Shadow of Death: Book Two of the Chosen Chronicles
Page 6
The two ruffians did not hear his approach. Their first and only comprehension of the danger they were in was when the Angel grabbed the one in a long brown trench coat by the collar and with one easy movement threw him into the brick wall. A thud and a crack as body and head impacted mingled with the whistle of the wind. The Angel did not turn to see what had become of the man who slid down the wall to settle into a heap, but rather focused his attention on the other assailant who had pulled a knife.
Silver flashed as the man slashed at him.
It was easy to dodge the attack. With one hand he used his assailant’s momentum to trip and spin the man head first into the wall next to his cohort. He winced at the wet cracking sound so similar to his partners before the second assailant landed face down in the snow covered filth.
No wisps of breath emanated from the two, and the Angel knew they were dead. Sighing at the useless waste of life he turned his attention to the old man attempting a futile escape from the scene.
Grey against white, the beggar stumbled down the small alley. His skin was tinged blue against the cold. Blood shot bruising eyes attempted to keep open against the inevitable permanent slumber his injuries and the cold teased him with. The creature stumbled on until he tripped over something in the snow and crashed sideways into the wall. Sliding down, the only indication that the man was still alive was the little clouds arising from his bearded mouth. In his hand he held a bottle in blue and blackened fingers.
The Angel watched this from where the other men had died. He had seen this scenario played out hundreds, if not thousands, of times in his long life, and he knew his role in it.
Taking the steps required towards the man, he found it a relief to feel the wind diminish and the constant pounding of snow lessen.
With the Angel’s appearance, the dilapidated man’s brown eyes widened. “’Ere wot?” He tried to regain his feet but could not. Instead he lay there huffing.
The Angel came to stand before the battered creature covered in grime and snow. If he allowed himself he would feel sorrow for this man and his wasted life. Instead he stood there with a decision to make and a choice to present. Placing the sword case down onto the snow covered alley, he knelt, his knee sinking deep into the fluff to pull unexpectedly on the ragged scar along his thigh.
He was tired, but he was not all that hungry. It had been a very long time since he last fed from a mortal in the manner of a Chosen, but he could smell death creeping up the homeless man’s limbs and that was what drew him. Months could pass before the stirrings of hunger made itself present. The times between feedings could be even longer depending upon his interaction with the white-faced demons. During his century of Vampire slaughters using the demons he had not needed to feed once. He only did so to keep up the pretence with Notus and the other Chosen they encountered.
Now, without the need of the white-faced demons, the hunger slowly blossomed and he sighed.
“Wha–what are you?” stammered the man. He tried to bring the bottle in his left hand to his mouth but failed, the cold seeping his strength.
Recognizing the man’s need, the Angel helped him drink from the neck. The pungent smell of whiskey permeated the snow swept air.
“Ye’ve come to take me, eh?” coughed the man. “I thought so.”
“Who do you think I am?” asked the Angel. He knew he did not need to. No matter how much time had passed between inhabitations of a particular place, the locals, especially on their dying beds, would know him. It still disturbed him.
“The Angel of Death,” stated the man, matter-of-factly.
“And you wish to die?” he asked in all curiosity.
“No.” The man sighed. “But it’s now a toss up between cancer, the beating those two sons of a whore gave me or the cold. Which would you take?”
The Angel inhaled sharply through his nose and then slowly let it go. No puff of warm air condensed about his face. The man had made his choice. Taking the man’s hand in his own, he could feel the calluses of someone who had worked hard all his life. It was always a shame when people were felled low by circumstances beyond their control. Resting his eyes once more on the man’s bloodshot brown eyes, he spoke with the rhythm of the man’s heart.
The man sighed and closed his eyes. He would feel nothing except peace.
Lifting the hand to his mouth, the Angel gently bit into the vessel deep within the wrist. Cool sluggish blood flowed.
