by Karen Dales
He opened the front door and both of them stared in surprise at the winter storm.
“Or maybe not,” added Gerry as they both watched coagulated snowflakes fall in tiny balls with nary any space between them.
Spotting his motorcycle, his shoulders slumped at the sight of it buried in half a foot of white fluff. There was no possibility of driving it through this weather. Even with his Chosen sight it was difficult to see across the street.
“I guess the kids are going to get their wish,” smiled Gerry.
“What was that?” he replied in sincere curiosity.
Gerry looked up at him, his grin broadening to show his perfect white teeth. “A white Christmas.”
Turning back to the storm, his lips quirked into a smile, he could imagine Rory and Jenna in their snowsuits building snow forts and throwing snowballs at each other. It was a sight he would never see.
“I guess I had best get going.” He took the couple of steps, white flakes swirling about him and halted at Gerry’s voice.
“You could stay until the streets are clear.”
He turned and looked at his friend standing in pyjamas, mug in hand, with a red glow spilling from the warm interior. “I appreciate the offer. I truly do. But I should get back.”
“Okay,” nodded Gerry. “But how are you going to get back?”
He would use his Chosen abilities to move faster than a mortal, but he could not tell his friend that, and then he remembered. “The train station is not far from here. Hopefully it will still be running.”
Gerry sipped at his mug. “Alright. But if you get stuck there, come back. The kids and Donna would love having you for Christmas too. If you don’t return, I’ll put your bike in the shed once I can see where I’m going. Call us tomorrow to let us know you got home safely or Donna will skin my hide for letting you out in this.”
Though it was a saying, having lived through such barbaric torture, it was difficult to repress a shudder as he turned to follow the dip of the walk where it met the street. “I will.”
“Merry Christmas, Gwyn,” called Gerry, closing the door.
He turned the corner, knowing that even had Gerry stood on his porch, his friend would not have seen him speed up his pace. Even for a Chosen it was difficult to tromp through half a foot of snow while it continued to accumulate. Blinking away large flakes of snow, he put his hand up to shade his eyes. If it were not for the street lamps he would not be able to see the station ahead of him. Tonight, being Chosen would not help him except to ensure he did not freeze to death.
Hoisting the box higher on his back, he approached the station, finding it deserted and locked. Alone in the middle of the night with the silence of the snowstorm he debated going back to Gerry and Donna’s. He had inadvertently spent the day with them when he had intended to leave before dawn, but the work on the sword was incomplete and by the time it was done the sun was rising, making his skin prickle and forcing him to make a mad dash from the forge to the home.
Gratefully, he accepted the hospitality of a hot shower and a bed, but sleep eluded him in the forms of two young children. Rory and Jenna, thrilled that he was staying, had jumped on him while sleep slipped its arms around him, jerking him awake to their laughter. He did not remember the last time he spent the whole day awake, but Gerry’s kids made it fly by.
He had to get home. He knew he would not be able to survive Christmas Day without collapsing from exhaustion or having his hunger flare up.
Resolved, he followed the chain-linked fence and glanced up at the ice-covered barbs. He had to be careful not to get caught on them. He was scarred enough from the damage that iron weapons and torture devices had wrought upon him. He did not know what more he could take. With that, he made sure that his feet would not slip and gracefully jumped over the barbed fence, landing in a puff of snow that cratered around him. Glancing around to see if anyone saw him, he settled the box on his back and found the train tracks.
The snow’s consistency changed from loosely packed globs to smaller, ice laced ones as the wind picked up, swirling the top layers of snow into devils that danced around him. Blinking into the growing storm, he brushed his long hair from his face to no avail. The wind whipped up strands, entangling them in ice. Every time he tried to move preternaturally fast, the snowfall would become a wall, forcing him to slow down. His pace was still faster than a mortal’s but nowhere near what he could have managed if the weather had co-operated. At this rate it would be well after midnight when he returned.
