Angel of Death: Book One of the Chosen Chronicles (2 page)

They existed on death and disease for over a year and relished the reprise winter brought, but it was the Great Fire that proved yet again that London was not a place where he wanted to be – ever.

It was near dawn and they were in their small flat, readying themselves for a peaceful day’s sleep, when the sounds of rising chaos and the smell of cinders took them out of doors to see the night ablaze. Worse of all it was getting closer, too close. Grabbing what they could of their belongings they ran to the Cathedral. He only managed to take Geraint’s now ancient sword.

Into St. Paul’s they fled, following Notus down into the sepulchre. Cooler air relieved their lungs, but not for long as they became disastrously aware that the fire was upon them. With nowhere to run, they did what they could and individually hid in the sarcophagi of wealthy individuals long dead.

It was brutal laying there in a stone box too short for him, curled up against a rotting corpse, hugging his sword in terror that their long lives might be snuffed out any moment. Then the excruciating heat came, taking his breath and his consciousness away. When he finally awoke, there was no heat and he tentatively lifted the lid only to have it completely yanked free by Notus.

Climbing out of the coffin, he could see the devastation all around them. He did not know how long they had hidden, but the sarcophagus was blackened. Both haggard, they carefully made their silent way to ground level and stood in horror at the devastation around them. Nothing was left except blistered and burnt wood smoking in the light drizzle. St. Paul’s lead roof was gone, exposing a clouded sky.

Stepping out of the ruins of the great church, they stood in stunned silence at the destruction of the city. The horrific proportions of the fire’s appetite sent their minds reeling as they walked numbly into the streets that used to be called London, their ravenous hunger forgotten.

Their flat and all their possessions were gone. Notus wept for all the books and scrolls he could not save.

Clutching his sword to his breast, he said a silent thanks to the old Gods that gave him the wherewithal to save it.

Many of the Chosen who had remained in London had fled to the Courthouse, which was home to the Lord of the Chosen. It too was gone and so were those that had hidden in it, having to either choose between the blazing fire or the burning sun.

In the months that followed, many had beseeched Notus to become Lord and Master. Having no stomach for the politics or for how the Chosen were changing over the centuries, they enthusiastically packed up their meagre belongings and left, only to return half a dozen years ago.

He turned to cut through The Temple to get to Fleet Street. He enjoyed this area, as finally there was something of nature here in the Temple Gardens. Even the ancient buildings, now housing lawyers, did not take away from some greenery of grass and flowers. It still did not replace his desire for the sense of home he felt in thickly forested areas, but at least it was something.

He walked up Inner Temple Lane that would take him onto Fleet. He was getting close to home, and none too soon as the feel of dawn tickled along his skin even though the sky was still dark.

Home. It was a strange word for the place they lived in. Most nights he would go out, feed, and then find some place to take in some entertainment where he would not be noticed. Darkened theatres and concerts he enjoyed. Sometimes he would join Notus in going to the Museum and then drift off to the Library where he would sit and read until it was time to go home. Once a week he would meet Yong Zheng Ru on the rooftop patio of the apothecary he and his daughter ran in Chinatown. It was from there that he was returning.

A lone solitary figure flashed in the corner of his eye. Recognizing the individual as one of his own kind, he shook his head in annoyance. He made it a point never to have anything to do with the Vampires, as the Chosen liked to call themselves now. Notus was right about the changes and he too did not like the way they younger ones, and some of the older ones too, modeled themselves off of the silly stories mortals wrote to try and explain a brief encounter with a Chosen. They both knew they were thought of as strange by refusing to have any dealings with these new fangled Vampires. Once, a long time ago, Notus had respected and honoured the Chosen hierarchy, but now he refused outright to play their Vampire games and ignored the Mistress’ calls to court. It was a choice both he and his Chooser had consciously made over great discussion, and neither had regretted it.

He glanced up at the paling sky as he turned onto Fleet. The sky, now a dark blue, heralded the rising sun. He knew beyond any doubt that Notus would be adding to the groove in the Persian rug, worrying himself and complaining to his Good God about his temerarious son. He smiled in spite of himself at the image of the monk imploring to his God, arms gesticulating heavenwards, only to stop at his entrance and begin again the long rant about how dangerous it was to be out so late. He did not know why he did this to Notus. Maybe it was to provide some perverse pleasure at seeing the monk distraught and fuming rather than fixated upon his books. Maybe it was just to see that the man still cared for him even after all these centuries. No matter the reason, it was also to ensure that when he returned Jeanie would not be there.

 
Jeanie.

He could not fathom why Notus had decided to keep her around, let alone hire her as their maid. Never before had Notus hired a woman. Always a young man in need of some extra help would be taken off the streets and given responsibilities that could only be met during the day. Jeanie had those responsibilities now, as well as the cleaning. Jeanie also made him extremely uncomfortable to be in his own home. He did not know what it was and thought best to leave shortly after she would arrive from the room at the Inn Notus paid for. She, like all the others who came before her, never knew their true natures. Notus was very careful of that, easily explaining about his Oaths never to see the sun until God’s son came to mankind again. Explaining his pale Chosen took a bit of creativity mixed with some truth that seemed to work to keep curiosity away.

Notus had brought the fourteen year old girl home on Christmas Eve no more than five years ago to become their housekeeper and helper. In that time they watched her blossom from a young maid to a fiery young woman of nineteen. A vision of her sparkling green eyes the colour of spring, her long curling burnished copper hair, and sensuous curvaceous form sent a shudder through him. Like it or not he found her one of the most beautiful women he had ever laid eyes upon.