Chapter V
It was not the blast of wind that halted the Angel in his tracks and nor was it the pelting of snow and ice, it was the sudden awareness of another Chosen nearby. Normally this sensation would not hinder him from climbing the steps to the flat he shared with Notus, but he had forgotten that there would be two other Chosen awaiting him.
He grimaced at the realization that the Master and the Mistress of the Chosen of Britain were sitting in his home waiting for him to join in the Christmas celebrations.
It had been Notus’ idea to invite them over since he and the monk were leaving in a couple of months. The Angel had acquiesced after Notus had threatened to accept Bridget’s annual invitation for Christmas at the House. He had done that once. Only once. It had been enough to send him fleeing back to the quiet confines of his flat. Who knew that so many Chosen could be so rowdy when given the opportunity to party? But it had not been that. It had been the bombardment of so many Chosen’s feelings that sent him back into the night with a throbbing headache. Of course Bridget understood, Notus placated and Fernando, well, Fernando complained. Since then quiet Christmas get-togethers were fine, but this time he had forgotten.
Taking a deep breath of cold air, the Angel closed his eyes before allowing his breath to slowly steam from him. It had taken several decades before he was able to master this newfound empathy with the Chosen. Gradually the sensations flowing from the flat decreased until there was nothing. He hated to do this with Notus because it also meant that they could not communicate as Chosen and Chooser aught, but he knew how Fernando disliked the emotional connection between him and others. Bridget would not go into details, but left it to say that the Noble preferred, for his own valid reasons, to keep disconnected, and though she hated it, she let her Chosen have as much privacy as their connection allowed.
Calm, grounded and centred, the Angel opened his eyes and climbed the half dozen stone steps. Fishing the keys from his pocket by way of the chain attached to his belt loop, the Angel opened the outer door of the walk-up. Yellow and brown tiled floor stained with grey melt water proved that other tenants had made their way to their flats. Water dripped down the stairs in the middle of the lobby.
With a sigh he turned and placed his key into the lock. The action was automatic and unnecessary; Notus had left the door open for him. On well oiled hinges the fibreboard white door opened and he stepped from a cold winter wonderland to the warmth of Christmas lights and music. He could not have stifled the small smile even if he tried. Closing the door and throwing the latch, he met Bridget’s sparkling blue eyes as she peered over the couch.
“Well, it’s about time you showed up,” complained the Master of Britain as he came to his feet, a smile belying his own irritation.
The Angel placed the wooden box down to lean against the wall as he began to remove his long black coat.
Rising from the green chair, Notus’ expression did not match with his guests. “Don’t move!”
Surprised at his Choosers reaction, the Angel complied and watched as Notus moved preternaturally fast into the bathroom and brought out a large white towel. It took but a moment for the monk to stand by his side offering the large swatch of terrycloth to him.
“You’re soaked,” stated Notus. “I don’t want you dripping all over the floor.”
Surprised at what his Chooser seemed to be insinuating, his eyes widened at the sound of Bridget failing to hide her laughter.
“Oh good grief,” sighed the Monk. “Just dry off and come join us. We’ve been waiting hours for yo
u. What took you so long, boy?”
The Angel hid his smile as he took off his coat and hung it up on the hook beside the door. Notus’ irritation at his lateness coupled with him calling him “boy” made it even more heart warming. Turning around, he kicked off his shoes and grimaced; his socks were soaked. They too came off, leaving his feet cold against the laminate floor and he accepted the towel.
Realizing how soaked his Chosen was, Notus’ eyes widened. “What did you do? Fall into a pond?”
Fernando snickered as he sat on the back of the couch watching the spectacle. A sound of flesh hitting flesh resounded in the room coupled with his bark of surprise made it all too clear that it was Bridget who smacked him. “What did you do that for?”
“Because you’re enjoying his too much.” Bridget slid off the couch and came around to kiss Fernando’s cheek.
