Shadow of Death: Book Two of the Chosen Chronicles

by Karen Dales

  “Ye’d bedder let me go, or’ll scream,” she said as she swung about. Whatever else she was about threaten evaporated once she caught sight of her pick. Eyes and mouth wide, fear rippled over her smudged face.

  “I believe you have something that belongs to me,” he stated coldly.

  Her hand shook as she pulled his wallet from the inside of her ratty and stained sweatshirt.

  He took the wallet without losing eye contact. “And the rest?”

  A shudder ran through the street urchin and she quickly revealed the cash and cards she had hoped to sneak from the wallet.

  “In the past I would have dealt with such offences in a more permanent manner.” He took the money and plastic, returning them to the wallet. “Count yourself lucky tonight is not one of those nights.”

  Eyes widening further it took her a moment to realize that she was free to go. Her footpads came quickly together as she fled the fearsome angel.

  He watched her retreating back and slipped the wallet into a deeper internal coat pocket. It was ever the same. He sighed and shook his head. Chosen or mortal, people still were either drawn to him or, more often than nought, fearful because of his appearance. He was about to turn around to resume his search for an alternative route to the back of The Veil when he noticed that the Vampire and the limousine were no longer there. Frowning, he decided to take up his original course.

  It did not take long to find the laneway that ran parallel to the municipal parking lot. A dappling of different coloured cars sprinkled the lot, their windows black and vacant. Widely dispersed street lamps rained puddles of luminescence, throwing some vehicles into sharp relief while others faded into the blackness of deep night. No one stirred as the ricochet of his steps bounced from the brick buildings into the wide open space of the lot. A loud squeak of a rat exiting its hiding space beneath a dumpster was the only warning of its scurry across his path to a garbage bin next to the lot. Disgust warred with awe as he watched the cat sized creature hunt for throwaways. Only when it had achieved its goal of finding a discarded hot dog bun did it flee into the darkness, its prey in its mouth. Swallowing his disgust, he continued his search for the rear of The Veil.

  There was no doubt he was walking into a trap. He had to get his sword back and he would do almost anything to do so. The likelihood of death was high but he no longer cared. All that was left for him was his sword, nothing else. It was all that mattered, the only thing that never failed him. If necessary he would kill as many Vampires as possible before that eventuality. The only ace in his hole was the fact that the Vampires did not know about his current state of mortality. As to what would happen when they discovered the truth, well, he did not care about that either.

  A lone figure stood at the corner of the black bricked wall and he walked up to the Vampire, staring down at the creature of modest height and muscular girth. With short cropped black hair and beard, the Vampire appeared well tailored for the venue in a suit more fitting a hundred years ago. With a nod of the Vampire’s head he walked past and stepped into the private parking lot for the club.

  He repressed the shiver at seeing so many Vampires standing statuesque and hated having even one of them at his back. He had been told not to invoke creatures he had no access too but he had not been told not to bring any weapons. Placing his hands into his pockets he could feel the pommels of the two Japanese blades in their hidden compartments within the long leather coat. The sensation of cool smooth wood wrapped in silk was a comfort.

  He came to stand in the centre of the lot. Two black cars flanked the black painted door. Nervousness evaporated the moisture in his mouth, leaving it dry as ash as numerous Vampires seemed to appear out of nowhere to encircle him. There were more, many more, than he expected. He hoped that keeping his hands gripping the katana and wakizashi would make him appear nonchalant rather than exhibiting the fear that threatened to fell him.

  No sound stirred from the creatures. Only the occasional rat squeak and police siren filled the tense air until the clanging sound of the back door opening drew everyone’s attention. The sandy haired Vampire who had stolen his sword, and who had issued the invitation, stepped forward.

  “Well, well. You’re here.” Fake astonishment dripped. “It’s not every night that Vampires can stand before the Angel of Death without experiencing his demonic wrath. So nice of you to keep to our bargain.”

  “And what about your end?” he asked impassively. There was no way he was going to display the fear that filled him. “Where is my sword?”

