Angel of Death: Book One of the Chosen Chronicles (46 page)

He handed her the bundle and Fernando thought the girl’s eyes would pop right out of their pretty little sockets. Obviously she had never seen, much less held, such an amount.

Standing up, Jeanie gazed long and hard up the Angel. “I-I canna.”

“I thought you agreed to help?” he cocked his head to the side, his hair falling to drape his querulous expression from the Noble.

“I did. I still do. But tis too great a sum.” She held out the bills.

Fernando groaned at the ridiculousness of the situation. If he had handed Bridget that much money it would have quickly disappeared into her bodice.

“Just take it. It’s not like you’ll have this chance again.” Exasperation filled the Noble's voice. “Listen darlin’, if a man gives you money don’t argue with him. Just take it.”

 
God he was tired. Where was that cot?

Jeanie glanced back up at the Angel as he curled her hand around the bills, his strong slender fingers holding her hand. He nodded, his features softening momentarily just for her.

Walking the girl to the door, she seemed hesitant to leave, but a few soothing words, and his key ring, instilled her with the determination to do what was necessary so that she could return quickly. Fernando actually thought it was sweet that she wanted to give the Angel the change. He physically slapped his face, hard, causing the two to glance back at him. If he did not get to bed soon he would turn into a sentimental sap. A condition he would rather avoid, even if he had to kill himself. He was glad when she was finally gone.

“Notus’ room is over there,” indicated the Angel. “I am going to bed. I suggest you do the same.” He stepped into his room, closing the door behind.

Left alone, Fernando stood and for the first time he let the fatigue and aches of his body show in his movements. Today he was going to sleep, no matter how much he wanted to read the journals, and was glad that he did not have to traverse any stairs.

Opening the door to the monk’s room, he stopped in mid-stride. It was small. Smaller than he expected, and the cot was just that. In fact it almost seemed misplaced amid all the books lining the walls.

Many of the books were untitled; some had gold leaf lettering in different languages, and along one wall was a row of cubbyholes filled with scrolls. Curiosity winning out, he pulled one of the smaller scrolls out. By its feel the vellum was old and he was careful to open it. The writing and illumination was elaborate, the words in a language that looked like English but was impossible to read until he read why. At the bottom of the page, written so small and fine that he had to squint, was a date and an initial, “1087 N.”

This work by Notus predated him by centuries! Rolling it up, he placed it back into its cubby hole, wondering what was in all these manuscripts.

Lying down on the cot, he found it a little lumpy, but it did not take Fernando long to find a comfortable position. Staring up at the dark ceiling, he shook his head, amazed at his current situation.

It cannot get any stranger than this,
he thought before allowing sweet oblivion to overtake him.

T
he door locked behind Jeanie with a click and a jingle of keys. Releasing a yawn, she dropped the key ring onto the tea table under the
sunrise painting with a clatter of metal hitting wood and considered the boxes littering the floor around her feet. The coachman was serviceable in bringing in her shopping, but his placement of the boxes left much to be desired. Finding the matchbox on the table, Jeanie struck a match and lit the lone candle on the stand. Yellow light spilled into a room deeply shadowed in grey, the only natural light slipping around the door.

Behind the two bedroom doors slept two very different vampires. The thought ran a shudder up Jeanie’s spine. It all still seemed so surreal. The idea of vampires existing and that she had made love to one, feeling his sharp teeth extract a pleasure filled pain, made her head spin. Or was that the blood loss. Jeanie put a hand to her head. She had always thought that the Angel was different, but now that she knew how different he truly was, she realized how little she truly knew of the man she loved.

It was a thought that carried her through the morning and into the early afternoon. She was in love with a vampire. No matter what he called himself, the Angel – Gwyn – was a vampire, and it explained so much and evoked more questions. The thought terrified her and thrilled her, and she touched the bruising on her neck. The puncture marks were already completely healed.

Jeanie had not been aware of how noticeable they were until she went over to Reverend Iefan’s after stopping at a nearby café for a quick breakfast. She did not think that Gwyn would mind her using the money for that. It was still strange to be using that name for him after all these years of calling him the Angel.

Witnessing Alice and Tom’s eyes light up with tears of happiness and surviving their bear hugs, Alice, the ever dotting mother of wayward daughters, had noticed the bruising and commented on what she rightfully believed were love marks. Reverend Iefan took that as a cue to leave the three of them alone. Jeanie blushed furiously, turning her face completely red before having Alice encapsulate her in another, even stronger, hug.

“He loves you,” whispered Alice into her ear. “He’s always loved you, sweetheart.”

Stumbling at the sudden release, Jeanie had nodded. A smile finally lighting her face at the truth confirmed.

Left out of the loop, Tom had just stood grinning madly until there was pause enough for him to take centre stage and begin his monologue about how the Angel’s generosity was already in the works to rebuild the Rose and Thorn. Jeanie had listened to Tom as they sat in Reverend Iefan’s parlour drinking tea and nibbling pasties that Alice had made. Jeanie had to force herself not to eat so fast. Even after a filling breakfast she was still starved. Alice interjected only to bring her husband’s enthusiasm down to earth and the reality that they could not spend all of the Angel’s money.

Jeanie had left, elated that her surrogate parents were ecstatic that she had survived the fire and that they were rebuilding. The question of how much money the Angel had floated to mind. The fact that he could afford to rebuild the Inn astounded her. Then again she had seen the wad of notes in the box and his almost cavalier attitude about her spending his money had swirled her mind.