Flipping up the collar of his leather coat, he began the journey to the two-story flat he and Notus rented in Westminster.
The wind whipped around him, stinging exposed pale flesh with needles of ice, forcing him to keep his head down. The train tracks, buried beneath the snow, were hardly discernible and he would have walked off of them several times had there not been guiding posts and the fences to either side. Lone iridescent lights heading poles offered scant illumination as the buzzing of millions of snowflakes flittered around them before descending to add their small worth to the increasing girth of the white blanket.
Each step was fraught with the potential of slipping and falling. One misplaced heel, one overzealous push off could send him into the white fluff. No matter the powers of a Chosen, they were nothing when pressed against the ravages Mother Nature presented. Still he kept going; the plodding pace in a world a-swirl in white pulled him towards the lassitude of trance. No sound abounded except what wind and snow plucked at the immobile harp of a land asleep. Despite the storm and the attention it demanded, he found his mind slipping to other things.
Two decades had passed since the Mistress and Master recalled him back to Britain, his work complete, with the profound gratitude of the Grand Council that was formed to settle the issue of the Vampires. Settle it they did, by using him as their weapon. He was as much at fault as they, for he had given them no choice that night nearly one hundred and thirty years ago.
Bridget and Fernando had set the stage and he and Notus had worked out the finer details. It was no longer an issue of his Destruction, it was now a matter of the survival of the Chosen, and Bridget was right, only he could tell for certain who were Chosen and who were not.
His mind slipped to the past through a trance of snow and ice.
Chapter II
He stood outside the old abandoned theatre, wearing only a cotton shirt and black trousers in the cold wind. He refused to glance in the direction of the puddle of light spilling from the lamppost where he had discovered Jeanie’s corpse. Even within its proximity, the memories of finding her supine form, her hair a copper halo giving the illusion of spilled blood and a Vampire’s mark upon her neck, threatened to fell him. Instead he stood in an attempt to still his tremors before it was time to re-enter the world of the Chosen.
Notus’ hand alighted on his crossed arms and he opened his eyes to look down on concerned hazel staring back at him. He tried to offer a smile of reassurance, but failed, his crimson eyes filling. His Chooser knew what this cost him and what payment that could still be demanded. Taking a shuddering breath, he swallowed. He did not need to open himself further to Notus. It was hard enough seeing the monk so concerned.
Soon they would enter the building that had held Notus hostage, exsanguinated and crucified. Where Bastia, Mistress of Vampires, had fooled the Chosen into complacency as Katherine, Mistress of the Chosen of Britain, all the while exacting genocide on those she ruled. It was the place that had started the quest that had bound Fernando and he into discovering the deadly spice and the truth that Vampires did exist as a separate species from the Chosen – that Vampires sought the death of every Chosen. It was this circumstance that thrust Jeanie further into his life, uncovering his true nature, yet still accepting him enough so that love finally took root. It was here that sparked nightmares of his own torture at the hands of Violet, and worse the despair of Jeanie’s murder by a Vampire.
Staring up at the theatre that was now th
e Courthouse of the Chosen of Britain, he tried to collect the tattered remains of what he was – the Angel. He squared his shoulders as best as his ruined back could allow and nodded to Notus.
It was time to stand before the first Grand Council of the Chosen in remembered history and give testimony to the truth that Vampires did exist and how the Chosen had foolishly believed that they had been the ones labelled as such by the mortals. Uncrossing his arms, he carefully walked up stone steps that threatened to buckle his left leg from under him and entered through the large double doors.
Several Chosen milled in the antechamber, their surprise and curiosity flowed over him as he and Notus entered. He did his best to quell the anxiety that promised to spill out to encompass them. This newfound ability, borne from his torture, was difficult to master, no matter how Notus tried to help.
Silence befell the large room lit only with gloaming candlelight from the chandelier. The gruesome paintings that had hung when the Vampires had ruled over the Chosen were now gone, leaving darkened patches against mahogany wainscoting. Only one canvass remained – the depiction of a devil subduing an angel with his wing horribly ripped off and terror written across his beautiful face.
