by Karen Dales
“I am the Angel of Death.”
Chapter III
Father Paul Notus carefully turned over the vinyl long playing album, gently blew the minute particles of dust from the other side and placed it back down onto the turntable. It was his favourite Christmas album, a collection of crooners from the early part of the last century whose voices plucked warmth into his body with each note. It was a Christmas present from the boy when the album was first released decades ago. Notus played it every year and though the vinyl was beginning to wear, creating static to mix with the songs, still he played it.
Checking the needle for fuzz, he placed it down onto the large black disk. Expectations of Frosty the Snowman sung by Sinatra made him smile. First the silence, then the scratching that picked up in volume until finally the smooth voice of the long dead singer mingled with the static, marking that all continued to be well with his antique turn table.
“Ugh. If you won’t get an iPod or at least a CD player, I swear I will,” complained Fernando, Master of Britain.
“Oh, quit your complaining,” countered the Mistress of Britain. “I think it’s nice.”
“If you’re a mouse.”
A smile tugged at the corners of Notus’ face and he turned around to face his houseguests. It was the same thing year after year, but only when Bridget and her Chosen deigned to join them at his place.
Fernando lounged in the large green leather chair, its ottoman tilted to one side under the crossed Italian shoed feet of the Noble. For the umpteenth time he pushed away one of the pine branches from sticking out close to his head. Again the tree snapped back the decorated limb, making the whole tree wiggle and the lights flicker.
“If the tree is bothering you, then move.” Bridget sat at the end of the matching green couch closest to Fernando, her slim pale legs curled under her despite the blue sequinned dress that hugged her body. Her long blonde hair curled loosely around her shoulders.
“No,” harrumphed the Noble. A dying tree gaudily made to twinkle at him would not force the Master of Britain from his spot. He grabbed the offending branch and twisted it away from him. The snap as the wood gave way under the Chosen’s strength surprised the Noble as he came away with the decorated limb.
Bridget sharply exhaled through her nose and shook her head. Fernando was, typically, being Fernando.
The smile on the monk’s face fell for a moment before turning into a grin at the shocked expression on the young man. Walking over, Notus took the branch from Fernando and gave it a look over before giving it back to the Noble.
“You broke it, you fix it,” grinned Notus.
“And how, pray tell, do you expect me to do that?” Fernando’s brown eyes glared up at hazel.
“Oh Fernando, it’s easy.” Bridget uncurled herself and took the branch in her small delicate hand and started to pick the decorations off of it. Gliding around the tree, she found areas on it where greenness outweighed gaudy. With artistic precision she added to the tree’s bulk until the broken branch laid bare in her hand.
“Ah, my dear, you are ever able to bring beauty to every occasion,” remarked Notus as he took the naked branch.
Bridget smiled and sat down, resuming her curled position.
Since his and the boy’s return to London about a decade ago, Notus enjoyed having Fernando and Bridget over for the holidays. It was nice to finally settle back into a life of peace after over a century of moving from one country to the next as the Angel was called to hunt down and exterminate the Vampires.
It had been hard on the boy. Notus could see and sense it. At first, when the Grand Council declared that the Angel of Death was to be their instrument to clear away the threat of genocide by the Vampires, the boy had accepted it with relish. It was the perfect opportunity to exact his revenge against those that had done so much harm to the ones he loved. It was also a way to make sure that no matter where he travelled, no Master or Mistress would seek his Destruction. Even Hugo, Master of France, had relinquished his demands for the Angel’s execution for being different.
It was after the third encounter with a group of Vampires in Italy that the Angel began to lose heart. It was not so much that he no longer wanted to exterminate the Vampires, but they were now placing their mortal servants into the mix and the Angel was reluctant to kill these innocent humans. His sentimentality nearly killed him in Germany, when the humans outnumbered their Vampire masters, but kill them the Angel did. It was then that his slaughters, using those demons, became more prominent. The regret in the Angel’s soul blossomed.
Notus knew what made the Angel hesitate, what ate at him even as he killed Vampire and mortal alike. It was the understanding that when the Angel looked at these people, he knew that his lost love could have ended like any one of them. The boy would look into the crowd and see people that had mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, children, turned into mindless slaves by creatures bent upon their dominance and the Chosen’s destruction. His heart broke every time he killed them as they were forced to try and kill him.
Nearly a century of scouring Europe clean of the Vampires had darkened the Angel’s soul and both were glad when they returned to England where friends awaited them. The condition for returning to London was that the Angel would not go to the courthouse again to stand before the British Chosen. If they wanted to talk with him, they would have to move to a new location. The agreement Notus had to make was to ensure they would not move back to the district where they had once lived and Jeanie had been their maid and the Angel’s beloved.
It was said that time heals all wounds. It was true, but if one did not constantly pick at them.
Notus placed the naked pine branch under the tree next to the presents expertly decorated in a myriad of tasteless colour combinations. He would have to figure out what to do with the limb since his two bedroom flat did not come with a fireplace. Modern technologies and conveniences lent towards the diminishment of simple heart warming experiences, and it seemed that fireplaces were one of the first things to go in tenements such as this.
