Shadow of Death: Book Two of the Chosen Chronicles

by Karen Dales

  Stop this, Sent Notus, his thoughts raw with grief – his and his son’s. You need to take control otherwise this council will fall apart.

  Ripping his gaze away from his Chooser, the Angel shook the tears from his eyes. Hugo’s triumph pelted down on him and he knew Notus was right. Several of the Masters and Mistresses had tears in their eyes, some, like Bridget, wept. Fernando seemed immune, his face tight with fury. He had not meant to rend his wounds open ever again, and never had he planned to do so in front of others.

  “Where is your whore, l’Ange?” pressed Hugo, enjoying the discomfort the Angel appeared to be in. His assistant behind him snorted a laugh and fell quiet.

  Hugo’s abuse of Jeanie's memory rang in the Angel’s mind, igniting the anger he had once felt when Hugo was just Aimeri’s second and he had first named Jeanie a whore. The Angel had punished Hugo, ejecting him from the roof of a warehouse after fighting him while holding onto Jeanie with one arm. The fact that Hugo was referring to Jeanie in such a manner sent heat though his body.

  “Jeanie is dead,” stated the Angel through clenched teeth. Oh how the words knifed him to the core. He ignored the nervous chatter as grief turned to an anger the other Chosen easily picked up upon. Notus laid a hand on his arm in an effort to calm him, but he shrugged it away. The plan laid out no longer applied and he no longer cared about the consequences.

  “You asked for the Angel to stand here and testify to the truth. Here I am.” Barely contained rage tinged his words. “Jeanie is dead. Killed by a Vampire.”

  “Zis is preposterous!” shouted Gennadiy. “Ve all know ve are za Vampires.”

  “That is not so,” interjected Notus, in an attempt to keep the Angel's rage from lashing out. He had never seen his boy in such a state. Notus pressed on despite the disquiet in the room. “I was their victim. I saw how they fed, for they fed on me.”

  The admission stunned the council into silence. Even Hugo’s eyes went wide at the revelation. They all knew about Father Paul Notus’ harrowing detention by the Mistress Katherine. It was still hard to believe she was another creature who had subsumed the identity of a Chosen so at to manufacture the genocide of the Chosen. The idea of a Chosen exsanguinating another to a hands breath of death was unheard of.

  “Despite our many centuries of friendship,” commented Jorge. “I, too, must admit that the whole concept that Vampires are different from us, and are the ones poisoning our food supply is hard to swallow. It is more likely that mortals are doing this.”

  The declaration erupted a heated argument between the Chosen on stage, raising voices in the debate of the truth of what the Master of Britain had told them, what the Good Father and the Angel stated, and their own choice to refuse to believe.

  The Angel watched the Masters and Mistresses give voice to the anger he felt. Notus was right, the Council was falling apart and it galled him. Jeanie was dead and buried because of Vampires. He was called to stand before this Grand Council because of Vampires. Hugo incited his anger because of the Vampire who obviously now stood second to the Master of France. All that he had endured that made it impossible to be around other Chosen was because of Vampires. The cold voids that stood scattered around a room filled with frothing emotions were the reason why he was here.

  If the Chosen could not see it, he would open their eyes. To Hell with the plan. He would wrest control whether they liked it or not, whether he was sentenced for Destruction or not. His life no longer mattered without Jeanie. If this one rash act brought unity and a chance of surviving this war against the Vampires then so be it.

  Closing his eyes, the Angel took a deep breath and slowly let it out as he opened his eyes. The ancient words of Summoning that Auntie had taught him as a boy came to mind. He did not care that the theatre became cooler, damper; a sure sign that the white-faced demons were coming.

  The shouting between the Chosen infected those witnessing the debacle and they too joined into the debate. None paid any attention to the slow rising mist swirling around their ankles.

  Anger begat fury, feeding a cycle between the Angel and the Chosen. His Chooser was right, he was in control and it was up to him to do something.

  Over the din he shouted, “Be quiet!”