Removing the black braces from his wrists, the Angel placed them down on the tea table that sat beneath the draped window and began to dry his long white locks. The edges of his shirt and his trousers would have to dry in their own time.
The silence in the room was broken only with the static analog of an ancient Christmas carol. Pulling the towel down around his neck, the Angel ran his hand through his tousled locks, away from his face. The motion was not as effective as he would have liked, the tangles twisted his hair into non-compliance but he could still see that the three Chosen awaited his explanation.
“I would have been here earlier,” his soft melodious voice filled the flat, “but I had difficulty getting through the snowstorm.”
“Snowstorm? What snowstorm?” countered the Noble as he made his way over to the window. “There was no snowstorm when Bridget and I…” His protestation slid away as he took in the sight of the now uncovered window. White and green brocade creaked in his bronze grip. “Where’s my car?”
“Dear heaven on earth,” gasped Notus, his hand slapping his forehead as he stared at the blustery weather just inches from his face.
Bridget pressed her slim body against Fernando’s back, her head peeking around his shoulder. The expression of her face matched that of the monks.
Notus placed his hand against the snow dotted windowpane and drew it back, leaving a faint condensation impression behind.
“When did this start?” Notus turned to his son who only shrugged.
“What I want to know is where is my Ferrari?”
The Angel stepped over to stand behind his friends. His height made it easy for him to have a clear view of the storm. Scanning the street below he pointed at a large blob of snow sitting near the wind battered stop sign. “Is that it?”
Fernando groaned, his shoulders slumping. “Tell me I didn’t leave the roof down?”
“You left the roof down,” stated Bridget matter-of-factly. “I told you to put it up, but no, you said it was a nice night despite the fact people were staring at us driving like we were crazy.”
Another groan escaped the Noble’s lips and he turned away from the scene. He did not want to calculate the damage that the snow had already done.
“How are we going to get home, Fernando?” Bridget crossed her arms and glared up at her Chosen’s stricken face. “I’m not walking home in that. I wore straps.”
Quick to divert the oncoming fight Notus offered the only solution he could think of. “You two are most welcome to spend the day here. I’m sure by nightfall tomorrow the storm will have passed and the streets will have cleared.”
Surprised at the offer, the Angel regretted not being open to the emotions of the Chosen. “Notus—” he began but was quickly cut off.
“The two of you can take the boy’s bed.”
Knowing where the next sentence would lead, he headed the monk off at the pass by walking over and collapsing onto the sofa. “I’ll take the couch.”
“Are you sure? We don’t want to put you out.” Bridget walked over to sit back onto her spot forcing the Angel to take up residence at the other end.
“She might not want to, but a bed is preferable to sharing a couch.” Fernando closed the drapes, cutting off the horrendous view and returned to his chair next to the tree.
“Then it’s settled,” declared Notus as he went to change the album on the turntable.
“I’d better let Juliette know that we won’t be coming back to the house by dawn.”
“You’d think she’d figure that one out on her on,” muttered the Noble.
Silence reigned as Notus picked out the next record to play and Bridget closed her eyes in concentration. Her communication with her Chosen was completed as Notus lowered the needle onto an old 78 of Fats Domino.
“So, has the house been destroyed yet?”
Bridget glared at Fernando. “The house is safer when you’re not there.”
“Now, now, it’s Christmas,” entered Notus. He sat down in the chair at the other end. “Truce everybody, truce.”
Swivelling in his spot, the monk turned to face his wayward son. “Now where were you? You said you’d be home by dawn this morning, but you didn’t show. Do you know how much I worried?”
The onslaught from his Chooser caught the Angel off guard. He opened his mouth to reply but no words were forthcoming. Even now, when he was over fifteen hundred years old, Notus still could make him feel as if the monk had just found him in that cave so long ago. Chagrined, he let his eyes fall to the floor. He had tried to reach Notus, but by the time he had done so the monk was asleep so he opted to leave a message on their answering machine. In soft tones he said as much.
