Shadow of Death: Book Two of the Chosen Chronicles

by Karen Dales

  Tonight he would do the same as every night since arriving to Toronto. He would get ready, take his Chooser to the museum and then enjoy the rest of the night exploring the city. Sometimes he would walk for hours, other times he would get on his motorcycle and ride the wide straight highways, amazed at the breadth of the metropolis. It was these times, when he opened up the engine and let fly that he could really feel part of this new land. Of course, police would pull him over for his excessive speeding, but with a little Push he was off to repeat with the added benefit that if the same police officers ever saw him they would ignore him.

  On nights when it rained, making the roads too slick for the expensive bike, he would walk Notus to work and then catch a show or two. It was in the darkest hours of the early mornings, when he would return home after feeding, if he felt so inclined, go up to the roof and practice his forms. Here he pressed his body to move in ways they used to. Some took more concentration than others, some were easy, allowing his mind to let fly and his body explode with action. Many nights, Notus would find him up on the roof before dawn. He did not require his link to his Chooser to know that it was those times that Notus truly worried for his son.

  He would press the time he stood outside waiting for the dawn before Notus would rein him back inside. The monk need not worry, but having him do so told him that he was cared for, that his life still had meaning. That he was still loved.

  A twinge in his stomach yanked a grimace from his face and he placed his hand on the doorknob. Closing his eyes, he turned around and leaned his back against the cool wood. The summoning raced into his mind, voicing silent words that were ancient in origin.

  Pressure began to build in the room, its moisture seeping into every pore of his body, and he knew he should not have called them in such a small area. It was too confined. On the rooftop they would have more space to fly free, appearing to those below as nothing more that wisps of mist. But here, in the master bathroom, they drew upon the condensation to give them form.

  His chest felt heavy as if something or someone sat on it and he opened his eyes to see one of his white faced demons pressed up against him. Others, obviously distressed at their limited mobility, tried and failed to swirl in the darkness. The sudden sense of danger pressed him further until he gasped. He had made a mistake.

  You have ssssssssummoned us, sssssire. The one before him whispered. Its voice a rasping of autumn leaves against concrete. We are hungry, ssssssssire. It has been too long. Much too long.

  “I know.” Shame filled him. He had not fed nor alleviated their need for sustenance since before his flight to this land. A part of him did not know if they would be able to follow, but a larger part was afraid to find out. Now that they were here and hungry, he knew he was in a precarious position. If he did not give them what they wanted, they would take it from him, raping his body of the life force they needed to survive by sinking their putrid maws onto his body until there was little left. He had survived many encounters with them before he had mastered him. There was no way he was going back to that nightmare.

  Trapped by his own unthinking actions, his hunger having called out to theirs, he did what he could only do. Swallowing down the ache in his gut, he tried and failed to calm his breathing enough to slip into that other realm. There he would be able to drink from the Lady’s Well, sipping from the silver chalice, and transform that energy into something the creatures before him could suckle.

  Unfortunately, it had been too long and his body cried out for blood, distracting him from shifting his consciousness. His own assumptions about whether or not he could reach the sacred grove had cut himself from it. Now, seeing and feeling the white faced demon’s needs, he knew how wrong he actually was.

  Raising his hands, he watched the creature before him fleet back, its black eye sockets widening in surprise before its mouth split into a smile glittering with sharpened teeth. With a nod to it, it and its brethren descended upon him.

  A gasp tore through his throat as they sank their incorporeal teeth into him, suckling him. He tried not to fight. It was every nightmare that plagued him since he was a child. This time he was a willing participant.

  He felt his energy lag as black spots popped in and out of his vision. A sense of vertigo overwhelmed him and he slid to the floor. “Enough!” he ordered.

  Gratefully, they relinquished their suckling and backed off. One floated down to his level, its head cocked to the side. Remember, sssssssire, it hissed.

  A cough of laughter caught him. “How can I ever forget?”

