one another, they continued their pace until the bells of the stream turned into the bellows of a rushing of a river.
The path twined until it ran parallel to the river, its bank becoming a precarious edge to the path. Halting their progression, they stood in awe of the river as it flowed thunderously over rocks, muddying the banks and swallowing snow unfortunate in its landing. The thaw of the week before had raised the water level to nearly equal to the path. The shimmering waters pulsed with the promise of a spring reborn despite this late winter storm.
Threading her arm through Fernando’s, Bridget and he continued on until the path opened up onto a snow covered field that ended against a bluff that rose high into the sky. The river, off to their left widened and was dusted in a haze of mist created from the foudroyant waterfall. In the middle of this majestic scene stood a tranquil sight – a simple stone cottage with a thatched roof. Gloaming windows and a puffing chimney indicated that they had found what they were looking for.
With a determined nod of his head, Fernando led Bridget to the weather worn wooden door, ready to do whatever he must to bring back the Angel. Sensing and matching his determination, Bridget squared her shoulders.
Father Paul Notus threw another log onto the fire, stirring it to flaring life with the iron poker. Standing, he held out his ink-stained hands to savour the heat and rubbing them together before turning back to his desk on the opposite wall. The cottage was small and cozy. A threadbare loveseat lined the wall underneath the blown glass window that gave fish-eyed views of the cliff face, waterfall and the dark recess of an ancient cave. No kitchen or bathroom was present in the small cottage. Only a ladder beside the hearth reached up to the high rafters and the loft where two pallets stretched out beneath the blackened ceiling. It was a perfect home built by two Chosen as a retreat from the world.
Sitting at his desk, Notus adjusted the oil lamplight and picked up a fine four haired brush, dipped it in russet and mixed it with crimson before applying it to the illumination set before him. Jeanie’s smiling face, framed by cinnamon curls, laughed at him as he stroked the brush to quell an errant lock. The green of her eyes could not compare to the light that had emboldened her gaze before death had taken her. Placing the brush down on the edge of the paint pallet, Notus sighed.
He still missed the girl and mourned the loss of the only reason for learning the culinary arts. She was always so willing to help him, and over the five years in his employ Jeanie had become more daughter than maidservant. Notus had not expected that and was shocked to find a rift that Jeanie’s passing had rendered within him. It was even more unbelievable the devastation that her loss had created upon his son. It was for him that they had quickly packed their belongings and moved to the only place that gave solace, the place where Notus had found the boy so long ago.
It was the only property they owned, purchased half a millennium ago. In a strongbox tucked into the thatch where ceiling met loft, the original deed curled tightly with age, its scribing faded and difficult to read. The cottage was as old as the ancient vellum. Its upkeep was provided by the two Chosen who called it home.
Notus picked up the brush and readied it for another detail when a knock resounded through his home. Stunned at the intrusion, he placed the brush into a shallow water dish and stood up. No one knew where they were. The boy would just walk right in, having no need to knock.
A nervous shiver flowed over him with the imaginings that Vampires were at the door ready to capture and hold him hostage again, exsanguinating him against his will. Try as he may, Notus still had difficulties in coming to terms with what had happened to him and his son not so many months ago. The boy’s scars and injuries, both physical and emotional, were still raw, and so, it seemed, were Notus’.
Taking a cautious step closer to the door, the monk closed his eyes and listened, popping them open at the gentle rapping and a female voice he recognized as the Mistress’. Without a moment’s hesitation, Notus lifted the latch and opened the door to see Bridget and Fernando standing on his doorstep.
“May we come in?” asked the Noble, eyebrow raised in annoyance.
Shocked out of his reverie at seeing the Mistress and Master of the Chosen of Britain, Notus stood back and let them enter, marking their high fashioned winter dress. Fernando stomped off the snow that clung to his black leather boots, while Bridget daintily tapped the toes of her heeled boots against the threshold.
“I’m sorry that our appearance here surprises you,” remarked Bridget as she allowed Fernando to take her fur coat. “That was not our intention.” Her sapphire dress lined with fine white lace hugged her petite frame.
Notus closed the door against the abating snowfall and turned to watch the Noble remove his long coat, placing both winter attire on the short couch.
“I am at a loss,” admitted the monk. “However did you find us here?”
Glancing around for a place to sit, Fernando pulled out the old wooden chair from the desk and sat down as Bridget sank into the couch. “With a lot of detective work and frustration,” stated the Noble.
Bereft of a seat, Notus stood, bearing their scrutiny. He was much older than they, but they had, or at least the Mistress had, counted his boy a friend. That eased his mind but did not halt the expectation of why they would have gone to all this trouble to find them. He stated such as he crossed over to his desk and covered the illumination with a protective cloth.
Fernando had turned as the monk stood beside him and caught a glimpse of what could only be an amazing rendition of Jeanie. Their eyes met briefly and the Noble cast his eyes forward in awkward silence at the mournful expression of the ancient Chosen.
“We have come to take the Angel back to London,” answered Fernando, his voice gruff.
Somehow Notus was not surprised and he let
out a slow sigh as his shoulders slumped. “What for?”
“He’s to stand before the Grand Council and testify.” Fernando watched the monk walk to the other side of the small home to lean against the wall next to the hearth.
Notus shook his head. “You’re condemning him to death.”
“No!” Bridget’s response raised her from her seat as she rushed over to the Angel’s Chooser. “Never that. Please believe us. We need him. The Chosen need him.”
Notus met Bridget’s blue eyes with his sad hazel. “He cannot. He’s not well enough.” Realizing what Fernando had said, he turned to face the still seated Chosen. “A Grand what?” In all his centuries, Father Paul Notus had never heard of such a thing.
“A Grand Council has been asked for but Hugo of France, Hilde of Germany and us, to discuss the genocide that the Vampires would have all Chosen fall to,” replied Fernando. “Franco of Spain, Alfonsina of Italy, Sigbjörn of Sweden and at least four others will be attending in London in a week’s time to discuss the Vampire threat and what we need to do about it.”
“But why do you need my boy?” Notus’ anxiety geared up several notches. For his son to stand before so many Masters and Mistresses when he was still recovering from his wounds would instantly mean Destruction regardless of what promises Fernando and Bridget had made to the contrary.
“Because he’s the only one they will believe,” stated Bridget, calmly. “He’s also the only one who can tell the difference between who is Chosen and who is not. Already incidences are arising and we are woefully lacking in our knowledge about our Vampire enemies, even if we try and read all the pulp that is published.”