  “It’s coming, but first to other matters.” The Vampire stepped to the left of the door as it opened once again.

  A short man with black hair gelled back from his Romanesque face emerged from the building.

  He could not believe who he was seeing. His shock broke his cold reserve allowing anger in its place. “Valraven!”

  “It’s nice to be remembered,” smiled Corbie, stepping forward. “Does your back itch for my staff, Angel? Or do I need to capture your sire first?”

  Rage sent him trembling, his hands and jaw clenched. He would not succumb to the taunts Valraven spewed. He guessed he should not be surprised at Valraven’s sudden appearance or that he was a Vampire. After all he had been the right hand of the Vampiress who had not only completely deceived the Chosen, but had enacted their genocide. He would not succumb to the taught and instead stood silent, refusing to take his eyes off the Vampire as others around him chuckled.

  “You’re the one behind the theft of my sword,” he stated coldly. It was tough keeping the mask from slipping.

  “How astute of you,” smirked the Dominus. Hands clasped behind his back, Corbie rolled onto the balls of his feet before settling back down. Excitement radiated from him.

  “Your second said he would give me back my sword.” He bore his gaze into Valraven and was pleased that his nonchalance slipped a notch.

  “Brian, you didn’t, did you?” recovered Corbie, mock surprise widening his dark eyes.

  Brian shrugged, his face placid.

  Corbie returned his attention to the Angel. “It seems Mr. Haskell doesn’t recall such arrangements.”

  He bristled at the expected statement, his crimson eyes narrowing. It was not a surprise to have the Vampires break their word or to be caught in their machinations. It was disturbing not to know what was next. “Regardless, I am here for my sword.”

  “And what will you give me if I give you what you want?” Corbie stepped closer to the Angel, but not in immediate striking range.

  He was loath to ask. “What could I possibly give you?” Except a quick death, he silently added.

  A quirk at the corner of the Vampire’s thin mouth did not match the sudden darkening of his eyes. “I want you to bring back all the countless Vampires you destroyed.” Hatred broiled from Corbie.

  It was a ludicrous request designed to be impossible. He matched it with one of his own, taking a step closer to the Vampire. “Only if you bring back all the Chosen you poisoned.”

  Corbie barked a laugh as he turned around, his arms wide, addressing his audience. “How like the Chosen!” he declared. Corbie turned back to face the Angel. “Of all the things to ask I would have thought the Angel would have asked for something more dear to his heart. But no. It’s always about your accursed Chosen. If it wasn’t for you and your kind we Vampires would have placed the humans in their proper position - as slaves below us on the food chain like the animals they are!”

  Whoots and hollars exploded.

  The statement made no sense. Both Chosen and Vampire fed from humans.

  “So you wanted to kill the Chosen over food resources.” he stated, doing his best to hide his confusion. It was therefore a surprise when Corbie’s face fell, dumbfounded.

  “You don’t know?” asked the Vampire, incredulously.

  A measure of his confusion must have broken through his cold mask. He did not know what Valraven was talking about, but he knew he was finally close to t
he real reason why the Vampires had waged their war against the Chosen.

  “You truly don’t know?” Corbie began to laugh, his voice ringing against brick until it came to an abrupt end. “The Chosen are called that because they are supposed to be the Chosen of God, or Gods, to be protectors of man! Oh, how low have the Chosen fallen!” Corbie turned to address his Vampires. “Oh, what cruel irony!”

  Protectors of man? The thought swirled in his mind. They were the Chosen, but chosen for what? Even Notus did not know, or did he? Was that the reason for his life as a monk? It would explain so much of what Notus did in his life. The pain of thinking of that man cleared his head and focused it onto the task at hand. He took a step closer towards Valraven.

  Corbie noticed the threatening position of the Angel and took a retreating step backwards. With a nod of Brian’s sandy head he tightened the noose of Vampires.

  “I know you are armed, Angel,” stated Corbie. “I haven’t been around for nearly two thousand years without learning a thing or two.”

