Angel of Death: Book One of the Chosen Chronicles (59 page)

An eternity pressed forward and she forgot to breathe. Jeanie watched in silence as the Noble knelt over the Angel with eyes closed, his face tight in concentration. Without warning Fernando opened his eyes, turned the Angel over and scooped him up only to be placed onto the bed.

Jeanie sucked in a deep breath and took a cautious step forward. The Angel lay askew on the bed, his hair splayed over and around his face. Fernando turned to her, bearing down on her and she scampered back up against the wall, terror billowing up.

“You are a very lucky mortal.” She could hear the contempt in his whisper. His breath feathered against her face. Jeanie could not tear her frightened gaze from his. “He’s alive – barely. If he were dead, you would be too.”

Finding a spark of courage, Jeanie needed to know, “Why d’ye care?”

He leaned forward, his face inches from hers. “He’s Chosen. You’re not.” He stepped away from her and stopped as he reached the door. “Not to mention you foolishly nearly cost me a valuable partner. Next time you eat remember this: if he dies, the Good Father you care about dies too.”

Jeanie watched in horrific realization as the Noble left the bedroom. Running to the bed, she collapsed to her knees and clutched the Angel’s pale cold hand to her face as she wept.

T
he bathwater luxuriated against her skin. Her dark brown hair hung in water-plastered ropes against her face as she stared up to the shadowed ceiling. Opalescent bubbles glittered in the candle light, making musical pops as the tension left their skin. Smiling, she closed her eyes enjoying the relaxation her nightly constitutional always brought her. The only thing that was missing was the songs of her little bird.

Languidly, she ran a petite hand down her face and neck to gently caress her breast. There would be no reaction. Her little bird was across the channel with Violet making sure that her flower blossomed with the responsibilities she bestowed.

She dropped her hand back into the water with a splash and opened her eyes. She had not imagined that she would miss Corbie, but now he had flown she could not wait for his return. The others were no match to his ability to run the operation. He was the perfect successor to the control of the British Isles when all was in place and the extermination of the Chosen complete. Then she would be able to make her journey home, leaving the cold dampness to warmer climates. There she would rule as a Goddess.

Gazing down at the dark waters, the bubbles all but gone, she called out to the woman waiting behind the door.

The dark stained wood door opened, revealing a young woman with mouse brown hair and small eyes.

“Lydia, if you would.” She pointed to the blood red robe sitting folded on the vanity. It was hard to find good help.

With a bob of her head Lydia quickly traversed the red and black speckled tile. Snapping the robe open, she held it for her lady at the edge of the black enamelled tub.

Lifting out of the tepid water, she stepped out of the tub, allowing Lydia to gently wrap her as if she were a child. She did not like the fact that she had to look up at her body servant. She would have to have a little talk with her absent bird when he flew home.

Water dripped little puddles as she went to sit in front of her vanity. Silver combs and brushes lined perfectly against the red stained wood. Picking her favourite, she passed it to Lydia who carefully began to work out the tangles. Closing her eyes with enjoyment, she ignored the occasional tug. This was one thing that Lydia seemed to be able to do better than her little bird.

Opening her eyes, she considered her appearance in the mirror and smiled. She cocked her head to the side, studying Lydia’s drawn grey face.

“Lydia, child, when was the last time you ate?” she asked. It was unusual for her to care about the well being of those beneath her. If Lydia were not seeing to her own needs, she would be unable to serve properly and that would mean termination. Something that she could ill afford to do until Corbie came back.

“A day or so, ma’am,” replied Lydia, her voice quiet yet strong.

She frowned. “That’s my Lady.”

Grey eyes widened and then dropped to her task. “Yes, my Lady.”

Dismissing Lydia’s disconcertment with a wave of her hand, she continued. “Tomorrow night, before you come to me, make sure that you are fed. I will not have you falling apart because you did not eat. Is that understood, Lydia?”

Lydia dipped her head, a slight smile on her face. “Yes, my Lady.”

“Good.” She relaxed into Lydia’s careful ministrations of her tresses. “Has there been any word from Mr. Vale?”

“No, my Lady.” Lydia pulled at a stubborn tangle. “Nothing so far.”

Her face twisted in disapproval. She had hoped some word would have traveled to her by now. This was taking far too long. Agitated by the news, she stood, surprising Lydia by taking the brush from her.

Making quick work, she walked out of the bathroom, Lydia trailing behind. A knock at the door halted her and she swung around as Lydia nearly walked into her.

“Don’t just stand there,” she barked. “Go see who it is.”

Yes, she would definitely have to talk with Corbie about his choices for body servants.

Lydia quickly walked to the door, opening it slightly. Hushed tones were exchanged and then she closed the door, a manila envelope in her hand. With the same urgency, she swept over to her lady and handed the letter over.