“We have an answering machine for the telephone?” responded the monk, incredulously.
A groan answered from the other chair. Fernando slumped further down; finding it even harder to believe how technologically backwards his host seemed to be.
“So where did you spend the day?” asked Bridget, intrigued. She curled her legs up under her and propped her head on her hand as her elbow rested on the back of the sofa. Her smiling eyes landed on the Angel.
With all eyes uncomfortably upon him he explained, to Fernando’s dismay, that he had spent the day at Gerry and Donna’s because he inadvertently stayed later to finish a project and barely made it into their home as the sun was cresting over the horizon.
“You stayed the day at a mortal’s house?” asked Fernando. “Do they know what you are?”
The questions should not have surprised the Angel, but it did. “No, they do not know I am Chosen, just that I prefer the night. They have a north facing guestroom and offered it to me. With the drapes pulled it was fine.” A sudden yawn made his eyes water as he covered his mouth with his hands.
“It seems that you didn’t get much sleep,” smiled Bridget.
“I didn’t,” admitted the Angel as another yawn overtook him. “I was just about to fall asleep when Rory and Jenna jumped on me.”
“Who are Rory and Jenna?” asked Fernando, his face darkening with concern.
“Gerry and Donna’s children,” answered Notus, a smile lifting the corners of his lips.
Fernando’s shocked expression caused Bridge to hide a laugh behind her small delicate fingers.
“They insisted I play with them and help set up for Christmas.” The Angel basked in the memory of the two pulling out games and puzzles, stuffed animals and action figures, fighting and laughing as he did something he had never done before – he played like a child and enjoyed every moment of it. They were the reason why he was happy to have stayed awake the whole day and into the next night, sharing a space at the Christmas Eve dinner but hiding the fact he did not eat and then helping to get the kids off to bed with his traditional story from his life, fictionalized, of course. It was the closest to a normal human life he had ever come to and he loved it and them. A smile caught the Angel’s lips.
He did not realize that the others were waiting for him to continue until the music seemed louder to his ears. A sudden flush of heat radiated upwards and he ducked his head, letting the curtain of white obscure t
he blush.
Noticing his son’s embarrassment Notus cleared his throat. “Did you leave their presents under the tree?”
Relieved at his Choosers rescue, the Angel nodded. “Mortgage papers stating that it is paid in full, their car loans and debts are paid off, and the legal papers for the trust funds for Rory and Jenna are all there. They will never have to worry again.”
A large part of him wished he had stayed as Gerry had offered. It would have been wonderful to see the look of surprise as Gerry and Donna found the manila envelope and took in its contents. It was rare for the Angel to dispense joy, so when the opportunity presented itself he would attempt to witness it. Then again, not being there meant that Gerry and Donna had to accept the gifts.
There would be a phone call, of course. Gerry would try and refuse the gifts on a matter of pride, but what was done could not be undone. The Sanders’ would never have to worry about their children’s financial future ever again, nor their own.
“I’m glad to hear that,” beamed Notus. “Now,” he clapped his hands and rubbed them together, “that everyone has finally arrived; I believe that it’s that magical time.”
“What? To turn off that scratchy excuse for music?” mumbled Fernando.
They all looked over at the Noble. Being Master of all the Chosen in Britain had not smoothed his rough edges, only dulled certain ones while making others sharper.
Recognizing everyone was staring at him in either disbelief or hurt, Fernando sat up straight. “What?”
Not wishing to ruin Christmas with a fight between his guests, Notus signed and shook his head. He redirected the evening back to his question, this time answering it himself. “It is time to exchange gifts.”
“Why didn’t you say so in the first place,” countered Fernando. A gleam of excitement grew in his dark eyes. “Presents. I can definitely sink my teeth into that!”
The monk’s incredulous bark was accompanied by Bridget’s laughter. The Angel did not join in, but his smile widened.