His attention caught by the painting, he heard, rather than witnessed, the other Chosen move through the oak doors into the audience hall. Their nervousness scraped at him, adding to his anxiety.
“It’s almost time, my boy,” whispered Notus.
Unable to relinquish his gaze, he could only nod. Fernando, Bridget, Notus and he knew what most likely would occur if everything went well, but if it did not, then it was up to him to show the true damage the Vampires had caused to the Chosen. He also knew that if it came to pass, the other Masters and Mistresses would demand his Destruction and it would be Fernando and Bridget fighting to keep him alive. It was a responsibility that he never wanted them to have.
Are you sure that you wish to go through with this? Sent Notus.
A frown turned down the corners of his full lips. I don’t have a choice.
The monk caught his worried gaze. You always have a choice. You are Chosen.
“Am I?” he replied and then turned to enter the theatre and the Grand Council waiting within. He did not wait to hear Notus’ reply, but he felt his Chooser’s despair.
The small theatre was much as it was not too long ago. The red runner lining the space between the large double doors and the stage still remained. No seats were left for patrons of the arts. Instead, where once sat the Mistress who deceived them all sat fourteen Chosen in plain and simple chairs. In the centre sat Fernando and Bridget, as was right and proper for the Master and Mistress of Britain hosting such a historic event. Both were splendidly attired; Fernando in a black tux with tails and Bridget bedecked in diamonds, in a sapphire gown.
Making his way down the sloping rug, he felt Notus’ presence tinged with worry. Other Chosen were in the room. Emotions flittered to him of awe, fear and curiosity. It was the absence of feeling, or rather the sense of cold voids from several individuals that made him clench his jaw in an effort to repress his anger. One thing he knew, Vampires left this chilly absence of space whereas mortals were warm beacons.
A tendril of concern touched him and his eyes met Bridget’s blue eyes. No words were needed, her expression held the question she and Fernando dared not to ask out loud. He gave a slight nod that sent both of them into ridged tension. They had expected to have the Grand Council infiltrated by the Vampires, but having confirmation of the fact gave truth to their fears. Behind him the large oaken double doors closed with an audible thunk, followed by a ringing bang as the doors were locked. Jonathan placed the iron key into his breast pocket and nodded to his Mistress and Master. The large room settled into expectant silence.
It would have been perfectly natural for all eyes to fall upon the grand display of power sitting upon the stage, fourteen Masters and Mistresses of the Chosen, the largest number ever assembled. Instead all eyes fell onto the Angel.
A kaleidoscope of emotions bombarded him, setting off a mild headache that threatened to become more. He wanted to close his eyes and take a gulping breath in an effort to contain his tremulous emotions but knew he could not for it would only signify weakness. Raising his eyes from the base of the stage, he found Bridget smiling, belying the concern she held in her gaze. He knew she was worried about him, worried that his secrets were about to be ripped open for all to witness, thus forcing her and Fernando to present a sentence of Destruction against the Angel. It was a fear he had lived with through the centuries and standing so close to the precipice of its reality he could only drop his gaze back to the floor.
“First of all, I would like to thank the Mistresses and Masters who have graced us with their presence for this historic occasion,” stated Fernando, breaking the awkward silence. His natural brass nature was replaced with a Fernando who had been reared to rule from a young age. As heir to the Fidalgo de Sagres Fernando knew diplomacy even though he rarely chose to use it. Now he wielded it with the finesse of a true Lord. “The Chosen are in a precarious position. We are not the Vampires that mortals write about. Indeed, we have been deceived and reduced to victims by those that are Vampires - they who have started genocide against us for some unknown reason. All of us up here have communicated back and forth for several months on the issue, and Bridget and I are grateful for your attendance. We know how hard it must have been to leave your lands during this stressful time to come here and discuss how to unify against such a threat lest we become extinct.”
