Shadow of Death: Book Two of the Chosen Chronicles (24 page)

Vee gave her mother a sideways glance as if to ask what was wrong with this guy.

“Thank you, Paul. She is a gem.” Dr. Bowen’s tone slightly soured in recognition that her sixteen year old was about to say or do something inappropriate. “What was it that required you to shout at me from the second floor?”

“Oh, Mom! You didn’t tell me you got more amethyst geodes for the Gold and Minerals exhibit!” Vee’s face completely changed, brightening with excitement, her fixation on the Angel broken. 

“I didn’t know, sweetie. That’s not my division.”

“They’re awesome! You so need to come and see them!” She took her mother’s hand in an attempt to guide her upstairs.

The corner of Dr. Bowen’s mouth tightened as she stood her ground. Vee glanced back when she realized her mother was not following. “Not now. I’ve got guests and I want Paul to meet a couple of people.”

Vee’s shoulders slumped, disappointment written across her pale features. “Okay.” She turned to head back up the stairs.

Recognizing the despondent tone, Dr. Bowen called to her daughter before she alighted up the stone steps. “We’ll go together after dinner. Just the two of us, okay?”

Vee nodded. All that was left of her was the sound of her heavy boots echoing in the stairwell. Once she was gone, Dr.   Bowen sighed and turned back to her guests. “I’m sorry about that. Vee has been going through a hard time since her father passed away nearly a year ago.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” offered Notus.

Dr. Bowen shrugged. “He was a good father even if he was a lousy husband. We amicably divorced when he came out of the closet.  Vee was very young at the time. Anyway, that’s the past.” She turned to Notus with a smile. “Before dinner is called I’d like to introduce you to a few people.”

The idea of being introduced to even more strangers did not sit well with the Angel as the mingling scent of blood touched his senses, sparking the hunger that had been held at bay with the help of Notus’ control. It was clear that it was fading, as he knew it eventually would. He needed to get away before he did something both he and the monk would regret.  “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going downstairs to check on my sword.”

“The exhibit isn’t officially opened until after the dinner,” remarked Dr. Bowen. She tilted her head as she gazed up at him.

“It’s alright, my dear.” Notus patted her hand as he held it through the circle of his arm. “The boy’s been missing it.” Shifting through the leather pouch hanging from the cord, Notus plucked out a security card and gave it to him.
Go and get your head cleared. If you can, please feed. I’ll see you upstairs for dinner.

The Angel nodded his thanks and took the card. As he left the
Rotunda
to head to the stairs that would lead him to the second basement level and the exhibit that held his sword he heard Notus explain, “He’s not good in crowds, my dear, though he’s much better than he used to be.”

He shook his head, sending his long white hair swinging. He was not denying Notus’ explanation. He was getting better, but that was a matter of degree. In the past he would have balked at coming to such a party. The gazes of the women and men would make his skin crawl and the whispered comments would entice him to flee. His reaction to crowds was even worse amongst his own kind because too many of them debated amongst themselves whether he was Chosen at all. If the answer was yes, then his   differences would be argued as to whether or not he should be Destroyed. It was one of those differences that kept the Chosen from being annihilated by the Vampires and for that reason alone, he gathered, he was still alive. It was probably a matter of time before even that would no longer be a barrier to the day where he would be drawn and quartered before being left to the sun. A shiver ran up his spine as he descended two flights down the
Stairs of Wonder
in the Crystal portion of the building.

The entrance to the exhibit was off to his right as he left the stairwell. No one was around and he inhaled the scents of paint and glues mingling with the clean air forced through the vents. Behind it all was a trace of the blood scent of the mortals above as if it had followed him down into the bowels of the earth to   entice him to return to the surface. Without a second thought, he slipped the card through the reader, heard the click and opened the doors.

He stood at the entrance to the exhibit. The cash and ticket taker’s booth was to the left, but it was the wall before him that captured his attention. Illuminated texts masterfully recreated, their words translated into modern English and French, stood testimony to Notus’ magnificent expertise. He could see the style of his Chooser in every brush stroke and it was clear the monk had outdone himself. It was no wonder that Notus would come home elated from working most of the night. He had never before been given the opportunity to ply his talents onto such a large canvas.

Following the guiding ropes, his white fingers absently trailing the black fabric, the Angel finally came to stand before the artistry. He laid a hand on a bestiary that included a medieval monk petting a unicorn, its horn foiled in gold. Of course it was not real gold, but whatever Notus had done made it appear as if it were. The length of the wall was just an introduction, a mood setter for the general public, so as to transport them back into a time they could only read about or imagine. For the Angel it brought memories of blood and pain sporadically peppered with peace, an era when the Angel of Death truly took form. A frown pulled his full lips as he moved on.

It was in the next section, as he slipped around the wall, that artefacts of paint brushes and pots found in archaeological sites were now placed in glass cases to be illuminated from the vertical lighting from above. In other display cases, monastic robes and vestments from hundreds of years ago went on to help explain life within the cloister.
Bi-lingual panels beside the artefacts described pieces of history illuminated by what lay contained behind glass.

He moved through the gallery, taking in the sights as a melancholy flowed over him. It was bizarre to see that what had once been new to his eyes now held mystery and antiquity for those who live so briefly upon this earth. Taking a shuddering breath, he felt very old indeed.