She frowned at the lack of writing on the envelope. Turning it over, a large waxen red seal remained unbroken. Her eyes went wide at the impression. Slipping in a finger, she snapped the seal and pulled out the folded parchment. The thick vellum crinkled and her eyes went wide with the recognition at the flourished script. Snatching the paper to her breast, she harshly dismissed the body servant to the bedroom to make it ready. Once alone, she cautiously lifted the parchment and read:

My Dearest Bastia,

How long has it been since I have laid eyes upon you, O my daughter? I know I have been remiss in my care and treatment of you over these many years as I choose to carve a different path; one that has taken me across the globe in search of the answers you know the questions to, but enough of that.

I am not here to lament our disconnection but to speak of concerns rumours have brought to my sensitive ears.

Your war upon the Chosen must cease. I understand the reasons for this, my little cat, but there will be nothing to be gained in educating the Chosen to your existence. Their ignorance of you is your bliss. I wish you could see this for the truth, but alas, I know your heart.

It has also come to my attention that you have found the Angel and his Chooser. My congratulations. Long have I searched for them. Do not presume to drag them into your crusade. Leave them alone. Do not harm them, for the Angel, I pray, will have the answers I crave.

I am returning to London as quick as I may. I do not presume to usurp your position. That has never been my wish. I am coming to seek an end to my searching. If my seeking has availed me not due to the vengeance you are inflicting upon the Chosen, then take care. My wrath will be complete.

Leave the Angel and his Chooser
alone
!

Thanatos

Fear sparked anger bubbled up as she reread the letter. How dare he order her around? That time was long past. She scrunched the expensive paper into a tight ball, her knuckles whitening with tension. She would not give up the destruction of the Chosen because of him. She had set her own path and she would follow it through to the bitter end.

The image of Notus’ mock crucifixion flashed a warning in her mind, coupled with Corbie’s report of the Angel having followed Violet to the continent. A growing sense of self-preservation flooded her face. It was too late to leave the Angel and the Good Father alone, they were firmly ensconced in her machinations and if all went as plan they would be disposed of in a matter of a fortnight.

Damning Thanatos for his interference, she whirled around with a shriek, demolishing every breakable in her rage.

P
ain.

It was the first sensation that returned to his rising consciousness.
Each muscle, each tendon, was a pale reflection to the deep bone-burning ache that sent him gasping for relief. Even the act of breathing sent his head spinning with the rise and fall of his chest. Heart hammering in his ears, he dared not open his eyes. He did not know if he could. The only succour was the soft bedding and the goose down pillow, and even then he felt that he was lying on stone.

His shallow breathing had loosened the tense band around his ribcage. He attempted a deep breath and felt it catch as the effervescent scent slammed into his body, pulling a groan through his rough, dry lips. A deep, gut-wrenching hunger shuddered through him, sending a stunning pain through his head.

Licking his lips in the attempt to moisten them, the fragrance escalated. He could almost taste the blood in the air. It drew him to take deeper inhalations in the attempt to feast upon the bouquet. The scent was not enough. He needed more. He needed to fill his mouth with the luxuriant taste, to feel its hot liquid burning his throat to ignite the centre of his being.

Hunting the source of his desires, his eyes fluttered open and instantly regretting the action. Bright candle flame glittered off the canopy like a million suns. He squinted into the reflected light and attempted to raise his hand to hide his face. The weight of his body made it near next to impossible.

A scuffle across the room poured the blood scent closer to him. It drove him to find its source so that he could drink from its magnificent font. With a groan of effort he shifted onto his side, waited for the room to cease spinning, and on shaking arms, lifted to sit. Muscles cried out in protest, making it clear that their choice would be to lay in the bed, but the intoxicating scent drove his hunger into action.

Looking through tousled locks he witnessed Jeanie’s relieved approach with growing horror. It was her that he smelled, desiring to drain to her precious last drop. It was her that he wanted to rend apart with his teeth with animal ferocity. It was the woman he loved that forced his lips back over his sharp teeth, shuddering in the constrained attempt not to leap and devour her. Every fibre in his being called out to be satiated by her blood.

“Get out,” he growled, trembling in anticipation and restraint.

Jeanie halted in her joyous approach, the blood draining from her pale, drawn face. Fear and anguish turned her eyes liquid and set her chin quivering.

He despised himself for the misery he evoked in her, but he had to save her from himself.

“Go!” he roared.

His heart broke as tears spilled down her beautiful face.

Turning on her heel, Jeanie fled the bedroom, her sobs filling the suite.

Wretched, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. Placing elbows on knees, he hunched over, head in his hands. Dishevelled locks cloaked his face. Daring to breathe deeply, he was rewarded with the retreat of Jeanie’s scent, if not the sound of her sorrow. The terrible hunger still ached, demanding succour and he closed his eyes in an attempt to gain control.

The sound of a pop brought up his attention and he lifted his head. Fernando stood stoically before him, a green wine bottle in hand. A strange scent flitted up from the opened neck and he wrinkled his nose as his hunger flared to life. Taking the proffered bottle, he found his hands violently shook and was surprised when the Noble steadied his hands with his own. Together they lifted the bottle to his lips.

Inhuman blood ran thickly down his throat. The texture and temperature forcing a shudder while his body greedily grasped for more.