  He relaxed the grips on the hilts yet kept his hands in the pockets.

  “I’ll make you a trade.” Corbie paced, finger tapping his lower lip in contemplation. “Whatever you have in your two coat pockets for the sword you came for. I’ll even throw in a small surprise.”

  “And if I do, how do I know you’ll allow me to walk out of here alive?” His eyes narrowed.

  “And how do I know that once the exchange is made you won’t call your demons to kill us all?” countered Corbie.

  He clenched his jaw and whispered, knowing that the Vampires would hear him. “On my honour.”

  Corbie inclined his head and nodded, contemplation twisting his features. “Well, then. On my honour.”

  Unsure whether to believe the Vampire, the Angel realized he had little choice as he glanced right and left, taking in the ring of dark figures. Grasping the hilts, he slid the Japanese blades from his coat. He knew he was just moments from violence as he heard the creatures shift to the sudden threat he became. It was a surprise when Valraven stepped forward.

  “Ah, what beautiful craftsmanship.” Corbie held out his hand indicating to the Angel that he should place the katana and wakizashi onto the ground.

  “I’ve shown you mine,” stated the Angel, refusing to relinquish his weapons. “Now show me yours.”

  “If you want it that way.” Corbie nodded once and Brian went to the black door. The circle of Vampires tightened further.

  The black back door to the building opened. Another Vampire, a female, carrying his sword across her two outstretched hands, slowly approached. Even in the darkness he could make out her long curling locks of cinnamon as the breeze tugged it to obscure her face. She halted next to Valraven.

  Everything about this Vampiress screamed to him of familiarity. The hair, the voluptuousness of her body dressed in a tight leather mini-skirt, and full breasts rising above a black satin corset cinched over a deep green silk blouse. He recognized her from the police photo, but his body remembered what his mind failed to comprehend. It was only when she lowered his sword point down and brushed the dishevelled locks from her face that the name he denied rushed through his lips.

  “Jeanie!”

  Her name rushed from his lips as he bounded forward in an attempt to save her, his mind reeling at the impossibility of whom he saw. He was only able to take a single step before crushing pain flared down his left thigh and up into his hip, sending him sprawling onto the concrete. The grip on his blades failed, sending katana and wakizashi skittering across the ground.

  The blow and the fall wrenched his slowly healing ribs and he gasped as he was forcibly hauled to his knees. He was held in place by a couple of Vampires who pinioned his arms behind his back. His eyes flickered over triumphant brown to land on green he had last seen staring blankly into the night. He let out an involuntary sob.

  “This is going so much better than I had hoped. ‘On my honour.’” snickered Corbie. A true smile brightened his face, his dark eyes filling with sadistic delight. “I bet you’re wondering how it is possible for your beloved to be standing here.” Corbie stepped closer knowing the Angel was well secure.

  “Jeanie, what happened to you?” He implored and was rewarded with a look of confusion before she shook it away. He could not believe who he was seeing. It was impossible. Jeanie was dead. But here she was alive. His heart clutched in joy and pain.

  An unknown hand yanked a fist full of his hair, forcing him to match gazes with a Vampire he desperately needed to kill.

  “Now, now,” clucked Corbie. “How we create Vampires is for Vampires to know, but I’ll let you in on a little secret.” He leaned in to whisper. “She was so delicious when I kidnapped your sire. Granted it was a little bit more than a taste from her wrist, but when I saw her underneath that lamppost again after you murdered my Lady Bastia, I knew I had to have her, this time all of her. Oh, how intoxicatingly delicious. No wonder you had her. Did you know she came willingly to my embrace?”

  “Liar!” he shouted, anger flooding him as he attempted to break from his fleshy bonds. He had known he had walked into a trap. He was even prepared to die. He was not prepared for this.

  Corbie jumped back from the Angel’s wrath and glanced around, fear flickering across his face. “Your part of the bargain – none of your demons. You call them and her true death lands squarely upon your shoulders.”