  Its smile broadened.

  “Go back,” he whispered, suddenly tired and famished. “I promise I won’t forget.”

  Nodding its diaphanous head, it turned, disappearing with the others.

  It was then that he heard the pounding on the door, the vibrations rattling up his spine. Climbing to his feet, all the benefits of the hot shower were doused away and he opened the door to see Notus standing, his fist upraised for another barrage against the wood.

  “I’m alright,” he sighed and then knew it for a lie when the world tilted and he had to grab onto the door jam or fall over.

  “You are not alright,” stated the monk, taking his arm and leading him to the bed.

  The sudden soft support beneath him rushed a sigh out of him and he closed his eyes.

  “What in God’s name were you thinking, boy?” Notus grabbed his chin, forcing him to gaze into worried hazel.

  “They were hungry.” He winced at the lame excuse. He knew how the demons unsettled the monk and how Notus despised the strange symbiotic relationship, but he had accepted it as a necessity in the Angel’s battles with the Vampires. The demons were one thing no one could stand against.

  Notus released his jaw in a huff. He walked two paces, as if ready to flee the room, and turned on his sandaled heel, placing his hands on his brown robed hips. “I don’t want to hear it. There was absolutely no reason to call them and let them have their way with you, hungry or not. What if they hadn’t stopped?”

  Guilt and shame flushed through him at the thought of making his Chooser worry, but Notus did not know all the facts and it was better that way. Halting his feeding of the demons would only mean they would come to him in his dreams again and take what they needed, rather than be tamed by his controlled feeding of them. The only difference this time was that he lost control because he had waited too long.

  “It won’t happen again,” he murmured. He would never let them gain the upper hand again.

  A cool hand landed on his shoulder and he looked up at his Chooser, a wry smile on the monk’s face.

  “What am I ever going to do with you, my boy?” smiled Notus, shaking his head.

  He shrugged, offering a lopsided smile of his own. “Keep me around?”

  “Of course!” exclaimed his Chooser. “There’s no question of that! But, my God, lad, if I could get drunk you would have driven me to drink long ago.”

  “I think with that we’re in mutual agreement, old man.” His smiled widened, offering Notus a rare glimpse of the man behind the Angel.

  Notus patted his shoulder. “That we are, my boy. That we are.”

  It was then that the Angel noticed something oddly familiar. Notus was back in plain brown monastic robes, cinched in the middle by a knotted white cord on which hung a rosary. His salt and pepper hair hung loose and sandals adorned his bare feet. Having seen him wear such over the long centuries of their relationship it should not have been a surprise, but after another century of Notus doffing the attire for something more modern it was an odd sight.

  “You’re wearing your robes, and they are new,” he commented, his fine white brows furrowing.

  “Of course I am,” announced Notus, plucking at the wool fabric. “It’s the opening gala tonight.”

  It did not make sense. If it was such a special event, would not Notus wear something more appropriate? He shook his head.

  The monk huffed in exasperation, obviously h
aving read his thoughts. “It’s a costume, boy,” and then muttered, “unfortunately.”

  Realization dawned on him and his crimson eyes widened.

  “The ROM, under Elizabeth’s advisement, has announced that tonight will be a costumed event where medieval attire is the code,” explained the monk.

  “And you’re going like that?”

  The wry smile came back. “Why not? I spent the entirety of those tumultuous years wearing this. The question you should be asking is what are you going to wear?”

  The hunger that smouldered in his belly was replaced with a cold stone. He had conveniently forgotten that the invitation had both their names on it and that Notus had R.S.V.P.’ed the positive on his behalf as well.

  He shook his head, his white hair whipping around him. “No. You did not?” He did not need to read his Chooser’s mind, just the man’s face and he groaned. “You did.”

  Standing up, hand holding the towel in place, he strode past Notus, out of his room and found the offending material draped over the back of the couch. He closed his eyes, took deep breaths, counting to ten before turning around to face the culprit. “I am not going to wear a houppeland again.”