But if one thing his centuries of long life had taught him was that the women he had been with wanted only one thing from him – to say that they had been with him. He was a curiosity, even amongst the Chosen, and after Notus had made it clear what was going on, he had stopped the fleeting one or two night experiences. He did not like being used.

It was not hard to imagine that she had the same intentions towards him. She always had a brilliant smile for him, which always made his breath catch. She scared him.
No. That is not right.
He shook his head and realized what she evoked in him was confusion and made him feel the way he did when he was first Chosen. She made him uncomfortable.

He barely understood Notus’ desire to have her over almost every night for several hours. After cleaning and setting things in order from her daytime errands, Notus would practice his new culinary hobby and fix her dinner before she would go home.

Most times Notus would stay behind, handing over the chore of walking her home to his Chosen if he had not fled soon enough. They would walk in silence with him cowled deeply under his cloak wanting only to be done with it so that he could go on with the rest of his evening. He suspected his Chooser was exploiting a perverse sense of sadism, secretly enjoying his Chosen’s discomfort around Jeanie.

It had not always been like this. In the beginning she shied away from him. Maybe it had to do with how they initially met. He grimaced, remembering coming home just before dawn on Christmas, going to his room, undressing for bed and then the God awful scream that made him jump out of his skin. His ears had stopped ringing by the time Notus burst in to take stock of the scene before him and go to calm the young girl in his bed, apologizing for forgetting to mention the girl upon his arrival. That day he discovered how uncomfortably short the sofa was. Now she always had a smile for him and would find reasons to brush past him, cleaning wherever he went, even if she had already cleaned that spot.

Turning off of Fleet and onto the side streets, he followed them down and around until he saw Mrs. Heathrope’s house. It was perfect timing, too, as the sky was shifting to a paler shade of blue, calling to the rising of the sun mere moments away. Notus was sure to be fuming.

Snuggling deeper into his black cloak, he took the handful of stairs up to the door that led to the portion of the building that housed him and Notus. He pulled out his key and halted.

Pale yellow gaslight spilled across his black shoes from a door that stood slightly ajar. Something was wrong. Notus never left the door open like this, unlocked on the occasion, but never open to the street. Maybe he had gone to sleep and left it open in case keys were forgotten, but he knew that never happened.

Closing his eyes, he took a deep steadying breath, and Sent to him, trying to sense if Notus was asleep. Nothing. The absence of any perception of the monk filled him with apprehension. Not even a sense of his connection to Notus was available. It had been centuries since the first and only time that happened and that was because they were separated for almost three decades. This was more complete – shocking.

Placing a shaking hand on the brass doorknob, he pushed the door open.

Ruby eyes widened at the sight of his ransacked home. The living room, usually so neat and tidy, was a travesty of orderliness. Papers and books splayed randomly over the floor and overturned furniture. Notus’ favourite chair sat crumpled on itself, wooden legs ending in ragged spikes. Inks and paints pooled on the monk’s large writing desk, permanently staining in colours that should not exist in wood.

Ducking his head under the lintel, he took a tentative step into his devastated home, his foot meeting the floor with the crunching of broken glass. Numbly gazing down, the remnants of a crystal vase and its red and yellow flowers lay under his feet. Taking in the full extent of the devastation, he could not comprehend how or even why his home would be ransacked this way. Worse yet was why Notus was not there. If it had been thieves, Notus would have easily dealt with them. Something more must have happened.

Again he sent out a silent plea for Notus and was rewarded with nothing, not even a sense of his Chooser. In a dreamlike state he moved about the room, searching for Notus even knowing he would not find him here. He had to do something. Shock faded into panic as each righted piece of furniture or lifted paper refused to relinquish the man who cared for him over the centuries. His hopes of finding the monk dissolved into nothingness when he slammed open Notus’ empty bedroom.

Without the connection with the man who had come to mean more to him than anyone else in the world, he walked numbly into the center of the room and sat down on the couch, elbows on knees and hands rubbing his face as if to wash the sight and reality from his mind. He did not know what to do. He could not do anything. The sun was already up. He groaned at the unbidden thought that came to mind. He could not allow himself to believe Notus was dead.

A soft moan lighted his senses and he stared at the closed door to the kitchen. Hope leapt and he stood. Of course! He had not checked the kitchen. It was possible Notus was there. Swearing himself for a fool, he ran into the dark room.

The door swung closed with a bang and his feet crunched on a floor strewn with broken glass and crockery. He did not need to call out for Notus. He was not there. The source of the cry came from Jeanie’s sprawled form in front of the stove. Whoever had attacked his home had met heavy opposition.

Ignoring the broken shards, he knelt down beside Jeanie’s unconscious form. Even in the pitch blackness of the kitchen, he could see her pale fine skin framed with a mass of long curling copper coloured hair. A long thin gash over her right perfect eyebrow slowly oozed. The smell of her blood impacted him, forcing him to take a steadying breath. Her large emerald coloured eyes remained closed. Knowing that she needed some help, he lifted her into his arms and walked to the living room, where the brocaded chesterfield had already been righted.

Gently placing her on the soft padded seating, he went into the untouched washroom and brought back a dampened cloth. Taking off his cloak, he went to blanket her, and halted. Pinned to her yellow flower patterned blouse was an envelope. Ornately penned it stated simply;