Through the maze he travelled, moving deeper into the past until he found what he was looking for. There, in the middle of the fourth gallery, large cases containing ancient manuscripts and scrolls were stationed around a tall central glass case holding Geraint’s sword. Illuminated by a theatre light pointing directly down upon it the sword glowed white. Held point down in a    special stand made just for it, the sword seemed to float in the case. It now appeared to be something of fantasy rather than the scythe of the Angel of Death who had claimed hundreds, if not thousands, of lives. No sign that it had ever been drenched in red flowing blood tarnished the brilliant glimmer of the ancient steel.

He had not seen his sword since he had reluctantly given it into Dr. Bowen’s care and seeing it thus deepened his frown. No longer did it appear the reaper’s blade he had carried through the ages, using it to defend Notus and himself and eventually the rest of the Chosen. Here, beneath the lights, it looked old, worn and very tired beneath its reflected light.

His steps rang out as he crossed the distance to stand a hand’s breath away from the glass. There was no doubt that it was well cared for. In fact, whoever was in charge of metallurgy at the ROM did a wonderful job in cleaning up parts of the hilt that he could never fully do himself. He laid his hand on the glass, a   sudden need to feel the sword’s heft and balance filling him. It was the sight of the black leather bracer descending down over his wrists to encircle his hands up to his fingers and thumb that made him relinquish the cool glass.

Four black benches squared the case and he backed up to sit on one, never breaking his gaze from the sword. When did his past become an archaeological curiosity? He sighed, gazing up at his sword turned relic.

Ever since the Vampires fled Britain and the rest of Europe he did not have much to do. No longer were the lighter
katanas
necessary except for practice. Death had followed him wherever he went but for the last decade or so it was no longer the case. An ironic thought flitted through his mind. Was the Angel of Death obsolete? Staring at his sword, he frowned, disturbed by the question. If that was the case what did that mean for him?

Footsteps sounded through the gallery, but it was the scent of young blood that brought him out of his contemplations to see who was coming up behind him. He turned his head to watch Dr. Bowen’s daughter tentatively walk through the gallery, her eyes wide as she took in the sights. She had not noticed him, but her smell stilled him except for his predatory eyes behind his        sunglasses.

He studied her as she moved from display to display, bringing her luscious blood closer.
It was when he swallowed in expectation of what her hot blood would taste like as it poured down his throat that he came out of his reverie.
He had not realized how hungry he was. The girl was in danger and she did not even recognize it.

Her boots rang out through the desolate space, bouncing off the walls to echo through the gallery. The smell of soap tinged with sandalwood mingled with bloodscent making his mouth   water in anticipation.
Cocking his head to the side, his white hair falling to brush against his thigh, he opened his mouth and inhaled her scent as if she were a bouquet of flower
s. Every rational thought in him screamed that he should leave as his visceral instincts stilled his body with the promise of a kill. He was a guest in a private party and to sup from the hostess’ daughter would not go over well with his Chooser, but it was the throbbing need within his own body that tore through logic and forced his nose to flare, drinking in her scent.

Blue eyes caught the sword in the case and she whistled. The sharp piercing sound was enough for him to gain trembling control. If she came any closer, he knew that the last vestiges of that control would leave him. Instead she stood gawking at his sword suspended and lit up like a Christmas ornament as he watched her as a cat with a mouse.

It was when her eyes slid off the blade and onto him that she started. Recovering quickly, Vee smiled and strode over to him unaware of the immediate danger she placed herself in.

Backed by the bench, he could not move away without   brushing against the girl. Instead he chose to be rude. Swinging his long legs over the bench he stood behind it, the black length acting as an artificial barrier. It was not enough to decrease her scent, but it gave him a false sense of security – a line drawn in the sand.
He trembled as he felt his control slowly fray, his rational mind praying she would leave.

It was clear by the frown on her face that she was aware of his avoidance tactic. Of course she could never know the true reason why he retreated when all he wanted to do was lunge onto her, devouring her to the last drop. The thought sent a tremor through him.

“Mom told me you’d be down here,” she explained, tilting her face so that her querulous eyes could pierce his behind the sunglasses. “Everyone is being called to dinner.”

He clenched his jaw, grating his teeth in an effort to control his blood lust at the images her statement inadvertently evoked.

When he did not reply, Vee stuck out her pierced lip in a disconcerted pout. With a shrug and a shake of her head she turned and walked away. He only released his guard once the ringing of her boots mingled with the clunk of the door opening.

The scent of the girl still lingered in the large room, but without her presence it was manageable. Closing his eyes, he   released the breath he had unwittingly held in a tremulous huff that slumped his shoulders. It had taken every ounce of control but he had managed it. Turning around he sat down on the bench. With elbows on his knees he placed his head in his hands in an effort to still his shaking.

A pop, followed by a series of pops, filtered to his preternatural hearing and he lifted his head at the faint sound of screams. A sense of dread overwhelmed him and he cried out to Notus.

Stay down stairs!
Notus replied harshly. Panic and worry filled the monk’s emotions.

What’s going on?
sent the Angel. A couple more pops and then, closer than he would like, the sound of a girl struggling with someone.