  “But you looked so good in it last time,” countered the monk.

  “That was eight hundred years ago! And we both know how well that evening went.” He did not attempt to keep the accusatory tones from his voice. The last time he wore something so festive was the night he first met Fernando de Sagres, saving the mortal man from drowning in his own vomit.

  “Then what will you wear?”

  Matching his Chooser’s frown he tried to think. No matter the time period he always tended to wear similar things. An idea came to mind. Sweeping back into his room with Notus on his heels he found what he was looking for. “How’s that?”

  A smile blossomed on Notus’ face at the sight of the black leather trousers and white laced shirt dangling from their respective hangers. Close enough in style, it was still modern. “That’ll do.”

  Shaking his head in amused disbelief, he laid the clothing on his dishevelled bed. “Let me get dressed so we can eat first before the party.”

  Notus turned to leave but halted at the opened bedroom door. “Elizabeth is having a limousine sent to pick us up in half an hour.”

  “What’s wrong with my bike?” he asked, scooping his long hair out from under the white shirt that he now wore.

  Notus glanced down at the lengthy robe and an image of the monk sitting astride on the back of the Y2K, the robed hoisted around Notus’ waist with bare legs enjoying a very brisk breeze blossomed in his mind. His bark of laughter was enough to bring a rush of red to his Chooser’s face. “Okay. Fair enough.”

  Turning around, Notus left him so that he could change for the party.

  It was when he was strapping the black leather bracers onto his forearms did he realize that for the first time he did not balk or attempt to back out of going to such an event. Sitting down on the bed, he felt it sink under his weight. More dismayed than anything, he was surprised at his own lack of trepidation and that in itself slicked the cold stone in his belly in ice.

  Chapter XII

  The limousine drive to the Royal Ontario Museum was blissfully uneventful. Unfortunately there had not been enough time for either of them to slake their thirst before the condominium’s security officer informed them that their ride was awaiting them. Gritting his teeth at the blood scent wafting from the mortal driver, the Angel sat in the back, lounging on the black leather as Notus played with the buttons that erupted music from unseen speakers, turned on and off the television, and opened and closed the fridge and cabinet that held many treats for a mortal to savour. It did not do him any good, for what he craved sat in the driver’s seat guiding the incredibly long vehicle through the busy roads. The saving grace to the whole experience was that Notus agreed to him wearing his sunglasses.

  Uncomfortable at the confined surroundings, he took a deep breath through his nose and released it in a huff, instantly regretting the action. Releasing a groan, he closed his eyes but not before catching the driver’s blue eyes in the rear view mirror as the scent of mortal blood filled his senses. He had not felt this famished in a very long time and he wondered how he would manage through an evening surrounded with delicious unsuspecting prey without giving into his cravings.

  Are you going to be alright? sent Notus. The monk’s worried hazel eyes descended upon him from across the seat.

  I’ll be fine, he replied, doubting his own truth. He rolled his shoulders and looked out through the shaded glass window, ignoring Notus’ snort.

  City lights flickered by, slowing down and speeding up dependent upon the driver’s expertise. It was when the conveyor belt of images ceased to flow past for more than a minute that he realized they had arrived at their destination.

  Leaning forward, his hand was poised on the lever to open the door when it was ripped from his grasp. The limo door opened at the expert hands of the chauffeur and the Angel looked up to see him standing at attention, black gloved hands on the door, refusing to meet his gaze. Uncertain whether the driver’s apprehension was due to fear of his appearance, or some sense of the danger he was in, fear permeated through the mortal’s pores, spicing the blood that raced through his body.

  A hand lowered on his shoulder. “You are not alright.”

  Ignoring Notus’ observation, he stepped out of the car before instinct would overcome control. He witnessed blue eyes dart at him before fixating upon the monk climbing out of the car, believing if he dismissed the obvious threat it would go away. The perspiration from the man’s temples proved otherwise, as did the thudding vessel of the carotid artery.