The Good Father lived so simply, yet the Angel had such expensive clothing. The dichotomy astounded her. The only blemish to the wonderful reunion had been finding out that her friend Violet had not survived the fire. Jeanie silently assumed their drinking had caused Violet to fall into a drunken stupor, which incapacitated her ability to wake in time to escape the blaze, for that alone Jeanie felt mournfully responsible for her friend’s death.

From the rectory, Jeanie had taken the cab to the wharf. Her mind spun between the loss of her friend and the happiness of being loved, while trying to keep focused on what she still needed to do. After many queries, she found Captain Richardson of the
Sea Witch
and after much cajoling convinced him to sail to Calais that night with three passengers.

The fee he quoted had made her blanch and she was about to argue when she remembered to pay any price offered. Again the question of how much money the Angel actually had swam silently in her mind. She did have the wherewithal to ask why so much. The Captain stated gruffly that sailing the Channel at night, late in October was suicide, but for the right amount he would do almost anything. Jeanie could not suppress her shudder of disgust at his innuendo and left, giving the man half her of bundle of money as deposit. She wondered how Captain Richardson would laugh when he saw that it was the Angel he would be ferrying.

Duty done, Jeanie had left the docks to the finer shops of London to follow the Angel’s final order. It was time for something fun and for the first time in her life she had more money than she knew what to do with. She knew Violet would have been proud of her.

Now the boxes lay strewn on the floor and Jeanie was exhausted. It was only half past two in the afternoon.

Stacking the boxes next to the table, Jeanie stretched her back; hands reaching to the ceiling before crumbling back down and noticed the single candle was the only one left in the room. If she was going to have any light in the room when they all woke later, it was either going to be gaslight or candle flame. The Angel seemed to prefer candles. With a sigh, Jeanie pulled the box from under the tea table and began the arduous process of cleaning candleholders of old wax and placing in new candles.

Bone weary and eyes watering as another yawn stretched her face, Jeanie stood in the middle of the room holding the lit candle, its wax dripping slowly down into the holder. She surveyed her work, eyeing each cleaned and restocked candlestick along the mantle, the end tables, the candelabra on the Good Father’s desk and the tea table. When all the candles were lit, the flat would glow with a warm yellow light that even Jeanie could read by.

Job well done, she decided it was way past time for her to get some deserved sleep. Knowing that this time she would be welcome in his bed made her smile. No one had come out as she walked back and forth between the living room and the kitchen, shoes clicking against wood as she cleaned and set the new candles, but she did not want to risk waking the Angel as she entered the bedroom. He had been so tired earlier.

Jeanie placed the candle down on the tea table and unlaced her shoes. Releasing her sore hot feet from the confines of the black leather, she sighed as she wiggled her toes in their wool stockings. The cool hardwood felt refreshing on her soles. Padding to the bedroom door, candle in hand, she halted with her hand on the knob. A thrill of nervous expectation filled her with the realization that she was welcome to enter and join her lover in bed. It was with that thought that she opened the door as quietly as she could and slipped into the dark room, closing the door behind with a click that made her jump. Turning around to see if the sound had awoken the Angel, her breath caught at the sight the single luminescence presented.

On the bed, laying face down, his head nestled onto a pillow, the Angel faced towards her. He slept naked except for the tangle of sheets around his long lean legs. His right arm hug limply over the side of the bed, his fingers curling as they brushed the rug under them. Long strands of alabaster hair splayed across his back and over his face to hang over the large bed. Jeanie had never seen him look so beautiful, so human, or so youthful.

The thought snapped her breath back into her body and she realized that even though she knew how old he was as a vampire, he had never told her how old he was when he was – what did he say it was called? – Chosen. His height always made her believe he was older, well into his twenties, but seeing him like this made her doubt her earlier estimations, reaffirming how little she knew about him even after all that he had told her.

Tentatively, she made her way across the room to gaze down on his sleeping form. The light from the candle caused him to squint in his sleep. He uttered a small discomfited sound before turning his face away to bury himself further into the pillow.

Realizing her error, Jeanie placed the candlestick next to the burned down one on the side table and stood back to undo the clasps of the green dress. Difficult as it was, she managed to get enough of them undone to shimmy out of the heavy fabric before taking off her stockings.

Standing only in her shift, shivering in the cool air of the room, Jeanie halted a moment at the sight of the silver lines on his pale back playing hide and seek with hair equally as fair. Curiosity piqued, having only ever seen the hints of the scars, Jeanie remembered what he had said about how he received them before he was Chosen.

Gently, she lowered herself to sit beside on the bed, her hip touching his side. A soft throat sound emanated from him and he turned his head back to face her, eyes closed in sleep. With trembling fingers, Jeanie slowly swept soft thick locks from his face, careful not to wake him, and pushed the heavy hair off his neck and back, exposing the wide parallel scars across each side of his back.

The silver lines stretched across strong lean muscle, making Jeanie wonder what sort of occupant could do this to a person. Hesitantly, she touched his back, tracing around the scarring, the skin soft to the touch. Whatever had done this to him had been huge. Cocking her head to the side, Jeanie could almost believe that wings had been torn off his back, adding to the mysterious air of the Angel.