  He did not know what Valraven was talking about until it struck him – Valraven believed he was calling the mists. Seething, he forced himself to calm down, the pain of his ribs and thigh throbbed in time with his racing heart as he slowed his breath.

  “Good. Good,” nodded the Dominus. “I wouldn’t want Michael to have to use Subtle Persuasion on you again.”

  He glanced over his shoulder, past the Vampire who pinned him, to see the Vampire he had met upon entering this nightmare holding a large limestone hammer. Returning his attention to Valraven he glared his compliance. “What now?”

  “You get your sword back,” said Corbie, nonchalantly. “I am a man of my word. One other thing; a message to the Chosen,” his voice hardened. “The Americas – north, south and central – are mine. The Chosen will keep away. You will keep away. No matter what you see or hear, the Chosen will not set one foot here. If you do then all out war will be declared and we will kill you to the very last like we had hoped to have done a hundred years ago. This time you would fight us and the humans.

  “I am not Bastia, a High Priestess of Isis, who worked at domination and destruction through the guise and glamour she excelled in. I am Corbie Vale, Lord of Valraven, Corvus Valerius Tertius, Tribuni Praetorian to Invictus Maxentiuns. I was born to lead and trained to rule. I am not interested in destroying the Chosen so long as the Chosen continue to be ignorant to what they are.”

  Corbie stood inches from the Angel, his face and stance rigid in martial discipline. No fear caught his dark eyes, only deadly purpose as if reciting his full name has brought him back to his true self.

  Hands clasped behind his back, Corbie turned and marched back to stand next to Rose. “Give him back his sword,” he ordered.

  Still held on his knees, his arms wrenched painfully behind him, he watched a shudder run through Jeanie before she lifted his sword and stepped towards him. Nothing about her had changed. She was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and his heart ached at her transformation. His ragged breath caught as she halted a foot in front of him. He did not care about the pleading gaze he sent her. The mask of the Angel was shattered.

  She took a moment; head cocked to the side to allow cinnamon falls to run past her shoulders, her pale beautiful face was pinched in contemplation. “When Corbie gave me the honour of giving you back your sword, I was thrilled,” she began. “Never before had I seen such beauty in a man, but there you were, standing in that newspaper photo and I just knew.”

  “Knew what?” he rasped, his heart breaking. Even her sensuous Highland burr wa
s gone.

  “I knew I had to have you,” she smiled. She brushed his smooth pale face with the tips of her fingers.

  He shuddered at her touch, his eyes closing as he tried to come to terms with what his heart cried and what his mind screamed. “Jeanie,” he pleaded. A century of guilt and despair filled him.

  “When I saw you as I plucked your sword from its glass coffin I felt something more,” she continued. “I thought that by creating Thorn I would satisfy that feeling. It did not. And when I witnessed you slaughter two of my brothers in Queen’s Park all I wanted was to be in your arms. Why is that?”

  “I–”

  “Shhh.” She pressed her fingers to his lips.

  His breath ran hot around her cold fingers, his eyes swimming in green. This was Jeanie! This was the woman he loved and had wanted to spend eternity with.

  Her fingers left his mouth to be replaced with lips as cold as they were familiar. When she pressed him to open his mouth he let her in, tasting copper as he gave in to his desires. Tears sprung to his eyes with the realization of whom he was kissing. When she broke off he was almost grateful for the bonds that kept him from toppling over.

  She took a step back, her fingers flying to her mouth, her eyes wide. “You’re warm,” she susurrated.

  Fear stabbed through him and it took all his willpower to push down the rising panic. Jeanie knew he was no longer Chosen.

  “Get on with it Rose,” called Corbie.

  Snapped back to her purpose she renewed the close distance. “Corbie wants me to give you back your sword,” she purred. She ran her fingers along his cheek to slide into his silky milk white hair. “He didn’t say how.”

  He knew where this was going. He had lived through it every time he slept since learning he was coming to this accursed land. Therefore it was not a surprise when she grabbed his hair close to the scalp, forcing his head to the side. He gasped in pain.