“And how do ve know vat you say is true?” asked Gennadiy, Master of Russia, his chair creaked as he leaned his prodigious form forward so as to gaze over at Fernando. “Da, ve have written, ve have spoken, but ve still have no proof. None of zis is happening in my lands.”
Bridget turned in her chair to face Gennadiy, her face lit up in a smile and tilted her head. “Then indeed you are luckier than most. As all of you know, here in Britain, as well as France, Germany, Spain and several other countries, the spice that the Vampires have created are still being bought, sold, and consumed by mortals. Our food supply is being poisoned. Already there are losses. Already there have been skirmishes between Chosen and those we believe to be Vampires. That is the problem. We do not know who is and is not Chosen.”
“Ich stimmoz mit dem Master Russlands übervin,” Hilde of Germany stated. “W’ ist der Beweis, dass Vampire besteren?”
“English, Hilde, English,” sighed Alaric of Austria-Hungary. “It was agreed upon.”
Hilde’s red painted lips twisted in an ugly sneer and turned her head away, setting strawberry blond locks bouncing.
“Oui, you have promised since our meeting in Calais, to share this information,” sneered Hugo, Master of France.
“Actually, it wasn’t my agreement on this,” countered Fernando, his brown eyes blazing into Hugo’s grey. “It was the Angel’s decision to share this information. God knows why after you tried to kill us.”
“You know why,” countered France’s Master.
“Oui, parceque votre Maîtresse a succombée à l'épice et votre Maître l'a suivie, en vous quittant comme le Maître de la France,” replied Bridget, her ire up.
Hugo huffed and turned his burning glare down upon the Angel.
The hatred Hugo directed at him eradicated all of the other’s jumbled emotions, forcing an involuntary gasp from his pale lips.
Notus, sensing his distress, glanced up at him, concern flowing from his tense features. Are you all right? he Sent.
He had not been all right since Notus’ capture by Katherine/Bastia and her Vampires, but he knew that was not what his Chooser was asking of him. Despite the pounding headache he nodded, keeping his gaze ahead of him. He just wanted this debacle over with so he could leave.
“And this is why you wanted us all together. To hear what el Ángel will tell us?” stated Franco of Spain, his dark eyes squinting in contemplation. His soft friendly features held no animosi
ty, only genuine concern for the well being of the Chosen under his authority.
“Yes,” stated Fernando.
“So stop your bickering and let us learn from de Engel,” piped in Jorge of the Netherlands. He offered the Angel and Notus an apologetic smile and shrugged.
Notus smiled back at his friend of many centuries and opened his mouth to begin his part of the tale that he and the others had planned, only to be cut off.
The Angel watched as a gentleman, wearing a simple tux, step across the stage, his shoes ringing off of the varnished wood, to bend down and whisper into the Master of France’s ear. Message delivered, the dark haired man stepped back, resting his hands on the back of the chair. No emotions flowed from this man, only a cold void.
“Before we begin,” interjected Hugo with false pleasantness. The malevolence that flowed from the Master of France changed subtly, adding an overlay of amusement. His steel grey eyes locked onto the Angel and he smiled.
All other emotions from the Chosen subsided beneath the barrage Hugo sent and it took everything the Angel had to keep from shivering under the Master’s glare.
“There is one who, I know, was witness to the Angel and the Master of Britain,” continued France’s Master, nonchalantly. “I wonder why she was not called?” His smile broadened as he set the barb in the flail. “Where is your mortal whore, l'Ange?”
The question blindsided him, evoking the grief he had bottled in since the night of Jeanie’s murder. He barely contained his shock at the flooding emotions battering against the surge of Hugo’s vindictiveness. Surrounding it all was the confusion from the others as they sought to deal with the sudden grief thrust at them. It took Notus grabbing his arm and turning to face tearful hazel eyes to break the contact with Hugo’s bombardment.