Frosty the Snowman had given way to Bing Crosby’s White Christmas and Notus sat down in the matching green lounge chair at the other end of the couch. The night was perfect except that the boy was, as usual, late.
“So when do you expect him?” asked Fernando, checking his gold Gucci wristwatch. Snapping his arm down so as to allow the black and silver pinstripe Armani shirt to flow over his wrist, the Noble settled himself with a disgruntled smirk.
Notus glanced at the clock beside the front door and grimaced. The boy had called before morning to say he was staying the day. Despite the monk’s protestations the Angel said he would return shortly after sundown to see Notus off for Midnight Mass. It took another call from the boy to say that he would be back after Mass, but that was now over an hour ago.
“He’ll be here,” offered Notus, silently wondering if the boy was trying to evade being around his friends. It was common. Fernando and Bridget understood it to a point. The Angel still found it uncomfortable to be around other Chosen even though he had mastered his empathic abilities. It was his otherness that kept him apart. Even after all these decades it was still hard for the boy to accept that others did not see him that way – much.
“Have you decided whether you and the Angel are going to join us for New Years this year?” asked Bridget. She shifted on the green leather, making it squeak, so that she could see her host.
“I hope we do, my dear, but I want to let the boy decide. It’s never gone well when I’ve thrust him into the spotlight.”
“Tell him that it’s an order from the Master of Britain,” grumbled Fernando. The Noble knew how well that would go over with his tall pale friend, but the Angel would do it nonetheless.
“Fernando!” exclaimed Bridget, pushing back loose locks behind a diamond-studded ear.
“What?” replied the Noble, innocently. “It’s going to be the first and only New Year’s party he’ll be attending before he and
the Good Father head off to the colonies, which, by the way is the stupidest move I’ve ever heard any Chosen making in their lives! What the hell were you thinking when you decided to go there?”
Notus huffed. He had been expecting it from his friends, but did not think it would come up tonight of all nights. Then again, the piles of boxes with permanent marker scrawled over them would make anyone question this move.
“Fernando,” warned Bridget. Regardless of the fact that they were Master and Mistress they also knew that the Good Father was the oldest Chosen they knew of. It was never a good idea to berate one’s Elders.
“No, seriously,” replied Fernando, his ire up. It was a topic he wanted to bring up for some time, but never had the opportunity since the Angel would not talk about it. Instead, he closed up and shut down as was usual for him. “He’s done his work for the Chosen. He’s forced the Vampires from Europe, killing as many as possible. There’s an uneasy peace now between us. They have the Americas and we have the rest of the world. Don’t either of you know what you two can cause by going there?”
“Fernando.” Bridget’s warning tones grew louder.
“No, Bridget,” snapped the Noble. “If they go, they will make themselves targets of the Vampires and we will not be able to help. You weren’t there last time.”
Silence reigned down upon the Christmas revellers. There was no escaping what Fernando was referring to.
“I was there when you brought the Angel home,” whispered Bridget.
“But you weren’t there to take him down from the manacles that shredded through his wrists. You weren’t there to see his back flayed open with scorch marks and...” Fernando shuddered involuntarily. “You didn’t see. What you saw was two weeks of recovery. Do you think that the Vampires will do any less than that to him after all he has done to them in the last century?”
This time Bridget had the wherewithal to stay quiet. Silently she knew Fernando was right. She just did not like the way her Chosen was handling the situation.
Notus understood where Fernando’s concerns came from and he frowned. The images that were invoked through the Noble’s description of the boy’s torture were as difficult to face as seeing the boy’s scars.
“I know that you both are concerned,” began the Good Father, slowly. “I greatly appreciate it. Never before has the Angel and I had such friends–family if you will. We know what potential dangers we may face, but my work with the British Museum has tied my hands and offered me an opportunity of a lifetime and for me to say such a thing is, well...”
“You’re Chosen, you don’t have to follow human conventions,” rebutted Fernando.
“True,” nodded the monk. “But I have the opportunity to see how my own works through the centuries have fared and to properly restore them.”
“You don’t have to go to North America for that,” commented Bridget.
Notus turned to face his Mistress. “I do. The whole collection is going on tour. They want me to go with it to make sure everything is treated properly and to fix anything that may be damaged during the travels.”
“Can’t someone else do this?” beseeched Fernando.
Notus pursed his lips and shook his head. “Dr. Mark Preston was supposed to go on tour with the collection, but his skiing accident last week in Switzerland has left him wheelchair bound for at least two months and he’ll be in therapy for at least two more. I only agreed to cover the tour until he was able to resume his duties. I didn’t realize that the tour was through the United States and Canada. I said yes before I knew. Now I’m stuck and the Museum is stuck.” Again Notus shook his head. “We’ll come straight home as soon as Dr. Preston can take over. I promise.”
“And who knows what will happen in the mean time,” grumbled Fernando, knowing he had lost the argument.