  Straightening his robes, Notus grabbed his elbow and forcibly turned the Angel. It was then that he realized how close he had been to losing control. To do so, in public, would have been a disaster.

  A breath escaped him in a shuddering sigh. Notus was correct. He was not alright. He was hungry.

  “Get a hold of yourself,” hissed Notus as he guided them both into a throng of event goers that lined up to enter into the Michael Lee-Chin entrance beneath the crystalline structure attached to the ROM.

  Scents of perfume mingled with flowers and spices, flavouring the scent of blood that permeated off of the mortals. Placing a hand over his mouth, he closed his eyes trying to gain control. With so many mortals, their effervescence sinking into his senses, he did not know how much more control he could muster. Every cell in his being cried out to grasp at the first unsuspecting mortal and devour them. He had made a mistake, a fatal one if he could not get a hold of himself.

  He felt a cool hand encase his free hand and the grip tightened. The sudden sensation of the monk’s flesh against his own was enough for him to draw strength. He could sense Notus’ desire for him to rein in instincts he had been trained centuries ago to over ride with willpower. Taking a gasping breath, he consciously pushed away the desires of his body for sustenance. His body would be succoured, but not until after the party, he promised himself. A few more breaths and he lowered the hand from his mouth and nose. Opening his eyes, he gazed down at his Chooser.

  Thank you. He gave Notus’ hand a squeeze before letting go.

  “It won’t last long,” sighed Notus. “But it may last long enough.”

  Nodding, he stepped up to the doorman holding the guest list. Notus gave their fake names and they entered into the ROM.

  Colourfully decorated marketing posters lined white painted walls in the hopes to entice museum goers to pay the extra to descend to the lowest level of the building and be given the treat of seeing works on display that had not been seen in hundreds of years, if not millennia. Little did any of the guests know that standing in their midst were two individuals older than most of the exhibit, and that one of them was responsible for more than half of the scrolls and manuscripts protected in their environmentally controlled glass cases.

  The ROM was a dichotomy of ol
d and new, clashing in a way that one either loved or hated. Regardless of one’s personal tastes one thing was certain, the new addition meant greater floor space for the exhibits.

  Walking past the line up on the left for the coat check, the two Chosen emerged from under the white angled ceiling and walls of the Crystal and into the spacious Hyacinth Gloria Chen Court that bridged the old yellow bricked building with the stark drywall of the new. The differences were always jarring to the senses.

  Tonight more couches and chairs filled the court, allowing for party goers a place to relax and enjoy the cocktails before heading into the Samuel Hall beyond the five display pillars further into the building. There, in the long hall, boarded with medieval frescoes on the walls, modern tables dressed in white linen patterned the hardwood floor. A dais dressed with a table for the guests of honour blocked the entrance to the Philosopher’s Walk Wing and its ancient Eastern treasures.

  Men and women costumed in middle aged garb and holding modern cocktails drifted around the great room. Their conversations mingled into a drone occasionally punctuated by a laugh or a click of glass. Servers in page costumes and fake livery moved from group to group offering appetizers that would never have been known or tasted hundreds of years ago. Drinks as diverse as the riotous costume colours passed from servant to fake lord or lady with nary a thank you.

  Stringed music floated above the murmur of conversation. It was when a young woman, not more than twenty, dressed in purple livery, came up to the Angel and Notus to offer fluted glasses of champagne that they realized they stood in shocked silence at the spectacle. Her question broke their reverie and the Angel took his eyes off the medieval menagerie to watch fear blossom across her young face. Ducking her brunette head, she scurried towards a more amenable cluster of patrons.

  A deep chested chuckle swung the Angel’s attention to Notus, whose face lit up in a smile. Unable to contain his mirth at the sight, Notus erupted into peals of laughter.