  His desire and anger washed over the others, immediately halting any further vociferous debate. All eyes turned to him and he knew what they saw: the Angel of Death standing in their midst. The throbbing headache was gone, leaving a sense of detached anger and he knew at this moment that if he wanted to he could eradicate all the Chosen in this room. The thought humbled him but still he did not relinquish the mists.

  “You wanted proof. I'll give you proof. Proof of your blindness to the reality that Vampires stand here in our midst, spying on the Chosen to find out what we know and what we'll do about it. Proof that their sole purpose is the destruction of the Chosen.” The Angel turned his burning gaze down onto each of the Masters and Mistresses.

  Bridget ignored his stare, instead she clutched Fernando's arm. It was clear she was communicating with her Chosen and Fernando was rightly concerned.

  Movement at the back of the theatre snapped the Angel's attention around. A null void in the shape of a red headed youth was trying his hand at the locked door. The Angel's lips twisted into a sneer as his fury at the creature unleashed.

  “What are you doing?” demanded Notus, confusion filling his words.

  His Chooser did not know about this new ability, but he was about to find out.

  “Halt!” ordered the Angel. A thick rope of mist rose up from the floor, twirling itself around the double doorknobs and lingered. The Vampire snapped his hand back as if bitten.

  Relieved that the creature would not be leaving, the Angel finished the spell and watched the fog churn and boil until it was level with his chest.

  Shouts of terror from the Chosen and the sound of flesh boomed against wood as some beat against the thick oak doors in a vain attempt of escape. Somewhere within the din the Angel heard Fernando issue an order for everyone to stay still.

  He met the Master of Britain's dumbfounded expression with cold fury. Today the Chosen will know him for what he was and he did not care. Bringing his attention back to the swirling mists he watched as faces and figures coalesced. Vacant black eyes in skeletal skulls cloaked in mist stared at him expectantly.

  What is thy bidding, Sire? asked the one floating in front of the Angel, its mouth a putrid maw.

  No longer afraid of the creatures that tormented him since childhood, the Angel now controlled them. Take all but one of the Vampires. The one on the stage must not be allowed to leave. You are not to touch the Chosen, he ordered in the dead language that Auntie had taught him.

  As you will it, so shall it be done. Its ruined mouth opened further into a gruesome smile and swam off as the mists boiled up, filling the theatre from floor to ceiling.

  Silence reigned but a moment, belying the fear and confusion that flowed through the mists towards the Angel. Then the sounds of terror erupted.

  Screams and crying pierced the veil. Whether they came from the Chosen or the Vampires it was hard to say except that some were cut off in mid cry. Others gurgled into oblivion. Panic struck footsteps disappeared, leaving others to run blindly. All this the Angel listened to as he unleashed the white-faced demons to reap his revenge.

  Eyes closed, he felt the savage satisfaction that the white-faced demons revelled in as their jagged teeth ripped into dead immortal flesh. Every so often one of those under his command would swim by to caress his outstretched hands and face. Each time brought a surge of energy. This was part of the pact, a part that his mind recognized. It was a symbiotic relationship that meant he could go without feeding for extended periods of time, but if he did not allow the demons to feed, then he would need to feed and they would feed from him. Tonight there was more than enough for all and he shuddered as another demon caressed his face before floating off for another victim.

  Notus could not believe what
he was experiencing. He tried to cross himself, but that did not abate his fears. Shuddering, he glanced up at his son’s face. He did not know how this could be happening, but the look on the boy’s face ignited a seed of fear that he had refused to believe was always there.

  “Stop this, please. For God’s sake, Gwyn, please stop,” begged Notus, pulling at his son’s arm.

  It was not the fear and desperation from his Chooser that opened his eyes; it was the use of that name. The Angel of Death glanced down at the cowering monk. How could he tell the man he has known for centuries the sense of exhilaration and power he felt as the demons captured their prey? He sadly shook his head. Notus would never know.

  At last the cries of the slaughtered ceased and a white-faced demon presented itself to its master.

  Terrified, Notus clung to his son, eyes wide at the creature.

  “As you so ordered, so has it been done,” reported the creature. Its black maw tinged with red dripping blood.