Chapter IV
The darkness of the tunnel into Victoria Station gave way to the dull illumination of the platforms in the distance. Drips of water untainted by the blustery cold above ground echoed through the abandoned tunnels mingling with the occasional squeak from a rodent in search of Christmas dinner. It was not long before the Angel squinted up at the gloaming lights of the sleeping station. No trains ran during the storm. It would not only be from the inability of the trains to plough through the snow at the open air stations, but the fact that the conductors of the trains would be hard pressed to get to work.
It was odd to see the place vacant. Usually this hub was chaotic in its flurry of activity. People moving from here to there, unaware of those that brushed past them, all eager to remain solitary as they sought connection with those they journeyed to, while others, usually teens, chatted loudly, sang along with music only for their ears, or called to each other as they jumped from tube to tube. Above it all would be the static calls from the overhead speakers indicating which trains would be coming in and where they would be going.
Tonight the only sounds were the squeaks of the mice and rats that inhabited the tunnels, runnels of water and the soft footfalls of feet moving preternaturally fast.
The damp tunnels were a relief from the snowstorm that raged outside, allowing for the Angel to make up the time lost as he struggled against winter’s onslaught. Occasionally he would sight a homeless individual huddled in the darkness. Tonight they were lucky as there were no bobbies to come and remove them. The officers of the peace would be keeping to their precincts unless absolutely necessary.
Hefting the strap that held the sword length box higher up on his shoulder, the Angel was careful not to step on the third rail as he bounded up onto the deserted platform. Even though no trains rode the tracks the electric hum of the third rail spoke of a sleeping monster that would attack any trespasser.
With a quick cursory glance around, which was more habit than required, he followed the signs to the escalators that would take him to the large open station that served to tie the Tube’s intricate network with that of the National Rail. The escalator remained stationary. There would be no relaxing while the mechanical stairs lifted him to ground level, but that was no problem for the Angel who quickly bounded up the metal stairs three at a time.
Emerging from the entrance of the Tube, voices filtered to his sensitive ears before he saw them. He knew he should not have been surprised, but when he rounded the corner to see so many homeless in the make-do shelter his eyes widened. The large open area that normally would be bustling with people desperately trying to achieve their destinations was replaced with makeshift sleeping arrangements for the dozens of homeless that trickled in from the storm.
The scents of bitter hot coffee and sweet hot chocolate mingled with the cold damp sour smell of unwashed bodies. A few volunteers handed out hot beverages and blankets; while others helped those with steaming mugs to find a place to get comfortable.
This was not a place for the Angel. It would be impossible to keep out of notice.
Sticking to areas least populated he sought his way out of Victoria Station. It was more difficult than expected as more homeless came in through rotating doors that were filled with slush and ice.
Keeping to the far reaches of the wide-open space, the Angel measured his pace to that of a mortal lest someone see him. It still surprised him that in an age of such magic and ingenuity there were still so many who had nothing. Some things did not change.
He turned a corner finding an exit. The wind howled against the glass door, rattling it as if to say he were not allowed out on a night when the storm ruled. Giving the door a firmer push than normally required he stepped into the storm, the wind whipping his dishevelled hair in punishment. Snow blasted, his face and eyes stinging, he stood outside in the midst of the storm at full force.
The Angel hunkered under the onslaught as he tried to regain his bearings. Their flat was not far from the station. Normally it would take but a moment to get there, but the foot of snow on the ground and the wind whipped ice crystals would prove difficult. The snow that had melted on him during his underground
jaunt began to freeze and he could feel the runnels of water down the back of his neck grow colder. He tried to repress a shudder and failed. It would not take long before strands of white hair froze into icicles.
He lifted a hand over his eyes to shade them from the heavy snowfall and picked out familiar sights. Bearings received, he turned and trudged through the snow towards home, damning himself for not having worn boots.
The moaning sound of the wind screamed on occasion as faster flows chased after slower plodding downpours. The sad little trees, interspersed upon his route home, creaked and bent under the onslaught. The only cars on the road were buried in parking spots, their drivers’ wise enough not to drive on a night like tonight. Occasionally the Angel would see a brave cabby endeavour to force his car in the hopes of finding a stranded fare. One such individual slowed its approach upon seeing him walking and then realizing no fare was forthcoming began to spin its back wheels as it caught on some black ice under the snow. It slipped sideways and slammed into a parked car with a sickening crunch.
Shaking his head, the Angel continued on. A dogsled would be more apropos on a night like this than any modern convenience, except, of course, a snowmobile, but they were not a popular buy here in Britain.
The sound of voices in anger followed by glass bottles clinking and crashing into fragments caught the Angel’s attention and he glanced down the darkened alley to his left. Halting, he saw a scrubby old homeless man failing in his attempt to fight against two ruffians similarly dressed. It was not clear to the Angel what they were fighting for, but whoever it was landed blow upon blow upon the grizzled man as he succumbed to the strength of the other two men.
Tonight was supposed to be a night of brotherly love, not violence. Saddened by the sight, he shook his head and entered the alley.