  The Angel felt his Chooser shudder at the sight of the creature that once haunted his nightmares and felt his anger reduce. “You have done well. Return until next we meet.”

  The apparition completed what could only be construed as a bow and slowly the mists receded, revealing the residue of chaos.

  Some chairs on the stage were knocked to the floor, leaving those Chosen to stand, pinned to their spots in terror. Other chairs held Mistresses and Masters curled into themselves in an attempt to make themselves small against the rising of the demons. None knew that they were safe from harm. Only Fernando and Bridget stared at the wreckage of frightened Chosen who tried to hide in corners or had cracked the oaken door with bloodied hands. Only the Master and Mistress of Britain had ever experienced the mists before and to have survived it a second time still filled them with fear of their friend.

  The theatre reeked of terror and blood and the Angel breathed heavily of its scent, his face a cold mask barely containing his disgust at the Masters and Mistresses. Too much focus on internal politics and too little on the realities surrounding them, that was what allowed for the Vampires to twist and warp the Chosen away from what they were meant to be. It was that weakness which opened the floodgates for genocide.

  Blood red eyes roamed the wreckage until he found what he was looking for.

  There, laying beside the red velvet curtain draped innocuously at stage right was the body of the Vampire who had stood at Hugo’s side.

  Uncaring that he limped, the Angel strode over to the stairs that lead to the creature. He did not care that the Chosen watched him with fear and loathing. Their emotions flowed over and around him, but he held his in check. They would feel nothing from him.

  His footsteps rang in the silence as he climbed the steps. Notus’ sandaled feet scuffed behind him in an attempt to keep up. Both halted at the top as they stared down at the man who stood second to the Master of France. It was Notus’ sharp intake of breath that alerted the others to follow until they all stood in a horseshoe around the creature.

  There, laying face up on the varnished wood, the Vampire growled and hissed, exhibiting its dual fanged teeth for the Chosen to witness. Hilde of Germany gasped at the sight. It was not just because of the teeth, but also at the reason why Hugo’s second lay trapped on the floor. The creature’s limbs had been removed as if bitten or chewed off, leaving oozing stumps.

  “What the hell did you do to Degare?” demanded Hugo as he pushed through the throng; only to come up short at the sight of the one he had believed could be Master after him. Brown eyes widened at the sight of the man he once trusted with the operations and management of the Chosen of France.

  Ignoring the accusation, the Angel refused to look up from the writhing Vampire. He could feel the hatred for this creature tightening his jaw. His hands attempted to mimic the movement but only weakly clenched at his sides.

  “This is what the Chosen are up against.” The Angel’s whisper carried to the back of the theatre. “This is what is killing the Chosen.”

  “What are you saying l’Ange?” sneered Hugo, disbelieving his own eyes.

  “This is a Vampire, Hugo,” replied Fernando, pushing to stand next to the Angel, followed by Bridget. The smug tones were not lost on all present. “You were duped by a Vampire, just as we were.”

  Hugo snorted. “Answer this ridiculous accusation, Degare, and I will ensure you have a quick release.”

  The Vampire flicked his gaze from the Master of France to the Angel and back and began to laugh. “It is the Vampires who are supreme and we will make a wasteland with your corpses.”

  “But why? Why do this?” asked Jorge, confusion lighting his fair features.

  The laugh came again, this time ending with coughing. “You call yourselves Chosen, but you do not know for what or why. Vous êtes dépassés. Vous êtes des imbéciles. Les Vampires vont dominer et toute l'humanité sera à nos pieds. You cannot save them or yourselves.”

  “You are wrong.” The finality of the Angel’s conviction snapped the Vampire’s gaze back to him. “Vampires have confused the Chosen for centuries, fooling them into forgetting their humanity, but no longer. Now they will remember what you have done to them and they will regain what they lost.”

  Turning to Notus, the Angel sent, Now. Do it now.

  The monk took a deep shuddering breath at what he was asked to do, but that, at least, had been part of their plan. It was difficult to see one of the kind that had captured and drained Notus dry lying there helpless. No matter what had happened to Notus, he still felt the need to help, to heal, to save this creature, but underneath it was the anger and humiliation for what he had endured.

  Taking the silver flask from between his robes, he uncorked it.

  “You do not believe that it was Vampires, not Chosen, that is behind the genocide,” said the Angel, his voice so low that the others had to strain to hear. “If his words do not convince, and the teeth not convince, then let this imprint on your mind, for Chosen do not burn under the Cross nor when blessed with Holy Water.”

  Comprehension widened the Vampires eyes until they were ringed with white. “No! No! Please, no!” He writhed on the ground in an attempt to move away from the monk.

  Notus hesitated and glanced up as his son. He could not believe what he was asked to do, but the need to do so filled him with conflicting horror and relief.

  With his free hand Father Paul Notus invoked the Cross, “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,” while he upturned the contents of the flask over the head and torso of the creature before him.

  The Vampire began his screams of pain at the first stroke of the Cross and well before the first droplets of Holy Water fell upon his body. As the liquid impacted, the creatures’ panicked screams escalated with the tendrils of smoke ascending from his body. It was quick and it was gruesome as the Holy Water ate through the Vampire like hydrochloric acid on paper. Flesh bubbled and ignited, burning and liquefying, searing the skin from his body only to eat deeper into the muscle and bones. The gurgling cry was cut off as the Holy Water made quick work of the skull, adding its own bloody mess to stain the wooden floor. It was a surprise to the Chosen, forcing them to take a step back, when the remains ignited to leave only black powder on the stage.

  Silence thundered down. Notus was horrified at the reaction his precious God blessed water had created, but there was no dispute now. Vampires were as real as the Chosen, and as different as day was to night.

  Slowly all eyes descended upon the Angel, who could not tear his gaze away from the remains.

  “Crediamo. Caro dio nel cielo, crediamo,” gasped Alfonsina. She halted in the middle of crossing herself, eyes wide. She found Notus’ sad hazel and dropped to her knees. “Per favore, padre.”

  “Sì, la mia figlia,” replied Notus, tears filling his eyes. Carefully, so as not to step on the blackened smudge, the monk came to stand before the Mistress of Italy. Laying one hand upon her head, he made the sign of the Cross once more with the
other, “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.”

  The Angel turned away from the display and the tears that ran down the Mistress’ face. There could no longer be any doubt about the existence of Vampires. Now it was up to the Grand Council to decide what to do.

  Carefully the Angel made is way down the steps, intending to leave the Council to their heavy responsibility. He halted as Hugo called out.

  “L’Ange, you have proven your point and you have proven mine.”

  Turning, the Angel faced the Master of France.

  “What are you talking about, Hugo?” asked Bridget, worry widening her blue eyes.

  “L’Ange is clearly not Chosen,” sneered France’s Master. The others murmured their surprise at the accusation, but the evidence could not be denied. Too many irregularities through the centuries set the Angel apart no matter where he and Notus travelled to, leaving the question opened.

  “If l’Ange is Chosen,” continued Hugo, “then it is clear he must be Destroyed.”

  The murmurs became shouts of protest mingled with agreement. Not all were friends of the Angel no matter their feelings for his Chooser.

  The Angel looked up at the Chosen, his face blank of all emotion. It was a gamble he took when he summoned the white-faced demons and he could feel Fernando and Bridget’s panic about what they may be forced to declare.

  “Before any sentence is carried against the Angel,” shouted Fernando over the din, “Let his Master and Mistress ask him this: What are you?”

  If he had not been expecting this from his friend, the Angel would have declared himself a fool. He had spent too much time with the Noble and been asked that same question over and over through the ages. Never before stating that he was Chosen was enough to dissuade the speculations. Now he knew he could not stand here before the Grand Council and claim to be one of theirs. Again, he was outcast, different, set apart.

  Straightening his stance, he pulled on the glamour that had always fit him and felt so right. Fear percolated through the Chosen and he knew now how to answer. Allowing his burning gaze to slide from one to the next, he settled onto Notus for it was he who deserved the truth more than the others.